Creeks of This Land

I have crossed the streams,
those flowing movements,
that come from beneath,
massive groves of Oaks,
trickling down the hillside,
merging with others,
whose journey leads,
to places yet seen.

I have drank from these streams,
whose merger became a name,
so often softly repeated,
dismounting from my steed,
to cup my hands,
to sup, of this nourishment,
to quince my thirst,
whereas,this grace,
I am satisfied.

The names become a chant,
that only the Eagle can sing,
as it flies overhead,
chased by the Hawk,
chased by the Crow,
with a small Sparrow,
trailing behind,
all traveling the red road.

Creeks, and not the native,
thou, without the natives,
all would have been diminished,
in the name of progress,
daring to preserve,
what the creator gave,
all, all of this land.

I ride, I look to the sky,
I dismount, cup my hands,
oh, I do remember thy name,
and feel most blessed,
that my parched lips,
have tasted thy cool waters,
oh Cypress, oh Caney,
oh Brushy, and the Oak,
and least not Bear.

To Sandy I sing my praise,
and dance by the shores of Quicksand,
knowing your dangers,
reaching only for berries,
that hang upon the vines,
eat of the Muscadines,
truly with a satisfied mind,
having riden pass the Cow,
and even Franks Branch,
to settle in the Pocket,
along with the panther and bear.

Oh sing of the waters,
flowing through this land,
these creeks, even Indian,
this still is but a few,
The Crow,the Trout, and so many,
that flow across this land,
we pass by once again,
and must give thanks.

milking tribute to Ole Joe Hennigan

PIG MILK CHEESE AND BAGELS


Pig-milk-cheese (well fermented) is most excellent when served on a true bagel...a sow does not give out much milk, about 4 ounces a day per sow. It is most difficult to milk one, a very labor intensive job...

Most efficient if utilizing children under the age of 3 to milk the sows, their hands are just the right size...I employed 200 under 3 years of age "domestic workers" to complete this job... the draw back is often they will fall asleep or crawl down by the sow and nurse.

This requires a very strong willed manager, who walks by using a riding crop to keep the hired workers at their highest productivity....I defer upon the suggest of milking AR Kansas Razorbacks, they often damage the workers with their teeth...I was wet nursed on a piney woods sow, thus, is the source of my great intellect.

Old Joe Hennigan, {(I was blessed to talk to Joe just after Franks passing, and reflected to him about how in the 8th grade someone had placed a tack in Franks chair during the lunch period…(not me)…

To see (big rear end) Frank rise was a sight to behold…a time when schools were safe both for the teachers and the students)}…Joe taught me Algebra at Fields/Hyatt, had the ability to spin…one was about how to milk a Poland China…take a milking stool and a tea cup…This memory has been embedded until this composition…To free the mind, is thus the most liberating experience one can experience…

A Short Tale of Geo, Hyper and Parallel

A short tale of Geo, Hyper, and Parallel
and how they attempted to fool Euclid, and Descartes,
by sneaking off from school and across its yard

Once upon a late Spring Evening,
the classroom suddenly seemed vacated,
Euclid was up at the board,
talking about this and that,
turning around, discovering his best was a miss,
he turned seeing that Calculus,
was dozing on the back row,
notorious for being an instigator,
yet, he was there.

Euclid called for the truant officer,
sending him to look,
with him finding the trio,
down by the duck pond.
He thus asked of Geo,
why he was not in school,
Geo me try,
he did reply,
queried of Parallel,
oh, do you want me,
to hand you a line,
last was Hyper,
with the look of his eyes,
the officer knew he was in space.

By the neck,
the trio was hauled to old Descartes,
the principal and who had the rule,
saying to Geo Me try,
next speaking,
about Parallel Lines,
seeing that Hyper
was in space,
time was a waste.

Where ever we go in life,
we will encounter this trio,
Geo Me try,
Parallel Lines,
and Hyper Space,
they will always play with our minds,
thanks to Ms Stein and her roses,
we still can rhyme.

Goin' Teaux Grandma's for Christmas

Goin Teaux Grandmas for Christmas

The year was '48,
aheadin' to Grandmas for Christmas,
drivin' through the woods,
passin' those giant pines,
crossin' so many streams,
mama called them out,
all along that route,
here's the Atachafayla,
and then the wide Mississippi,
names, we could not speak,
words that made our tounges twist,
then she cried here's Puschatap creek,
her excitement showed in her cheeks,
children, we close to mama's,
oh, how it seemed it been a week.
for in a '42 Ford to Grandma's,
and how papa did drive.

