COMMUNICATING MEMORIES -- SECTION I -- EARLIEST MEMORIES

COMMUNICATING MEMORIES –

An Autobiography by Frances Ruth Jackson Freeman (b 1939, Coushatta, LA.)

Written in the 80^thyear of her life

SECTION I: EARLIEST MEMORIES

Chapter 1 --  FRONT YARD MEMORIES (About 1942)

FORWARD – As I enter my 80^thyear of life, I am writing my memories.   I wish to review the amazing changes that have occurred over these 80 years, and to remember the people who touched and changed my life.  I have two goals (1) to replay my life and define critical moments and insights and (2) to share memories with my family and my (mostly unborn) descendants. Many of my earliest memories are like old black and white movies, and these I relate as I see them..     

THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM

            I am lying on my back in the grass, and a heavy weight is bearing down on my chest, holding me.  I am screaming and crying, and kicking and beating my arms against the ground.  Above me is the long and narrow face of a dog, its red tongue lolls out between long white teeth, and drips saliva in my face.  The animal’s two front paws are placed firmly in my chest, and it’s blood shot brown eyes stare directly into my blue ones.  It’s fur is long and reddish, and the dangling ears are flecked with sandspurs and burrs.  The animal is barking at the top of her lungs, and the sound is frightening in my ears. 

            I’m not sure what impulse drove me, but I stopped pounding the ground and with both of my hands I hit the dog right in the muzzle. The barking ceased suddenly and the pressure on my chest was relieved as the startled dog jumped back.  At that moment, I heard my father shout, but I couldn’t understand or was too angry to listen. 

 I leaped up from the ground, and began to run toward my objective.  I wanted to reach my Uncle Andrew and Aunt Elizabeth (aka Uncle Ander and Aunt Lizzie) Adams’ house.  The problem was that their house stood across State Highway 84 from my house. As I ran toward the road, as fast as my short, plump legs would pump, the big red dog came at me again, knocking me down with the full force of her broad chest.  She stood over my body again, this time alternatively barking and whining, while looking back and forth from me to my approaching father.

My Daddy laid his rifle down, and gathered me up in his arms as I continued to scream and kick.  He tried to calm me, while alternatively to petting and praising the dog.  He would pat me and then he would pat the big Irish Setter who sat proudly at his feet, still hassling from her exertions.

I don’t actually remember the rest, but have heard Daddy tell the story many times.  Daddy had heard my cries, and seen the dog apparently attacking me.  He had grabbed his rifle, and taken bead on the dog, just as I managed to stand up.  He couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting me.  As I ran and was knocked down again, Daddy realized that the gentle animal was not attacking me, but preventing me from running onto the busy highway.   When Daddy told the story, the moral was always clear, “things are not always what they appear at first glance.  Sometimes wisdom demands we assess more carefully before acting, especially when our actions can never be reversed.”