A Taste of Chataignier Run
I’ve been wrapped up in this scene for the last couple weeks, contemplating a history, and imagining the fear and confusion of my 9 near old aunt in the face of tradition and intimidation:
Bobbie was carving cities out of dirt with her sisters underneath the family’s second shotgun house. A crew of drunk white men on black horses approach. They come tumbling down the road in waves of colorful flowing costumes, each with pointy hooded masks. My grandmother: Mary Rose – Ms. Da – Momie, tells everyone to get inside. The Capitaine is belligerent. He wants her to give him something. Some ingredient for the evening gumbo they are not invited to eat. His crew circles around the house banging on the side panels with a force they are not aware of. His pale hands direct the horse’s front hooves onto the sore steps of the front porch. Bobbie could smell the sweat of the horse through the thin crack in the window. Fortunately, Mr. Poulard released a chicken next door. The chase begins……
