Chapter 5: In the Pines
Photo Kisatchie National Forest Longleaf Pines .
This stand is along the Wild Azalea Trail near the Valentine Lake/Gardner area
Photo One of my prize possessions, a t-shirt from Freedom Baptist Church in Ten Mile, LA. This area, and church, is truly God's country and where many of my best friends live.
This bumper sticker was given to me by my friend, Terry Jackson. Terry is a proud Bearhead Redbone and represents how I feel people should feel about their heritage. (The Wayfaring Stranger covers the Ten Mile Redbone area -Pitkin-Plainview, LA- which is about fifty miles northeast of the Bearhead clan (Singer-DeQuincy-Starks.)
Visit Terry's blog at http://bearheadstories.blogspot.com/ to read more as well as view pictures. (Be sure to read his Dec. 16 entry on "Maw and the Ax." It is a classic!
Telling about the Redbone heritage was one of the most sensitive parts of writing this book. Friends like Terry (through our blog) helped with corrections and gave me good insight. Below I've included the first two passages in the book that deal with Redbones:
Chapter 2 excerpt on Redbones
Eli, who never met a silence he was comfortable with, then asked, “Eliza, would you rather be called a ‘Ten Miler’ or a ‘Redbone?’”
She looked annoyed at him, “Talk quieter. Now why’d you ask a question like that for?”
“Oh, I just heard Poppa and Momma laughing about it the other day.”
“Well, Eli I don’t mind if you call me either. I figure I’m both. A ‘Ten Miler’ is someone living in our area—along Ten Mile Creek or Cherry Winche Creek, or even along this side of the Calcasieu.
“Everyone I know in the Ten Mile area, also are called ‘Redbones.’ That’s just a name for our people. It’s what the outsiders often call us—Redbones. That ain’t never bothered me, does it bother you?”
“Not a bit. Don’t it have to do with our Indian blood?”
“I’ve always thought so. ‘ Red’ for our ‘Red Man’s blood.’”
Chapter 5 excerpt on Redbones
Eliza jumped up from the steps and said, “Uncle Arch, Aunt Mollie . . . Eli here’s been asking a lot about how our folks of the Ten Mile area got here and how we got to be known as ‘Redbones.’ Could y’all fill him in on where our people came from?”
She quickly jerked Eli away from slapping the back of their coughing dad and pulled him over to listen. But Aunt Mollie was already scolding her dad, “Willard Clark, what were you fixing to say about telling ‘an Aunt Mollie’?”
Then she stopped abruptly—she could not resist getting the first word in ahead of her husband, so she turned away from red-faced Willard Clark and quickly took over answering the question: “Eli, now my daddy always said that our branch of Ten Milers came as a group from up in the Carolinas in the late 1700’s. For some reason, these Louisian’er piney woods reminded them of home and there weren’t no law and lots of open spaces, so they just stopped here and settled.”
Aunt Mollie drew a breath and that was all Uncle Arch needed, “I tell you Babe , I know exactly why Mollie’s people come down from there—well, they wuz probably a bunch of hog thieves and no counts and got run—”
Mollie’s raised eyebrows and loud huff stopped Arch in mid-sentence. In mock seriousness he corrected himself, “No, Mollie, I want to apologize. That weren’t the real reason your people came down here.”
Uncle Arch continued in a conciliatory voice, “No, no, no—I take that back about your people.” He turned to Eliza, “Here’s the real truth, Eliza, Mollie’s people were the stubbornest people in the Carolinas. One day the English, or somebody in charge up there, told the settlers that nobody could leave—they all had to stay put. That night, the whole clan loaded up, skedaddled, and eventually got down here. Whaale, I tell you, Babe—that’s still a trait of her people: they are some kind of gosh awful stubborn. You can’t tell them nothing—not even the time of day or the day of the week—Well, like the fact that today is Wednesday.”
It was the needle he meant to stick in his wife and she yelled, “Thursday.”