Oh how our head was full of treats,
that only grandma could spread,
crossin the Huey P Long bridge,
papa sounded like a preacher,
at a piney woods pulpit,
just a talkin' about that savior,
ole Huey P, and did he speak,
mama exclaiming to papa,
lets save that sermon for next week.

There in Red Baton town,
hitting the streets,
we stopped to take a peek,
there was no time to spend,
we were herded again,
we are not piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
still mama shoved us it seems,
back into that '42 Ford,
and onto US 190,
Eastward to grandma's,
there,we were bound.

Racing through the picket gate,
like a herd of piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
running about myrtle bush,
racing up the steps,
and there stood grandpa,
upon the front stoop,
he looked so grand,
grandma's house was smellin,
the goose was acookin,
she had bowls of sweet tators,
for us to peel,
if we were to eat,
ole grandma had a deal,
we had to earn our keep.

Don't make a mess,
if you want to partake,
of this Christmas feast,
with smell of bake goose,
deep dark and sweet,
sat that pecan pie,
of Grandpa Lowe's Thanksgivings pecans,
that Grandpa had shelled,
be bragged, for over a week,
and did Grandma cook,
she was part Fornea,
loved passin' chicory coffee round,
is there more to say,
all her eating,
placed so gracefully,
upon that table round,
with her cornbread dressing,
would we make a mess,
no, not for Grandma's tables spread.

Uncle Charles and Uncle James,
gifts they did bring,
for they had just returned,
from that foreign war,
being proud of their service,
we greeted them on the porch,
with screams of excitement,
and of treasured joy,
this we could not control,
we were mere children,
with so much to behold.

After endless hours,
to us children it did seem,
we finally set upon cane woven chairs,
and how did ours eyes feast,
for this was a true spread,
Grandpa's head started to bow,
our hands settled down,
for we were no longer wild cattle,
we wanted to eat of this feast,
as grace was given,
seems like an hour,
as our taste buds quivered,
to savor on this feast.

Oh, for once again,
to travel to Grandma's,
this would be a joy,
as Grandma now,
sings in heavens choir,
instead, it's these memories,
precious and priceless in name,
ever so thankful,
of those whose table awaited,
for a herd of piney woods cattle,
to partake of this holiday feast,
everlasting memories of childhood,
these,will never cease.









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To Race Again In The Wind

It is attributed to Shaw,
that youth was wasted on the young,
to which, I have often replied,
that beauty was wasted upon women,
and can life ever give comfort,
before that final pause.

As we have seem to be idle,
youth has sped past us,
ever so swiftly,
racing like wild horses,
there in the desert wsnd,
leaving us stranded,
in a blowing sand storm,
blinded and wandering aimlessly,
as they raced, so far ahead,
clear out of our sight.

To grieve that those years,
which have long ceased to be,
departed, and we wish now,
that they could be enjoyed,
we can reflect on those good moments,
that has to be the cause,
the purpose of our wandering,
in this endless desert of life.

Alas, another flashed has gone by,
as a lighting bolt scatters,
the darkness that enveloped the night,
so quick, and with no remorse,
to see the young colts,
there racing in the Summers storm,
with trails of dust,
laughing and singing up a storm,
this, is the purpose,
of this aimless wandering,
that we have endured in our life,
race youth, race into the far distance,
our joy, is but to see the storm,
of dust that develops in your trail.

The Chant of O'Homa

How long must we walk,
this path to the sea,
tears have been
shed about our tired feet,
as promisses given,
that our journey will deliver,
us to a land of fertile valleys,
and rivers of many waters,
flowing to the sea.

O'Homa, O'Homa, we were told,
that seeds of abudance
to which we will sow,
and harvest maise and roses,
gold and red, colors do flow,
our tribal banner flies,
a reminder of those lives expired,
on this journey,and souls delivered,
promisses taken, not given,
upon barren land we are delivered,
O'Homa, O'Homa,
O'Homa, O'Homa,
this is the land is our chant.

