From Uncle Vellanoff’s Journal 

    Recently I had some time to get back into my Uncle Vellanoff’s journal. Much of it has to do with his day-to-day life, but occasionally he ran into some interesting situations. 
    The following is one entry.

    In our travels, we ran into lots of interesting people. Most of them were, and probably still are, very nice. One such case was in Dixon City, Louisiana. 
    The troupe was playing the Majestic Bayou Theater. It was a three-week engagement. We did shows Friday nights, a matinee and an evening show on both Saturdays and Sundays. We had most of the week to ourselves, except for some rehearsals and the time we spent developing new routines, which wasn’t that much.
    We found the Louisiana people warm, friendly, and easy to know. Besides, they seemed to like our show and packed the theater for every performance. 
    The first week we assumed the crowds attended because of our outstanding shows. But then we noticed that at every show there were quite a number of ‘amen’s’ shouted out, with an occasional ‘praise the Lord’ and a frequent ‘glory be’. 
    This puzzled us because very little of our material would normally elicit what you’d normally think of as a religious response. But we finally put that all together with the fact that on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings the theater was home to a home-town evangelist and his entourage. We concluded that some of our attendees thought they were there to see The Reverend Joe Bob Block. 
    Once we figured that out, we just had to attend to see what kind of show The Rev, as everyone called him, was putting on. One thing that piqued our curiosity was the fact that some people couldn’t seem to tell the difference between our and the Rev’s material.
    You might be wondering where someone who’s English is their second language came up with a word like ‘piqued’. Well, it so happens that we have an ex-English teacher traveling with us. She has a beautiful voice and does a great job singing in several of our routines. Anyway, every morning she gives me two new words that I’m supposed to use during the day.
    Several of us went to see The Rev, including my friends George, Harry, and his wife Pamela. 
    The evangelistic meeting turned out to be a great production. The Rev had a large choir, dressed in their purple robes with gold trim and those white scarf things that hang around the neck and come down over the singer’s chest. I don’t know what purpose they serve, but no good choir can seem to get by without them. 
    Beside the choir, a barbershop quartet, and a couple soloists, he has a small orchestra for back up. He also has a piano player who’s as good as any we’d heard. He can wind up a hymn to where the people are jiving in the aisles. 
    The Rev was dressed in a linen suit that was so white it almost hurt my eyes to look at him. He is about six foot four inches tall and has an athletic build. The ladies in the troupe agree that with his black hair and somewhat dark complexion, he is more than good looking. 
    Later we were to find out that he had played high school football for the Dixon City Panthers as their quarterback and his senior year they went on to win the state championship. After that, he went on to the University of Louisiana where in his junior and senior years he was quarterback of the Ragin’ Cajuns. Anyway, he was an imposing looking guy who had a charismatic way about him. 
    The whole program went off as slick as any commercial production we’d ever been involved in or seen. He wound up his congregation until they were hooting and hollering. ‘Amens’ and other shouts of religious exultation were coming from every corner of the theater. 
    I had just whispered to Pamela that The Rev should work in some miracles when several people who were on crutches went forward. When he laid hands on them, they seemed to be instantly healed. 
    One of the cripples came forward on crutches. The stairs leading up to the stage seemed to present a particular problem for him. Up to this point he had only been putting weight on his right foot. 
    Upon finally reaching the top step he stumbled and fell. The Rev’s assistants helped him up and he pressed on across the stage. The congregation rewarded his courage and determination with a round of applause. 
    On his journey across the stage we noticed he was putting weight only on his left foot. That’s the problem with hired help, some of them can’t keep straight which leg needs healing. 
    At least one other healing seemed blatantly staged, but who were we to know a miracle from a well-staged fake. However, we did know a good show when we saw one, and this one was great. 
    And then there was the blind man with a seeing-eye dog. The Rev gave the man a smack on his forehead while yelling, “Be healed!”
    The dog took exception to this cavalier treatment of his master, so with a lunge latched on to the closest person available, who was one of the The Rev’s helpers. This personage let out a yell and tried to kick the dog which wasn’t having any of it, and letting go of the helper’s arm, tore off one of the helper’s pants legs. 
     The blind man could now see, so he grabbed his dog’s harness and yelled, “Rex, heel!” Since the dog’s name was Oscar, this command had very little effect. A helper grabbed the dog and the healed blind man, and eased them both off the stage. 
    The bitten-one-legged-pants guy, who would rather have tried another kick-the-dog attempt, was hustled off the stage as well.