“Nope, it’s Wednesday.“
Eli chimed in, “Y’all are both wrong, today is Friday.”
Both Willard Clark and Eliza spoke in unison, “Eli, hush!”
Aunt Mollie was now prepared to go on the offense again. “Arch Weeks, at least I know where my people came from and who they are. Your bunch ain’t got quite the same pedigree, that’s for sure.”
The old man sat up straight and proud in his cowhide chair. “Suunnnn, I’ll tell you about my people—My peoples didn’t come from nowhere. We didn’t have to get run out of the Carolinas. We’ve always been right here among the pines and the creeks.” He held his head up and his entire long face took on a smile, “My family line of Redbones always been here. We’re descendants of the Injuns that lived in these woods. Well now, you can look at me and see that real easy.”
Looking at the profile of Uncle Arch’s face as he sat there, Eliza could definitely see that Indian heritage: the dark skin and eyes, hawkish nose—each told of Indian blood in Uncle Arch. It was also easy to see how proud he was of this.
He continued, “Yep, that’s why we’re all called ‘Redbones.’ We got Indian blood in us.”
Eli asked, “What kind of Indian are you?”
“Whaale, a little bit of them all, Son. Our blood comes from the early Attakapa who lived here, and maybe a dash of Choctaw. Then there were them escaped Injun slaves from Texas—them Apache and Comanche.
“My Injun ancestors mixed in with some of the Frenchmen and probably some of Lafitte’s pirates, and we Redbones are the result of that. That’s why we’re wild, free, and impossible to tame.” His voice went up an octave as he stated, “That’s also why ain’t no timber company’s gonna take our land. They’ll find out about that Injun blood if they try! Well, that’s where we got our independent ornery streak from here in No Man’s Land!”
Uncle Arch, whom Eliza liked to call “Chief” when he gave his Indian heritage talk, sat smiling as he shook his head proudly.
Eli asked, “Where ‘xactly is this here ‘No Man’s Land’?”
Uncle Arch said, “Let me put it this way: Ten year’ago, two gov’ment surveyors came through these parts. They stayed with Mollie and me for a couple of nights. One of them knew a lot ‘bout history and filled me in about our area. He said that ‘fore Louisiana became a state, this area was fought over by the Spanish and Frenchmen. They couldn’t agree on a border between and war nearly broke out over it.
“Finally, cooler heads got together. They agreed Spanish Texas would have their border at the Sabine River and the French would stick with the Calcasieu River. This made a fifty-mile wide area between the rivers into a ‘Neutral Strip.’
“That surveyor said that because both countries agreed to keep their soldiers out of the strip, it became a haven for every outlaw, escaped slave, and renegade Indian who wanted to escape the long arm of the law. The area between the two rivers, stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to ‘bout Natchitoches became known by three names: ‘The Neutral Strip,’ ‘No Man’s Land,’ and ‘The Outlaw Strip.’”
Uncle Arch ended his history lesson with a personal note, “I ain’t never liked that ‘Outlaw Strip’ name. Most folks around here, like our peoples, aren’t outlaws. They jes’ came here ‘cause they wanted to live where no gov’ment would bother them. We just want nobody tellin’ us what to do. That’s what I call freedom—jes’ being left alone!”
On Uncle Arch’s last sentence, Eli whispered in his sister’s ear, “Twelve.” She looked at him quizzically and he said, “That’s how many times he’s said ‘Whhaaale’ already.” Eli pronounced it just as he’d heard, and they both tried to suppress the giggles.
At this moment is when Eliza changed the direction of the conversation, “Uncle Arch and Aunt Mollie, I got something been bothering me a long time that I want to ask about. When I was ‘bout Eli’s age, I made one of my few trips out of the Ten Mile area and went with Poppa to Sugartown. While we were in the general store, a curious girl ‘bout my age came up. She had gold hair and wore a dress that looked store-bought. She looked me up and down before asking, “Who are you?’” I told her, “Eliza Jane Clark.” The girl shook her head as if to inform me that was not what she really wanted to know and then asked, ”No, what are you?”