Spikes Cemetary 9/6.08

As thoughts ramble thru this ancient Sabine forest,
Of Hickory, Oak and Pine,
As kin and neighbors of long ago,
Gather upon this hallow ground,
Stories transpire over cups of coffee boiled,
Filtered thru Grandpa's last sock,
Worn thing with age, as his skin roughen,
From years spent in mule's paths,
A teamster with his team,
Harvesting Pine and Blackjack Oak,
Stopping only to fill his pockets,
With morsels of Hickory Nuts,
For our youthful tongues,
To tingle our senses of life's abundant wonder.

We this day are gathered round this communal fire,
Feeding upon someone's homemake cake,
It is of this feast we do partake,
Where once by an ancient sea,
A multitude was fed upon loaves and fishes,
Ever so grateful of this sacrifice,
This lamb, given, to give us solace,
We sit, ramble round as this Sept wind,
Whistles thru the tall pines,
Whose straws flutter and spiral down,
From the crown, as wings of quail,
Rustle from the Dogwood,
As the lamb ascends,
We, stand upon hallow ground.

Stardust Motel in Vegas !!!

Roper The Cowdog
The worlds best lookin cow dog...(Blue Heeler)...I fell into love with a beagle, followed her for three days...that mean ole cowboy took me to the doctor and took away my pride and joy...at least I did have that 8 second ride...

like a good cowboy, I put on my new Tony Lamas and then I hit the road, left her at the motel with a note, and a trophy buckle I bought from a pawn shop in Los Wages, (this she does not need to know) she was sound asleep in her dreams, and just did not want to awake her.

heard it at the VA...

Jamb'alaya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
who came and smoke wildwood flowers,
then ate Bertrands gumbo,
way past the midnight hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
took their money, call them "honey",
then in the morning ran her traps,
and poled her Piroque,down the Atachafayla.

Jamb'laya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
on the front porch, she did dance,
then layed in bed,
she sucked dem heads, by the hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
she took their money, called them "honey",
she got big and round,
loved going to town,
and fais do do way past the midnight hour
in the morning ran her traps,
and poled her Piroque,down The Atachafayla.


Jamb'laya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
dressed in style,went hog wild,
they gave her money,callin them honey,
them second cousins,to weak to walk,
couldn't even talk would leave her shack,
having fais do do, past the midnight hour.

Jamb,alaya, Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
they came and smoked her wildwood flower,
then ate Bertrands gumbo,
and made love by the hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
took their money, call them "honey",
she got big and round,
ran her traps before going to town,
and poled her Piroque,down The Atachafayla.

Lisa of the Mustang

The screendoor slammed,
she gave her "mother",
her parting words,
I'm tired of these geldings,
I leaving to where,
buckaroos walk amid the sage,
and wild stallions stories are told,
its time that I depart,
having a life of my own,
away from these geldings,
to be among the sage and stallions,
it is there where I want to roam.

The road took her eastward,
thumbing truckers for a short ride,
traveling towards Winnemucca,
having heard stories,
in the trade of wild stallions,
and buckaroos among the sage,
there by the side of the road,
two long days of bad rides,
some were near suicide,
she was left at Junction.


Outside the Junction stop,
time comes to roll the dice,
with a toss in the desert sand,
is it to be Snake eyes,
or a combo pair,
choices of Elko or Los Wages,
with no winnings or even a spare,
snake eyes rolled,
and thus her road to Elko.

Knowing not what awaited her there,
amid the wild stallions,
and buckaroos who sat and composed,
these would be better she thought,
than the "geldings" she has known,
Yes, the money was good,
but with the 30 hits you,
its time for a secure roll,
and snake eyes ensured Elko.

Thumbing past Carlin,
and the gold mine in sight,
a long walk down Idaho Street,
Passing Stockmans and other places,
which she never knew,
on to the convention center,
this is where she was told to go,
and what a welcome she had,
as she walked in the door.

They invited her on the stage,
and all gathered around,
with intense ears,
the sage buckaroos who composed,
her stories were quickly told,
of her life with the geldings,
for now she was now on the road.

The road from Mustang,
was a difficult road to take,
and making it to Elko,
walking down Idaho street,
she realize that this venture,
was not a fatal mistake,
becoming a endured legend,
around campfire light all aglow,
her stories are nightly told,
with red embers and guitars,
of Lisa of the Mustang,
and her life on the road.

To Honor The Hertiage

To honor the ancestory,
of our great Scottish kin,
Jacob Neely,
who stood tall,
with precision aim,
firing his musket,
and REDCOATS fell,
most proud to have his
rebel-celtic-blood,
run true in these veins.