    All in all, these slight glitches fit into the overall program as seamlessly as if they had been scripted. 
    For those of us who weren’t caught up in the throes of religious ecstasy, it proved quite entertaining. 
    And let’s not forget the money. A good part of his short sermon was devoted to the financial requirements of his ministry. He pointed out the cost of all the humanitarian endeavors his group was involved in and the great need for cash to keep it all running smoothly. 
    He had several stories of how people who had made sizable sacrificial donations had been blessed so that their net worth was now many times what it had been before making their donation. 
    It was a blatant get-rich-quick pitch if we’d ever heard one, but done in good taste. It seemed to be effective, because as the deacons were passing the collection plates, people were putting in fistfuls of cash. 
     As we were leaving the theater, The Rev was greeting his congregation at the main door. I was the first of our troupe to leave. The Rev shook my hand and said, “Vellanoff Spady, I appreciate your being here this evening, and I must say, I really enjoyed the show you folks put on the other evening.” The fact that he knew and/or remembered my name impressed me. Beside being somewhat of a charlatan he was also a charmer. 
    He then introduced me to the woman who was standing by his side. “Mary Jane, this is Vellanoff Spady, and this is my wife, Mary Jane. Mr. Spady is part of the troupe that we saw in the show here Sunday evening.” 
     Mary Jane said, “Yes, I recognize him. Mr. Spady, it’s so nice to meet you, and I must say, watching your show almost made me wet my panties.” 
    Her language, especially coming from a preacher’s wife took us back a step, but as we got to know her better, we sort of got used to it. 
    Her accent was not Louisianan. When I asked, she explained that she had grown up in Kentucky, and the accent and vocabulary sort of stuck, even after she came out of the hills and hollers to get a master’s degree in business, and also her CPA. 
    Mary Jane, who was a tall, red-haired beauty, later explained to us that with her business acumen and her husband’s ability to “Talk a ‘coon out of a pine tree,” as she put it, they had done rather well. I asked her, “By ‘coon, you of course mean a raccoon?” 
    She blushed and said, “Well, sure, why not?” 
    I’m sort of getting ahead of myself here. As we were standing in the lobby of the theater, Mary Jane looked at her husband and getting a nod from him (evidently they communicated some agreement between them), she said, “Folks, we’d like to invite y’all to our place for lunch tomorrow. You don’t have a show and we don’t have a sh - - - I mean a service, and we’d really like to spend more time with y’all. 
    We told her we’d love to be there. Only four of us were able to accept her invitation.
    The next day a limousine picked us up and took us a couple miles out of town. We ended up at this rather modest mansion which was sitting among some very nice gardens, including a scattering of pine and cypress trees. The whole thing was nestled right up against the swamp. We later learned from Joe Bob that the locals called it a ‘bayou’. When I asked about the word, Mary Jane explained that its origin was Choctaw Indian and meant ‘small stream.’ Why they would call a swamp a small stream was beyond me. 
    Their home was larger than most but not nearly as ostentatious as we had expected from the look of these folks and their entourage at the service the previous evening. 
    On the way from the car to the front porch, we noticed a alligator on the front lawn, evidently taking a nap. 
    They met us at the front door, both dressed in blue jeans and simple shirts. They ushered us into their home and treated us like one of the family. It was comfortable and we felt right at home. 
    When we asked our hosts about the alligator they said, “Oh, that’s Elvis. He sort of hangs around and is pretty much harmless, unless he gets especially hungry. 
    I mentioned I’d like a closer look. Joe Bob jumped up and said, “Come on,” and we went outside. As we got close to Elvis he raised his head, let out a hiss, and started whipping his head back and forth. Joe Bob called out, “Now, Elvis, you behave yourself. Vellanoff just wants to get a closer look at you.” 
    For some reason Elvis wasn’t impressed, and continued his antisocial behavior. 
    And that’s when the plan was hatched to take us out into the bayou to show us some real wildlife, and as Joe Bob added, “Besides, we’re short on ‘gator.” 
    At the time I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, “Short on ‘gator?” What could that mean? 
    At lunch I learned. Mary Jane was explaining some of the dishes on the table that she seemed sure we were ignorant of, and she was right. 
    Most had an explanation that matched our expectations, but then she added, “That deep-fried ‘chicken’ y’all have tucked into with such gusto, is actually ‘gator. Pretty tasty isn’t it?” 
