Slidel, Lousiana, many years ago.
Even though Dad had this fancy secret NASA contract working out of the local Chrysler plant, we were forever broke. The six of us squeezed into a small house on stilts in a swamp on the far eastern side of town.
Half the year, the only way to leave the swamp was by airboat. We were isolated and remote. Only Dad left for work. Momma, my brothers, sister, and I stayed and went a little stir-crazy.
I remember him with distinct clarity, a little Creole boy who lived close by somewhere in the woods with his family. He was my age, about 5, as dark as I was light. He was my primary playmate and pal. I was the youngest in my family, quiet and shy. Alphé was a whirl of activity, headstrong but kind and gentle. Because I spent so much time with him, I sounded more Creole than my own family’s odd mixture of German and Italian ...