Come on, my dear laddies and lassies,
take down you bodram,
and rosen up your bow,
pack up your pipes,
grab your kilt,
for we shall gather round,
in this piney woods moonlight,
dancing our jig,
our celebration will last,
until mornings early light.

Without those brave hearts,
we would not have
the liberty that we enjoy today...
To Honor...To Praise...

dar marker...Neely, Jacob -- b. 1758. d. 15 July 1845, age 87. Grave located in Liberty Baptist church, 6 miles east on Highway 80, Jackson, Rankin County, Mississippi. Marked: 29 March 1953 -- Magnolia State Chapter

THE ORGIN OF THE COOLEY/COCHRAN WAR

Asa Cochran was famous fur stump break'n Cooley's ole heifer and den her turn around and with de underside of her tongue lick dee Roger pistole....sand paper blues...dats where the ya-who came frum...ya-who!!! ya-who!! Roger he did dance thru de pines with de knees a knock'n...ya-who!! ya-who!! De ole long horn bull en de woods saw him en came'a chargin; for he be a mess'n with his heifers, as well all de neighbors within ten miles would hear, and know that de Cochran kid had been stumpin again...

Ezra Cochran ran sheep...and de Cooley's in revenge would put de Cochran's sheep at pleasure, all eight of de Cooley's boys wore tall mud boots, and de feet fit fine...thus starting der war of de Cochran's en Cooley's!!! Sheep now all say cool ley, cool ley as dey drive past...en de bull he ghot big ole Cochran oysters up on his horns....they just swing as he runs about de pasture..

Lots of Cooley and Cochran blood runs thru Beauregard Parish, the flip side of Newton County Tejas......a very agricultural parish, lots of horses .and moo cows... I met a man over a year ago, at a old filling station near Kirbyville Texas who was telling me of battles the Cochran’s had with their sheep...

Oh man (Senator) Hennigan ran sheep when I was a kid...open range...lots of cotton farmers dogs got poisoned...I wrote a piece inspired by a song by Don Edwards...about the last red wolf...I have memories at school where Hennigan’s hired hands brought a red wolf in, and threw it in front of us kids, to show us the evil thing...

From a E that I sent to a friend from the Elko Crowd.

An Ode to John B.

In life there are rules,
Some simply are not for scorn,
For my eyes encounter a lost sight,
As I looked over my morning coffee,
And saw a vision of the past,
It was thou that Black Elk had spoke,
Giving me this vision to see,
One that truly separates the bulls,
From those that stands so content,
Grazing in green pastures,
With the prize heifer,
And having no earthly ability,
To distinguish what is about,
For their production quotient,
Was taken when they were quite young.

They, without genetics,
To be a producer,
Stand in absolute contentment,
As the prize bull, strolls by the fence,
Throwing his head back,
And nostrils flared,
Looking over his choices,
And lavishing in that scent,
That permeates the air,
He, truly is a bull of the woods,
Sets reading his times journal,
Or whatever presses his glasses declares,
Over a stronger brew.

Upon his dome of years spent,
Sets a crown with reminders of,
Some former president,
Who wandered from some far Texas town,
At a time when hats were most common worn,
Declaring the status of the wearer,
That they were bulls, bulls of the woods.

Across the fence, the yearling so fresh,
Graze with that absence of instincts,
Contented to be just steers,
There, grazing in pastures of plenty,
Unable to grasp the scent,
Of that heifer in need of attending,
As thus has come the condition,
As the bulls have vanished,
And the young yearling scent are spent,
With the indifference of these steers,
Grazing in pasture’s of plenty.

Louisiana had a governor,
The last one spent, wearing a crown,
For they found him running with a Blaze,
A woman of most beauty,
Whose fame was of dance and disrobing,
And he, whose bedside manners,
With boots and spurs intact,
Lay down upon that feather bed.

Through the darkness of night,
The ride was of a blaze,
Politicians became disgraced,
Of this governors case,
Disbarred him and history,
Has left us with simpletons,
To regulate our great state.

Yes, I was a youngster once,
And walked away from the Ranch,
With a cover, not realizing it was,
My fathers, who years later,
Remarked, that I had departed,
And left his head uncovered,
For this was his “John B”,
This had graced my head.