“I laughed as I told her, ‘“Well, last time I checked I was a girl.’”
“The girl’s puzzled look let me know what she meant: What are you? Are you Indian? Spanish? Something else?
“I didn’t have a ready answer for her. I finally told her I lived at Ten Mile. Then I asked the her, “’And what are you, Sugartown girl?’”
“She said with a smile, ‘Why I’m ‘merican! Aren’t you?’
“Until that day the idea had never entered my skull that I might be an American, too.”
Eliza continued her story, “Then a woman marched over and grabbed the girl, scolding her, ‘You git away from that girl. She ain’t our kind.’
“The golden-haired girl tried to argue, but her mother said, ’We don’t have nothing to do with them kind. She’s got colored and injun in her. You remember that. She’s not our kind!’ That little girl was crying as her mother dragged her away—and so was I.”
As Eliza finished her story, a tear coursed down her cheek. Even her dad had never heard Eliza’s story. No one knew what to say—even the old couple sat there wordlessly.
Willard Clark, who hated to see his daughter cry, finally said, “But Liza, you never told me about—“
Aunt Mollie broke in, “Baby, you be proud of who you are. You are as beautiful and wonderful as any of them there girls in Sugartown—or anywhere else. Hold your head up high and don’t never apologize for who you are!”
Arch Weeks, who always found humor in every situation, broke the tension by pointing at his dark arms, ”Well Babe, I can’t tell y’all exactly what we’re made of, but somebody definitely left the biscuits in the oven too long on me.”
Eliza burst out laughing at his words. She loved the unique way that the old-timers could coin a phrase. The wise words and humorous words of this old couple were just what she needed.
Her laughter made Uncle Arch turn on her in mock anger, “What you laughing at, girl? You look like your biscuits done got browned a little too much yerself!”
"Babe, I would appreciate comments from readers on their favorite Redbone sayings and words." Use the comment button at the bottom of the blog to give me input.
This bumper sticker was given to me by my friend, Terry Jackson. Terry is a proud Bearhead Redbone and represents how I feel people should feel about their heritage. (The Wayfaring Stranger covers the Ten Mile Redbone area -Pitkin-Plainview, LA- which is about fifty miles northeast of the Bearhead clan (Singer-DeQuincy-Starks.)
Visit Terry's blog at http://bearheadstories.blogspot.com/ to read more as well as view pictures. (Be sure to read his Dec. 16 entry on "Maw and the Ax." It is a classic!
Telling about the Redbone heritage was one of the most sensitive parts of writing this book. Friends like Terry (through our blog) helped with corrections and gave me good insight. Below I've included the first two passages in the book that deal with Redbones:
Chapter 2 excerpt on Redbones
Eli, who never met a silence he was comfortable with, then asked, “Eliza, would you rather be called a ‘Ten Miler’ or a ‘Redbone?’”
She looked annoyed at him, “Talk quieter. Now why’d you ask a question like that for?”
“Oh, I just heard Poppa and Momma laughing about it the other day.”
“Well, Eli I don’t mind if you call me either. I figure I’m both. A ‘Ten Miler’ is someone living in our area—along Ten Mile Creek or Cherry Winche Creek, or even along this side of the Calcasieu.
“Everyone I know in the Ten Mile area, also are called ‘Redbones.’ That’s just a name for our people. It’s what the outsiders often call us—Redbones. That ain’t never bothered me, does it bother you?”
“Not a bit. Don’t it have to do with our Indian blood?”
“I’ve always thought so. ‘ Red’ for our ‘Red Man’s blood.’”
Chapter 5 excerpt on Redbones
Eliza jumped up from the steps and said, “Uncle Arch, Aunt Mollie . . . Eli here’s been asking a lot about how our folks of the Ten Mile area got here and how we got to be known as ‘Redbones.’ Could y’all fill him in on where our people came from?”