    I was in the middle of a bite of the same and managed to keep chewing and swallowing. At least long enough to think, and while trying not to picture Elvis, She’s right, this is actually pretty good, and it does taste like chicken. 
    On the other hand, my friend George, who was also in the middle of a bite, coughed his mouthful across the table and was trying to whip any residue off his lips with his napkin. He was embarrassed at his reaction, but Mary Jane assured him it was alright and that it was not the first time she had seen someone do the exact same thing. She also apologized for not having forewarned us before letting us dive into the ‘chicken’. 
    The next day was Friday. The four of us didn’t need to be at the theater until five in the afternoon, so agreed, and in fact looked forward to, a boat trip into the bayou. Later we agreed that we had been like naïve little kids, being conned with a trip to the zoo, but with a stop at the dentist’s first. 
     The Rev’s limousine picked up George, Harry, Pamela, and me around eight in the morning. We ended up back at the Block’s mansion and specifically at their dock, where we met Joe Bob and Mary Jane. They had loaded some food and water into the boat and were in the process of loading a rifle, a shotgun, and two handguns as well. 
    The first thing Joe Bob asked was “Have you ever done any hunting, and if not actual hunting, have you done any shooting?” 
    George had done some hunting with his dad as a kid. Harry had never used a gun and didn’t intend to start now, but his wife had grown up in Wyoming and out there they would shoot anything that moved, so she was familiar with guns. 
    I had been in the Russian army before having to—ah—immigrate to the U.S. (a somewhat interesting story, I guess I should put it in this journal at some point), and had scored well in the battalion’s shooting contests.
    Anyway, a little puzzled at the gun question, but again naively, we climbed in the boat and with the help of an Evinrude motor went putting out into the bayou. Both Joe Bob and Mary Jane pointed out all the things they thought would interest us, and they were right. From birds, animals, and strange trees, to floating islands, it was all new and interesting. This bayou had a certain beauty to it. 
    After a couple hours we spotted a ‘gator on the shore and Joe Bob said, “That looks like a good one, Vellanoff, you want to do the honors?” reaching for a rifle. 
   It dawned on me that he was offering me the opportunity to shoot this poor ‘gator, which wasn’t doing anything to us, but maybe only because we hadn’t given it the opportunity.
    Feeling a little sick to my stomach, I said, “Sure,” and reached for the gun. Joe Bob said, “I understand that you have to hit it in the back of the head, and from about this angle. I think. The kill spot is about the size of a quarter.” 
   Mary Jane asked her husband, “You’re really going to kill that ‘gator and then take it home for us to do what, pray tell?” 
   “Why, we’re about to get some free ‘gator tenderloin here. And we won’t have to buy it off that skuzzy swamp hunter who comes around at night selling ‘gator meat out of the back of his van.” 
    “And, Honey, you’re asking our guests to help us? Just maybe they don’t want any part of this.” 
    We ‘guests’ all jumped in, acting like we had been hoping for an opportunity like this all our lives. 
    Then I got back to thinking about what I was being asked to do, and blurted out, “Joe Bob, have you ever done this before, I mean, hunted and killed an alligator?” 
   “Well no, but I’ve listened to hunters tell about doing it. What could possibly go wrong?” I looked at Joe Bob and asked, “Are you kidding? From here that’s a very hard shot. And what if I just wound the thing?” “Well,” said Joe Bob, “a wounded gator is nothing you want in the neighborhood. In fact, they’re just plain dangerous.” 
   So I thought, Well, when are you ever going to have another opportunity to shoot a gator?
   I asked everyone in the boat to please sit down and stay as still as possible, which they did. I picked out the spot I thought Joe Bob was talking about and fired. We could see that the bullet had hit the ‘gator, but had no idea of the damage. We sat there for a few minutes watching, and not seeing any motion, we motored to, and landed beside the ‘gator. 
   We approached cautiously, afraid it might come back to life and attack us. 
   Joe Bob pulled some tools out of the boat, then after walking around the ‘gator several times, announced, “We need to roll it over onto its back.” 
    I asked, “Do we know it’s dead?” 
    George suggested we take its pulse, or listen for a heartbeat, but none of us wanted to get that personal with this thing. 
    So Joe Bob grabbed a front leg and I grabbed a back leg on the same side and we started to roll it over. 
    That’s when things started to go sideways.
    The ‘gator let out what sounded like a loud cough, then easily and quickly jerked free of our grasp. It didn’t have to jerk very hard, because when we heard that sound coming from the ‘gator we jumped back, and moved away from the beast as fast as we could move. 