Some years earlier,
His brother, our Uncle Larry,
Chided his sons,
For sitting on his “panama”,
Reducing it to a straw pancake,
There upon his back seat,
As we rode into town in his sedan.

We knowing not what “panama meant’,
For it aided a bull of the woods,
To recognized a heifers scent,
You can take my blue suede’s,
But that which covers my head,
Blocked to redirect the rain,
And restricts where the sun hits my face,
This you can never take,
For there are those of us,
Who do graze by that fence,
In search of that scent.

We, like that bull of the woods,
Who’s morning brew,
Was as dark as the night,
Wearing that crown of glory,
From morning to night,
And such be the ode,
To John B,
Whose glory is ours,
And for it, we will fight.

Kilts to Quirts

From Glasow to Riodosa,
we all have traveled this land,
wearing a kilt of the finest wool,
to show the honor of our clan,
made by honest Scottish hands.

As travelers our courses,
have often changed,
arriving by schooners,
disembarking on rocky shores,
of this majestic land,
our shoe leather had already worn thin,
determined to make it,
this was the challenge at hand.

Westward, on wagons we traveled,
our mere possessions,
hung aside the wagons,
as we trod in ruts,
that the wheels did churn,
to make for a new life,
on unseen plains,
in this distant land.

We travelers determined to find,
far from Scotlands highlands,
plains we never knew,
and with our oats to spread,
on rich soil,
with our earth worn hands.

Upon steeds hand tamed,
taught to respond,
with a Glasow glance,
upon our saddle we sat,
and with handmade quirt in hand,
racing through golden fields,
of oats and barley waves.

High above a falcon soars,
and with most keen eyes,
sees what it adores,
while we among the golden waves,
chase a young stray calf,
in this land forever free,
oh liberty, we do cherish thee.

Buckskin and Blue

Buckskin and Blue, do reign,
colours of visionary truths,
upon the landscape canvas,
her horsehair brushes do grapple,
with charges of distant lightening,
these visions in her head,
streaks across the night sky,
as solace as lariats ascends,
into distance places,
leaves the charged electronic impression,
rising into the heavens.

It is across the Sonora desert,
the Guadalupe does walk,
arm and arm with the with the Vaquero,
assuring that he will cross the river,
riding with the crew,
gathering the finest,
and from the herd,
there in the corral,
cuts out the finest horse,
and rides for the lament,
aside the droves of longhorn cattle,
with plains of sweet grass to cross,
and rivers to ford of purest water,
the journey ends with a eternal siesta,
at last assurance of the promises.

Loving Eyes

I have been given so much in my life,
the greatest, is this, which was a piece of clay,
for me to mold, and make,
and Dear Lord, I trust,
that these years have not been spent in vain,
that I have taken wisely and shaped,
this piece of clay with these Texas hands,
as best as I can.

The wind swept plains of this land,
has not given, but have taken,
this is the way at times, it seems,
and to receive is truly to be blessed,
with ones heart to give,
and to expect little until we rest,
to take, mold and make,
and that these 16 years,
my work is most pleasing,
Dear Lord,for I have done the best,
that I can with this,
which has been given to me.

Today my eyes see such beauty,
to this which I was entrusted,
to mold this piece of clay,
and with hopes,
that his path taken,
as he walks toward the sea
that he gives back,
for this is my prayer,
as I stand here under this tree,
and that he returns,
when my earthly time is done,
and throw a handful of dirt,
upon my tomb,
and this he did.

A Crow/ A Raven

We do not know,
from where the winds may blow,
while there is solitude,
on this red road-
Some may have heard,
A peckin' on the door,
and look towards the window,
as others watch a scorpion,
Speed across the adobe's floor--

There upon the hiway,
these two do dance and strut,
with a fan of feathers,
to entertain, awe as much-
Hunters eyes search the seeds,
that the wind has blown,
from the grain fields,
Gathers of the gleam,
as now is not for waste,
as clear waters flow forth--

Hecker and Jeckel,
Of such comic lore,
gleam for grain,
along the ditches,
aside the roadway,
that winds this valley,
thru fields of grain, so golden-
Waste is not prudences chore,
as clear waters from an enbankment,
does flow and hence their thirst,
is filled another day,
While upon the roadside,
Hecker and Jeckel do sway--

friendsofhyatt.org

To those that know me...not biblically speaking...but more as a ramblin deranged po-ET...Not to take away from Allen Ginsberg's in speaking of po-ET and their words...or Fernigetti, one of the greatest of American Poets,(my last trip/stop at City Lights in SF...I had the honor of taking a photo of him with another man...who just wanted a picture of them together...and I was chosen to be there at that moment)... as was that drunken Bastard from Los Angeles (Charles Bukowski)...who I discovered has inspired the great Tom Russell...

