Introduction

For the first seven years of my life, every Sunday was spent at my grandfather’s house at Burton Plantation, a few miles from St. Martinville, my hometown.

After early Mass we would pile into our trusty Chevy and ramble down the dusty gravel road. When we would turn into the fenced-in yard and cross the rumbling cattle guard at the entrance, Daddy would toot the horn to announce our arrival.

Popete, my grandfather, would wave to us with his big straw hat from his swing under the old oak trees. Cina, my aunt, would emerge from the kitchen tying a freshly ironed apron around her waist and mopping her glowing forehead with a dainty handkerchief which I often thought was a permanent part of her hand, banging the screen door behind her. The chickens and geese would scurry about in welcome. The dogs would bark and the horses would poke their heads over the fence for a look-see.