Bull 'Gator's Lament
A Performance Piece Rendered on Screen

What's that man lookin' at, down here in this cypress swamp, so thick with branches that sun barely gets through? He's lookin' at me, Old Bull 'Gator, and I'm lookin' at him. Why don't you come on over for dinner?

Speaking of dinner, you should have seen me grab that turtle from his sunny spot by the water hyacinths. When I broke through to the meat, those tourists thought a rifle shot had gone off. Fish, man, bird, or turtle, I get my dinner.

Sometimes, though, man eats us. He'll come down to this swamp and put a bullet in a 'gator's brain. Those poachers skin the 'gator right out here and cut up the tail meat for Cajun delight. The hide gets made into boots.

The poachers never got me, though. Grown 'gators missed their chance too. I had to be careful when I was young, but now, I'm the king of this here swamp.

Springtime is my favorite time of year when Spanish Moss flutters in the breeze like curtains in an old mansion house. That's when I get to bellowing. 

My bellows echo off the cypress trunks and all through the swamp. Those lady 'gators bellow right back. When one of them judges Old Bull fit, we spin like two demons in a whirlpool.

She'll be building a nest out of mud and sticks. When the eggs hatch and that fierce old momma 'gator hears those young 'uns grunting, she gently pulls the nest apart and tenderly frees them. That's when she won't want Old Bull around because we've been known to eat our own.

Maybe I'll wander off and watch those fishing boats go past. Perhaps one of them will flip over. Man, fish, bird, or turtle, I get my dinner.

Look over at those little 'gators sunning themselves on their momma's snout. I believe one of them is a baby bull. He will have to grow before he can be king of my swamp.  

Family - Fictionalized Memoir

One grandma died young. Her story is hearsay for my generation. Every story ever told is true, but that does not mean they are factual.

My mother became her nurse at age twelve. She helped the lady of the house to the porch so she could sew in the sun. Her dad called her their little nurse.

​Mom's older sister read constantly and wrote stories that I have never read. Perhaps they are lost or preserved by another member of the family.

Each morning she packed her daddy's lunch, an unasked question on her lips the day he dropped a pistol into the lunch box.

The miners were on strike. Grandad walked the picket line, wary of company goons. "Don't let anyone in the house. Those company men are tricky."

Another grandma succumbed to madness when her husband abandoned her with all those kids.

The orphanage kindly welcomed Papa. Two maiden aunts later took him in so he could go to high school.

I wonder how much I should let you see through my disguise. Perhaps I will let in just a little more light.
We may have been poor, but we owned land. The garden fed us all summer. Mason jars of beans, tomatoes, and corn got us through most of the winter, supplemented with rabbit and pheasant from Dad's game pouch.

Trips to the store were occasional, for grits, coffee, sugar, and bacon. Mama's hens provided eggs until the zoning commission said they had to go.

Some nights, I slept in my tent. During the day, I read in its shade. My companion was a hound dog, barely grown from a pup. I named her Babe after Paul Bunyan's blue ox

I read every story I could about that legend of a man.

Paul Bunyan's frying pan was so big two lumberjacks skated across its surface with slabs of bacon strapped to their feet. They greased the pan for the dozens of eggs he cooked and ate for breakfast each morning.
When the blue ox Babe stopped for a drink, the Round River ran dry.

Before I left fundamentalism behind, they dunked me in the water:
Three times!
Once for the father!
Once for the son!
Once for the Holy Ghost!
I emerged primarily unchanged.