From the recent cyber broadcast of the Cowboy Poets gathering (2008)in Elko, I have learned that Tom was raised in Los Angeles, and not an authentic Tejan...oh Tom, oh Tom, who now resides on the border at El Paso...Tom's masterwork of cowboy verse/song, has an intensity that is comparable to the greatest cowboy verse writers,but is more of a Bukowski bucking bronco buster...To be able to exchange words years back with Tom in the Starry Plough men's wash room in Berkeley, as he was washing his hands...telling him that he/we cannot wash away our sins, Tom understandingly nodded in agreement...I attribute this mind thought to those piney woods people that reared me in that community on the great river, Mother Sabine...and thus this post...

I have stumbled and fallen, and with tired hands through the course of my life, pulled myself out of the gumbo/adobe mud of which I have found myself fallen...this after graduating from Hyatt High School, at Fields, Louisiana in 1963, having walked off that stage with a sore chest. This injury came from the kick of a mule several weeks earlier, while attempting to plow the spring garden, and my father stood amused, that I would allow that mule to place me in that spot...one would say, mind over mule...thus, the mule won with a direct hit...

My journey, my road scholar work took me into many doors, with views from many different windows, and stairwells up and down, often racing to keep my spirit alive...Again, walking out of that gymnasium that night in 1963, I knew not what layed ahead, but that there was some challenge ahead for me. I feel most strongly that I have met that challenge ...even moreso having been nominated in the late 80's as a Who's Who of the West, unable to submit the profile with feelings that I had not done enough to prove myself worthily of such honor.

Returning in (2002) to my mother land, to this woman(Earth) who gave birth to me, for she did her upmost best to mold and make me,just as I am, without one plead
...those wimmen of the Sabine, written about so well with that story by Kate Chopin..."IN SABINE"...a termendious reading to understand the hardship pioneer women endured, and especially those of the Sabine River bottom...The community that I was raised in, Bancroft...has put out so many remarkable people, three are from my own family, and several other families in that "rural" hamlet have done equally as well...Southward is the De Witts Eddy community, they have succeeded, and also the neighboring community of Fields...Nearby Fields is a small community amid the pines of Bear Head creek, some refer to that area as PeckerWoods...a very enduring term...home of the Pickering's, the Boyer's, LaCroix's and so many more. Honest people, a most lost virture.

Bancroft was settled by refugees from Hancock County MS,led by a Samuel Wingate entering from the Newton Texas side,a journey into the dark, piney woods of NO MANS LAND. There, he discovered some most Majestic Pines...pines that were cut out by the 30's and then the economy began to diminish. At that time,the various one room school houses were combined in a newly built WPA building, which should have already been declared a national treasure, and historial landmark...To see that building and its 50 acre campus, is a site to behold...it is a twinkle in the creators eye...

Since the inception of the school, a combination of "rural" communities, WE have been strongly judged these many years by the "correct" despots of De Ridder, the parish center some 30 miles away..."They" considered us clodhoppers, ect...we are not...WE are Sabine...WE are Sabine...PROUD...our lineage arises from the Celts,the French, additionally we inherit both Cherokee and Choctaw blood...Many are seeking to regain their status as Cherokee/Choctaw through Four Winds Tribe of Louisiana Cherokee...

Through my own research, I have learned in the past two years, of that link to this native blood. This discovery is attributed to another woman who has been researching on the mystery "GORE'S"...our discovering our common grandmother Mother Ellen...who she through her own research, believes walked the Trail of Tears, forced to become outlaws...The Cherokees and Choctaws settled with the other displaced traumatized Southern's after the war of the civil in these majestic, wonderful and most serene piney woods...Our beloved NO MANS LAND became a safe haven for both the traumatized Southerns and the Native people who refused to go to Oklahoma...re:Chief Bowles and thus Bowl(e)slough, whose banks I was raised on...