She quickly jerked Eli away from slapping the back of their coughing dad and pulled him over to listen. But Aunt Mollie was already scolding her dad, “Willard Clark, what were you fixing to say about telling ‘an Aunt Mollie’?”
Then she stopped abruptly—she could not resist getting the first word in ahead of her husband, so she turned away from red-faced Willard Clark and quickly took over answering the question: “Eli, now my daddy always said that our branch of Ten Milers came as a group from up in the Carolinas in the late 1700’s. For some reason, these Louisian’er piney woods reminded them of home and there weren’t no law and lots of open spaces, so they just stopped here and settled.”
Aunt Mollie drew a breath and that was all Uncle Arch needed, “I tell you Babe , I know exactly why Mollie’s people come down from there—well, they wuz probably a bunch of hog thieves and no counts and got run—”
Mollie’s raised eyebrows and loud huff stopped Arch in mid-sentence. In mock seriousness he corrected himself, “No, Mollie, I want to apologize. That weren’t the real reason your people came down here.”
Uncle Arch continued in a conciliatory voice, “No, no, no—I take that back about your people.” He turned to Eliza, “Here’s the real truth, Eliza, Mollie’s people were the stubbornest people in the Carolinas. One day the English, or somebody in charge up there, told the settlers that nobody could leave—they all had to stay put. That night, the whole clan loaded up, skedaddled, and eventually got down here. Whaale, I tell you, Babe—that’s still a trait of her people: they are some kind of gosh awful stubborn. You can’t tell them nothing—not even the time of day or the day of the week—Well, like the fact that today is Wednesday.”
It was the needle he meant to stick in his wife and she yelled, “Thursday.”
“Nope, it’s Wednesday.“
Eli chimed in, “Y’all are both wrong, today is Friday.”
Both Willard Clark and Eliza spoke in unison, “Eli, hush!”
Aunt Mollie was now prepared to go on the offense again. “Arch Weeks, at least I know where my people came from and who they are. Your bunch ain’t got quite the same pedigree, that’s for sure.”
The old man sat up straight and proud in his cowhide chair. “Suunnnn, I’ll tell you about my people—My peoples didn’t come from nowhere. We didn’t have to get run out of the Carolinas. We’ve always been right here among the pines and the creeks.” He held his head up and his entire long face took on a smile, “My family line of Redbones always been here. We’re descendants of the Injuns that lived in these woods. Well now, you can look at me and see that real easy.”
Looking at the profile of Uncle Arch’s face as he sat there, Eliza could definitely see that Indian heritage: the dark skin and eyes, hawkish nose—each told of Indian blood in Uncle Arch. It was also easy to see how proud he was of this.
He continued, “Yep, that’s why we’re all called ‘Redbones.’ We got Indian blood in us.”
Eli asked, “What kind of Indian are you?”
“Whaale, a little bit of them all, Son. Our blood comes from the early Attakapa who lived here, and maybe a dash of Choctaw. Then there were them escaped Injun slaves from Texas—them Apache and Comanche.
“My Injun ancestors mixed in with some of the Frenchmen and probably some of Lafitte’s pirates, and we Redbones are the result of that. That’s why we’re wild, free, and impossible to tame.” His voice went up an octave as he stated, “That’s also why ain’t no timber company’s gonna take our land. They’ll find out about that Injun blood if they try! Well, that’s where we got our independent ornery streak from here in No Man’s Land!”
Uncle Arch, whom Eliza liked to call “Chief” when he gave his Indian heritage talk, sat smiling as he shook his head proudly.
Eli asked, “Where ‘xactly is this here ‘No Man’s Land’?”
Uncle Arch said, “Let me put it this way: Ten year’ago, two gov’ment surveyors came through these parts. They stayed with Mollie and me for a couple of nights. One of them knew a lot ‘bout history and filled me in about our area. He said that ‘fore Louisiana became a state, this area was fought over by the Spanish and Frenchmen. They couldn’t agree on a border between and war nearly broke out over it.
