In the newspaper business, you meet interesting people. That's been said many times. If you were around Ruston or Jennings, Louisiana in the 1960s or 70s, you might have met Charlie LeBlanc. You'd have to call him interesting.

What made Charlie interesting? Well, let's see if I can describe it. Think Cpl. Klinger, of the M*A*S*H TV series, and you've got a rough physical approximation, plus something of a personality match. When I knew him, Charlie LeBlanc was middle twenties, I'd guess. Medium height, trim. An already receding head of dark, curly hair and a heavy dark beard that outgrew a shave pretty fast. South Louisiana French, of course, and committed to maintaining the cultural heritage of laissez les bon temps rouler, or however that goes. Charlie enjoyed a cold brew on a warm day, but I never saw him overdone nor out of bounds. It was the look in his dark, darting eyes and his lopsided grin that made you suspect sometimes that the yarn he was telling had spun beyond his control and he was dancing as fast as he could to keep up with his outrageous imagination. No one, including Charlie, could guess how the story would end. Especially when the arms started waving.

Charlie was a printer, operating the big offset newspaper press with his "straight man" Robert Moore. Robert worked the process darkroom, shooting film of the newspaper pages, then worked around into the press room with Charlie. Together they stripped up the pages, made the offset plates, and did the "make-ready" to get the big Color King press run launched. Robert was a little younger, but not much, than Charlie; two more different personalities you could not imagine, but they got on well together. Robert was tall, long-legged, blondish, and with his horn-rimmed glasses had the appearance that today would be called "nerdy." He moved quietly, efficiently, and quickly. His idea of an involved conversation was something like, "Yep. OK." I seem to remember that he took classes in business at Louisiana Tech; I haven't seen him in years, but he's probably CEO of some high-tech corporation in Dallas by now. While Charlie and Robert were thus employed, it happened that Charles Tannehill, a longtime friend and associate, sold his weekly newspaper in Oakdale, Louisiana, and returned to Ruston to become managing editor of the local daily. He moved with his wife and two young daughters, Charlotte and Lea Evelyn, upon whom he doted to the extent that he had had built for them in Oakdale a "playhouse," large enough to contain real make-believe furnished rooms for all the games little girls play. The playhouse was situated out of doors, and was large enough that it could no way be transported by the moving van as household furniture.

Another player in the Ruston game was Elbe Richard, the production superintendent and Head-Cajun-in-Residence. Among his possessions was a bob-tail flatbed truck with a set of gin poles and winch, which served a variety of purposes for Elbe and his extended family of mechanically-minded sons and sidekicks - one of whom was the aforementioned Charlie LeBlanc.

Of course, you know how it went: Charlie volunteered to drive Elbe's winch truck to Oakdale, load up and bring the playhouse home to Ruston. He enlisted Robert to go along, and Elbe was agreeable. Tannehill, cautious but grateful for the assist in getting the playhouse transported, gave thorough instructions: Load it carefully; secure it well; drive carefully. Robert, the steady one, was named driver, and they left early on a Saturday morning for the two-and-a-half hour drive from Ruston to Oakdale.

In due course, Charlie and Robert made it back to Ruston, late in the day Saturday, with the bulky playhouse riding high on the bed of the winch truck. If memory serves, the house was probably eight by eight, six or seven feet high, with a pitched roof, windows, a door, and dolled up with style. The boys parked the truck in the yard at Tannehill's home and left it to be unloaded in the daylight later.

The next afternoon, Charlie and Robert went over to put the house in place on the ground, with Tannehill assisting and supervising. Tannehill began to untie the binding rope, which he discovered was wrapped round and round the house in every direction. As he unraveled the rope, he noticed that it simply ended; it did not appear to be tied to anything except itself. Puzzled, he asked Charlie if the house had been secured for the drive from Oakdale.

"Yeah, yeah," Charlie answered, eyes beginning to dart. "Sure, we had it tied down."

"What was it tied to?" Tannehill persisted. He was that kind of newspaper man: Always kept asking for a straight answer.

(Without interrupting the story and spoiling the punch line, I must admit that through the years, I have awakened many a dark night and become nearly hysterical laughing, as I visualize a scene from the Rapture, as it might have appeared to Robert Moore, driving unaware.)

Arms waving, eyes darting, Charlie finally answered, defiantly. "Through the window. Tied around my leg!"

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