Recently, those who have and continue to JUDGE us so strongly and harsely, have decreed that they would shut this community school down...Their meeting was held almost in secret, in De Ridder on a Thursday night, a 30 plus journey. They expected those who worked 60 miles away from our beloved communities of Bancroft, Fields and De Witt's Eddy, to attend this board meeting in De Ridder,another thirty plus miles, a near almost difficult task,and again,this was planned on a Thursday night,days before Thanksgiving...

Their, the schoolboards action was both an immoral and illegal action...They declared with little community input and with scant evidence, that they had the power to destroy this community (a combination of commun-ities whose center is Hyatt)...This nearsighted elitist board has failed, for there is a higher authority...a higher power...and there is that personal power we all have. This combined personal power becomes WE, and oft it rang out from voices many years back...POWER TO THE PEOPLE...

Yes, I walked in those marches...fist raised to the heavens...and have stood in front of the National Capitol in July of 1974 most proudly, with 2000 other
Vietnam Vets...John Kerry was there in March, I do not know if he was there in July, he could have been that vet who stood next to me...Prior to my revisit to Washington DC in 2001, my journey took me to Ebenezer Baptist Church, in Atlanta, placing my hands in the waters...to heal...My journey continue to the WALL in Washington, to touch it, and completing at the head of the line, as a Disabled American Veteran, (having been with the other 2000 vets in 1974 denied the right to enter the capitol building), I entered the capitol most proudly, for so many of these warriors have died since that day in 1974.

While visting the capital building, I discovered a marker declaring it to be the center of the building, and center of Washington. I stood at the center of
power...the center of power...to be centered is a most powerful experience...often the hardest journey in one's life, is to discard that excess baggage of which we have laden ourselves,and this journey was to complete that mission of 1974, and I found myself centered. Life is termendous when we carry about fresh straw to which one can lay...to sleep, to dream, but first we must muck the stall of our lives.

What is most parammount at this moment,is that those that discover this blog...to go to friendsofhyatt.org....interesting, I entered friends of fields.org and found a site devoted to Marin County...south of Sonoma County where I spent so many years, making many friends in Marin as well...Again,it is paramount that information get out, both the illegal and immoral action taken by that incompetent school board...just because we can...and
friendsofhyatt.org
needs both voice and monies that can be given,and especially,legal assistant...

Three years ago, a young man walked across the stage in Washington DC, with his mother and grandmother, finishing 7th in the Scripts Spelling Bee...This young man is my great-nephew...his grandmother is a Who's Who of American Women...Who walked off that stage at Hyatt in 1958 with little more than a 50 dollar scholarship to McNeese...A woman who should have gone to Harvard or Yale...those that be, those power people in DeRidder...chose not to do anything to direct her there...Their concern was with "their precious" children in De Ridder...This is my indictment. An indictment against the board,in behalf of all the native blood people who have been denied their just, and especially those rural inhabitants who make the best of America. WE are strong, WE are Sabine, WE are rural. WE are AMERICANS, WE are the spirit of the native people.

My sister succeeded by her own determination, as did my older brother, who is now an attorney in Houston, our younger brother now teaches computer science at UT in San Antonio.... I feel that there are many more success stories from families who have chosen to stay in the woods, and who's children have not stood in the national spotlight, as drunks, criminals. Childrens who have walked a walk, to be but the best that they could be, to have the Piney Woods People most proud of them...strived to excellence...and many of us have...It is only that "Piney Woods Ceiling" that has been our main obstacle...The problem is not ours,but is their problem, the judgmental despots of De Ridder. Still, yet they have used it every opportunity they can...I speak from personal experience...

Again...these words are but mine, and proud of their intensity...as I was when a friend from Marin informed me to look at the recent column by the now late Herb Caen (SF Chronical), and see his reflections on me. To have received a letter years earlier from this great writer encouraging me to put pen to paper, I hold. Priceless. This post reflects my experiences in life, early life esperiences, and my decication to and support for the best education that one can receive, which is a rural education. Class size does make a difference. And thanks to that writer on that men's bathroom stall at SSU, encouraging others to read Small Is Beautiful, those stalls were the best place to read in the universe...Big is not always better. I feel that Hyatt has proven it many times over.

friendsofhyatt.org...do something...no school left behind...
friendsofhyatt.org...do something...no school left behind...

p.s. {for those that know me, I was the runt of the litter, and could not talk: now, I am a giant of a man, and speak with a thundering voice, a voice that shakes cones off the tallest pines.}