“Finally, cooler heads got together. They agreed Spanish Texas would have their border at the Sabine River and the French would stick with the Calcasieu River. This made a fifty-mile wide area between the rivers into a ‘Neutral Strip.’
“That surveyor said that because both countries agreed to keep their soldiers out of the strip, it became a haven for every outlaw, escaped slave, and renegade Indian who wanted to escape the long arm of the law. The area between the two rivers, stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to ‘bout Natchitoches became known by three names: ‘The Neutral Strip,’ ‘No Man’s Land,’ and ‘The Outlaw Strip.’”
Uncle Arch ended his history lesson with a personal note, “I ain’t never liked that ‘Outlaw Strip’ name. Most folks around here, like our peoples, aren’t outlaws. They jes’ came here ‘cause they wanted to live where no gov’ment would bother them. We just want nobody tellin’ us what to do. That’s what I call freedom—jes’ being left alone!”
On Uncle Arch’s last sentence, Eli whispered in his sister’s ear, “Twelve.” She looked at him quizzically and he said, “That’s how many times he’s said ‘Whhaaale’ already.” Eli pronounced it just as he’d heard, and they both tried to suppress the giggles.
At this moment is when Eliza changed the direction of the conversation, “Uncle Arch and Aunt Mollie, I got something been bothering me a long time that I want to ask about. When I was ‘bout Eli’s age, I made one of my few trips out of the Ten Mile area and went with Poppa to Sugartown. While we were in the general store, a curious girl ‘bout my age came up. She had gold hair and wore a dress that looked store-bought. She looked me up and down before asking, “Who are you?’” I told her, “Eliza Jane Clark.” The girl shook her head as if to inform me that was not what she really wanted to know and then asked, ”No, what are you?”
“I laughed as I told her, ‘“Well, last time I checked I was a girl.’”
“The girl’s puzzled look let me know what she meant: What are you? Are you Indian? Spanish? Something else?
“I didn’t have a ready answer for her. I finally told her I lived at Ten Mile. Then I asked the her, “’And what are you, Sugartown girl?’”
“She said with a smile, ‘Why I’m ‘merican! Aren’t you?’
“Until that day the idea had never entered my skull that I might be an American, too.”
Eliza continued her story, “Then a woman marched over and grabbed the girl, scolding her, ‘You git away from that girl. She ain’t our kind.’
“The golden-haired girl tried to argue, but her mother said, ’We don’t have nothing to do with them kind. She’s got colored and injun in her. You remember that. She’s not our kind!’ That little girl was crying as her mother dragged her away—and so was I.”
As Eliza finished her story, a tear coursed down her cheek. Even her dad had never heard Eliza’s story. No one knew what to say—even the old couple sat there wordlessly.
Willard Clark, who hated to see his daughter cry, finally said, “But Liza, you never told me about—“
Aunt Mollie broke in, “Baby, you be proud of who you are. You are as beautiful and wonderful as any of them there girls in Sugartown—or anywhere else. Hold your head up high and don’t never apologize for who you are!”
Arch Weeks, who always found humor in every situation, broke the tension by pointing at his dark arms, ”Well Babe, I can’t tell y’all exactly what we’re made of, but somebody definitely left the biscuits in the oven too long on me.”
Eliza burst out laughing at his words. She loved the unique way that the old-timers could coin a phrase. The wise words and humorous words of this old couple were just what she needed.
Her laughter made Uncle Arch turn on her in mock anger, “What you laughing at, girl? You look like your biscuits done got browned a little too much yerself!”
"Babe, I would appreciate comments from readers on their favorite Redbone sayings and words." Use the comment button at the bottom of the blog to give me input.
"Aunt Mollie" Weeks is a character (as all of the story characters are) based on a composite of folks I've known. Aunt Mary Jane Lindsey, (left) one of Dry Creek's most memorable and beloved citizens of my childhood, would be a good example of Aunt Mollie.
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