Central High Grad of 1948 Cheers on The Graduates from His Hospice Bed

Bill Lewis, 94, grew up on Blackwater Road in Central in the 1930’s and 1940’s, and he wrote a delightful book about growing up here, called Simpler Times.

Bill’s daughter Cathy Gable texted me a few days ago telling me that Bill was not doing so well but that he was wondering if I might like to reprint some stories from his book in the Central City News.  I told her we would love to.

“He’s in hospice. They say he doesn’t have long.” she said, “You should call him.”

I called, expecting him to sound weak and frail. But his voice was strong and vibrant, like that of a man 60 years younger.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Woody, I’m like a baby trapped in a body that just doesn’t work anymore.  I can’t stand or walk.  I can’t even sit up or be propped up. All I can do is lay here on my back. I can’t even turn on my own.  They have to turn me. I’ve almost lost my sight and I’m deaf as can be.”

“I want to come see you, Bill!”

“Well, you better come soon. They say I only have a few weeks left.”

As Central High’s graduation ceremonies were being held last Wednesday night, Bill was laying flat on his back in his bed at the Landmark Nursing facility on Oxford Place in Baton Rouge.

“I graduated from Central High in 1948,” he said. “You know, there are only three of us left from that class.”

“Tell the Central High Class of 2025 that I’m cheering them on!”

Bill’s daughter Cathy picked out a few of his short stories about growing up in Central.  Rather, than fiddle faddle around, I think now is a good time to run them, so Bill will get to see them.

From 

SIMPLER TIMES

By Bill Lewis

The House I Grew Up In 

This is a picture of the house I grew up in in the 1930s, before electricity, telephones, or water piped into the house. It had four rooms. The fenced-in yard was to keep the chickens and little kids from wandering into the road.

Later my father would add on two more rooms and a closed-in back porch and bath, and later still a screened side porch and bath.

The heat in winter was the fireplace in the living room and the wood stove in the kitchen. The bathroom was in three places — a wash tub on the back porch, a wash pan by the pump in the back yard, and the toilet 150 feet away in its own little house.

This photo was taken not long after it was built because the fence wasn’t there in 1936 and there was a porch swing to the left of the steps and several wooden rocking chairs to the right.

The windows were all open in the summer and closed in the winter and we didn’t know any better. In the winter, we slept under several blankets and quilts and ran to the kitchen or living room to dress near the fireplace or stove.

It lasted until the flood of 2016 ruined the house. Nothing left of it but memories after the debris was hauled away.

The Parachuting Pilot

This is a true story about my childhood in the Central community in the fall of 1941. Harding Field during WWII was a training base and there was a practice bombing  and strafing range near Hammond for them to use. One night a group flying back in a rainstorm got off course and when they finally got realigned with the airport started running out of fuel.

Seven of the planes went down. The pilots all parachuted out of their planes and were scattered for miles east of Harding Field.

We were awakened by someone knocking on the backdoor early the next morning. My dad got up to see who it was and was greeted by a young pilot standing there with a bundle of parachute under his arms. He had been wandering for hours in the thick woods behind our house.

He of course was invited in and given water to drink and some ointment for the scratches from the underbrush and mosquito bites. My mother built a fire in the wood burning stove and put coffee and biscuits on for breakfast while we  kids chatted with the pilot who was warming himself and drying his wet suit by the fireplace.

My dad had to leave for work at 6 a.m. so he agreed to drop the pilot off at the airport. The pilot wolfed down a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and coffee and was anxious to get back and report in as ok.

My brothers and I were just as anxious to get to school to tell our classmates of our adventures — only to find that some of them had had the same experience.

Drifting Down the Comite

If I could revisit some days in my life, the following would be one of them. In the 1930’s, Daddy, his first cousin John Hausey, and I would drive to a spot near the Comite Bridge on Dyer Road, where we would launch John’s boat. We would have an ice chest filled with drinks, sandwiches and maybe a few apples or bananas. They we would load up our fly rods and some cane poles, an empty oatmeal box with Catalpa worms, a can of wigglers, and tackle boxes.

The morning would be one of the crisp fall days with blue skies and a north wind with just a hint of the cool days to come. We would wade and drift down the Comite with its numerous sand bars and lazily fish in one of the deeper holes behind a fallen log or under an overhanging tree. Ripe muscadines would fall from vines hanging from branches over the water making plopping sounds and attracting fish.

We would pass fields with cows curiously watching us drift by from the high banks, filled with wild blue ageratums, or purple Ironweed. The water would be crystal clear and ripple in spots. A feet away, water would move slowly with butterflies and mosquito hawks with glossy wings dancing above. Herons would do their own fishing in the shallows, undisturbed by us.

After several hours, we would pick a nice sand bar to sit down and eat our lunch and then fish and drift until we reached the bridge on Comite Drive about midafternoon. 

I would stay with the boat while Daddy and John would walk to our house for Daddy to take John to retrieve his car and trailer, then they would return to get me and the boat.

If I close my eyes, I can still see and hear the startled wood ducks, the birds singing, and the distant sounds of cawing crows. I can feel the cool breezes and breathe the fresh clear fall air. At the end of our adventure, we would have a cooler full of Brim, Bass, and Blue Catfish to load into the car and fried fish, hush puppies, and cole slaw for supper. 

Pleasant memories.

Editor: Bill Lewis, won’t you linger with us a bit longer?