By Jack M. Willis
Journal Correspondent

One of my favorite pastimes is collecting old "sayings", like "if the rain comes down before seven, it'll go up by eleven". This refers to the sage observation that if a shower or thunderstorm begins before seven in the morning it'll usually be over by eleven that same day.

None of these "hand-me-down" perceptions are infallible, but are generally true more times than not. The veracity of one of the most profound statements I ever heard was brought to my attention in the mid-sixties when I was introduced to another sagacious utterance that "it always rains around the Fourth of July!" This revelation came from a former member of the Gaar's Mill community, which was not too distant from my great-grandfather's old "stomping grounds."

Back on June 6th of 1967 the toll of about 35 years of smoking had finally taken its toll on my father, who was a patient in Baptist Hospital in Alexandria, Louisiana, where he had experienced exploratory surgery to no avail--they had essentially cut him open, declared him incurable, and sewed him back up.

While he was regaining the strength needed to go home to spend his last days, my older brother and I were taking turns "setting up" with him at night, even though we had a round-the-clock nursing staff in attendance. And as it turned out for me, it became a wonderful time of sharing--he and I got in several hours of visitation we wouldn't have had otherwise.

When maintaining my vigil, I could make it fairly well until about four o'clock in the morning, but then I would get so sleepy I would have to get up, exit the room and walk up and down the hall of the hospital to wake up.

It was during one of these processionals that I made the acquaintance of a Security Guard making his rounds. I would sit down on a sofa in the hall with him for a visit every other morning. He would usually bless me with a much-appreciated cup of coffee from the Nurse's Station, and in the process we got to chitchatting and almost "drug up kinfolks".

I came to find out he was raised in Jackson Parish on a two-mule farm in the Gaar's Mill community, about 15 miles as the crow flies from where my dad was reared also--where they both had experienced the typical striving-to-make-ends-meet drudgery that a lot of Great Depression youngsters were faced with.

As we sat there one early morning, with the Fourth of July weekend coming up, he got to laughing and telling of a stunt his father would play on him and his brothers every year on this particular national holiday. He recounted that every year about a week before the Fourth, his dad would gather him and his brothers up at the water barrel one morning to make his annual declaration--which everyone knew by heart since it was a repetition of the same speech he made every year--but they always fell for it anyhow. "Boys," the father intoned, "this corn is ready to be hoed, laid by with nitrate of soda, and plowed out, and if y'all can get all that done by the evening of the third, we'll take the next day off and have a big fish fry down on Big Caney Creek on the Fourth of July."

With that exhilarating promise ringing in their ears, the boys took to the hoeing, nitrate of soda dispensing and plowing from "can 'til can't", stayed wet to their knees from sweating. The now-older Security Guard declared that he was so tired every evening at dark-thirty that he didn't know whether to come hither, or go yonder.

They finished the corn "lay-by" chores late on the evening of the Third and headed off to round up some pine knot torches to use for illumination while they put out their set hook poles in Big Caney Creek.

Before good light the next morning they ran down to the creek to witness that just about every set pole was bobbing up and down indicating a good-sized catfish was on the line. They jerked the hide off the freshly caught fish, got them cut up into frying size pieces, loaded up all the supplies like bowls of potato salad, fish grease, hushpuppy mix, fry pans, banana puddings, pies and cakes into a wagon and the boys and the womenfolk headed out.

By the time the men got ready to start cooking the fires were built up and the cooks were waiting for the first kitchen match to ignite, indicating the grease was hot enough to receive the first of the corn meal-encased fish fillets.

The Security Guard went on to say that right on cue, this was just about this time they would always hear the first ominous roll of thunder, and in about 10 to 15 minutes the heavens would open up, and they always ended up with rainwater in the fish grease. The kids would huddle under the wagon striving to stay dry while the grownups frantically rushed around gathering up all the supplies for the sodden trip back home to a meal of cold fried chicken and soggy potato salad.

The old Security Guard drained the last drop of coffee from his styrene cup, stood up and said, "Well, I gotta go." He realigned his police hat on his gray mantled head, shifted his gun belt to a more comfortable position on his hips, cleared his throat and said, "Son, always remember one thing--it always rains around the Fourth of July!"

With the utterance of that final profound statement he strode purposefully off down the hall to finish his duly appointed rounds.

I took that statement to heart and for close to 40 years I've monitored the weather around the Fourth of July, and I've never, ever, seen the aged forecaster's pronouncement fail to come to pass. You can take it to the bank, that within two or three days of, or on, the Fourth of July the good folks in North Central Louisiana will receive some meaningful rainfall.

Back