My dad had a tough life growing up, but unlike so many of today's whiners, my father never caved in to self-pity. Dad was born in Bayou La Batre, Alabama November 2, 1913. He was the second child of John and Francis (Cook) Ladnier. He was seven years old when his father died of pleurisy. His mother moved to Biloxi, Mississippi to be near her family and to work as a domestic. Things get a little fuzzy about her life in Biloxi. Francis either began keeping the company of a man named Wilson and, depending on who you ask, either married him or was his mistress. Regardless, it is clear that she became pregnant, because on July 5, 1924 she miscarried a baby and died within 24 hours of the miscarriage. Somewhere around time they were in Billoxi his older brother, Elwood (or Jack as he liked to be called), ran away and didn't reappear in my fathers life for a few years.
After his mother's death in 1924, he began living with cousins and, at the ripe old age of 11, started working for a living. I don't know everything about his young life but I know he traveled back and forth between Biloxi and Myrtle Grove, Louisiana, which consisted of a cluster of houses and a seafood plant sandwiched between a marshy bayou and the Mississippi River.
I only recall a few stories my dad told me about his childhood. My favorites were about some of the characters that lived around Myrtle Grove. The others were about his life in Biloxi.
According to dad, somewhere near Myrtle Grove there was a Cajun man, whose name I have long forgotten, and his two sons who lived back in the bayous. The boys' nicknames were Bullhead and Alligator Foot. Bullhead got his name because of his incredibly hard head, and Alligator Foot got his name because his foot was too large for shoes. For entertainment, the boys would get at either end of the shrimp boat and charge each other. With as much speed as they could muster, they'd crash into each other head to head, like a couple of mountain goats.
The dad was just as much a character. He collected rattlesnakes to sell to the government for anti-venom research. Supposedly, when he found a snake, he would simply pick up the snake and put it in a burlap sack. I was told that he never killed a snake and that he kept a de-fanged rattler as a pet, which led to a bit of excitement.
The man was out in his pirogue, the chief means of transportation in that neck of the woods, when he heard a gunshot coming from the direction of his house. Poling as fast as he could, the man arrived in time to see his brother-in-law poling away. When the Cajun got to the house, he saw his pet snake dead on his porch. Grabbing his shotgun, the Cajun went after his brother-in-law. He caught up to the brother-in-law just as he was getting out of his pirogue. The Cajun raised his shotgun and fired, blasting a hole in the pirogue. At court, the brother-in-law claimed he killed the snake out of fear. When asked why he tried to kill his brother-in law the Cajun answered that everyone on that bayou knew the snake was harmless and that he kept it as a watchdog. He claimed he wasn't trying to kill his brother-in-law. If he wanted to do that, "the damned fool wouldn't be here." Case dismissed!
Dad had this odd little wooden bench that looked like a gray, weathered, wooden box with legs on it. The bench's sole purpose was for shucking oysters. Whenever he bought a sack of oysters, dad would sit astraddle that bench under the shade of a pecan tree that grew on the side of the house. With the bench between his legs, wearing his six-fingered glove on one hand and holding his oyster knife in the other, he would, in one clean movement, pry open the oyster shell, slip his knife under the oyster, cutting it loose from the shell, and fling it into a bowl beside him. He said as a kid he hated oysters. The thought of them turned his stomach. However, hunger has a funny way of making things taste better. Dad's change of heart occurred while taking the train from Myrtle Grove to Biloxi.
Dad said he left Myrtle Grove early in the morning headed for New Orleans, where he caught the train for Biloxi. The train reached Bay St. Louis when something went wrong. The train sat on a siding for five hours before a boy came on the train selling po-boys for a nickel. By the time he reached dad, all he had left was fried oyster po-boys. After riding half the day and then being stuck all those hours, "That po-boy looked pretty damned good." Dad said he ate every last crumb of that sandwich and has been eating oysters ever since.
Dad wasn't one to complain about his aches and pains, but he did have this chronic pain in his jaw, the genesis of which was a fight in his youth. He was with his cousin Roy Cook and a group of boys when one of the boys swung an iron bar hitting dad in the face. Dad said, "Roy had an axe with him. After that boy hit me, I grabbed the axe trying to get it away from Roy, but he wouldn't let go of it. If I had gotten that axe I would have killed that boy." It wasn't until a few years before he died that dad found out what was causing the pain. When the boy hit him with the bar, it broke dad's jaw. With no medical treatment, the jaw grew back together leaving a nerve exposed outside the bone.
The only other chronic pain my dad ever talked about was his right leg. He had a scar on his shin that was put there by an angry billy goat. I believe the goat was the winner in that duel.
I don't recall any other stories from my dad's early years. With a childhood like that I guess there weren't many stories to tell. I'm hoping some of the other family members will provide me with some other stories.