    Once it had all four feet on the ground, it slowly moved around to face us. It was hissing, snapping its jaws open and shut, and whipping its tail back and forth. This appeared to be one angry ‘gator. However, its movements were sort of sluggish. 
    Pamela and Mary Jane scrambled into the boat. 
    The gator was not moving toward the water. Neither was it moving toward us.   
    Joe Bob yelled, “We need to cover its eyes and get some rope around its jaws.” 
    I yelled back, “Good idea; go for it, Rev!” 
    With the tension and the high level of adrenalin we were all experiencing, everyone seemed to find this comment funny, and we all started laughing---hard. 
   Once we settled down, we got to work, trying to constrain this ‘gator; so, I guessed, we could still kill the thing. I grabbed up some sacking and approached the ‘gator’s head which was being whipped back and forth. It was still not trying to run away. I got an idea and circled around, coming up along its other side. The ‘gator made no move to turn toward me. 
    Joe Bob saw what I was doing and approached from the rear, coming up along the ‘gators other side, until he was alongside its neck, then slipped his rope loop over its jaws. 
    Harry, for some reason we still don’t understand yelled out, “I’ll get its tail.”
    Pamela took exception to this and yelled, “Harry, leave that thing alone!” 
    But it was too late. Harry had thrown himself astraddle the ‘gators tail thinking to do what, we didn’t know. The ‘gator was having none of it, and with one swing of its tail sent Harry sailing into the bayou. Other than getting wet and covered with green slime of some sort, he seemed to be okay. The next day his thighs were so sore he could hardly walk, or sit, but that passed soon enough. 
    Pamela was out of the boat and helping Harry to shore while yelling, “Are you okay? Here let me help you get out of the water. And why,” smacking him on the shoulder, “would you do something as stupid as sitting on a ‘gator’s tail?” 
    During this excitement, I managed to get the cloth over the ‘gators eyes, which calmed him down. Joe Bob tightened the loop over the ‘gator jaws. That’s when we realized that the gator was absolutely still, no movement at all.   
    We waited a couple minutes, and then I whipped off the eye covering. The ‘gators eyes had a dull look to them and we could see no evidence that he was breathing. We tried poking him, with no result. We tried kicking him, with no result. I grabbed the end of his tail and pulled it back and forth, with no result. 
    We pronounced him dead. Upon examination, we did find a bullet hole in the back of its head, and guessed that my bullet had hit the sweet spot, but only maybe nicked his brain, therefore taking longer for him to die. Anyway, that was the conclusion from two rank amateurs. Hopefully, the ‘gator wouldn’t wake up and prove us wrong. If so we would be in big trouble. 
    Then came the need to skin and butcher the reptile; I’d never butchered anything. It was plain that George and Harry were going to be lucky just to keep their breakfast down. Now Pamela had shot, skinned out, and cut up elk, antelope, and bear, so she knew more than any of us how to go about this. 
    Mary Jane admitted she was not fond of this part, so she kept George and Harry occupied while Joe Bob, Pamela, and I skinned out the ‘gator, cut off a section of its tail, and the upper parts of each leg, along with a few other cuts of what Joe Bob claimed to be, “Good eaten.” 
    We had another surprise waiting for us. After we were loaded up and ready to leave, the boat’s motor refused to start. After much effort and some very un-Rev type language, he announced that we might as well start rowing the boat toward home. 
    Each of us four guys took turns at the oars. Now the temperature was in the low 90s and the humidity was higher than that. Rowing was hard work, and since three of us were new at it, there was a certain amount of swamp water splashed around. Along with being wet from sweat, we were wet with water that came with green slime. 
    We each ate lunch while one of the others rowed--except for George. At the mention of food, he turned a lovely shade of green that pretty much matched the swamp slime, and thought he’d better abstain. 
    By the time we got to the Block’s dock we were all sweaty, had blistered hands, and were just plain dirty and smelly. 
    We rushed into the theater, all out of breath, about five minutes after we were supposed to be there. The director looked at us in dismay. His mouth hung open and he was speechless---for about a minute. When he finally found his voice, he yelled at us, “What have you people been doing?” Then looking us up down while wrinkling his nose, he started to laugh, and the whole troupe joined in. 
    It made us feel warm all over (well, sort of), to think we could bring this much enjoyment to these people. 
    We got ourselves cleaned up and joined our fellow thespians in putting on our evening show.