I was born in the small Northeast Louisiana town of Bastrop, Louisiana – tucked in the upper Northeastern region of Louisiana, north of Monroe, Louisiana. My father, A.B. Whitley, was an accountant for International Paper Company, who had a paper mill in Bastrop. Daddy was young and just two years removed from a 2-year degree in accounting from a small business college in Lake Charles, Louisiana, an education he commenced after getting out of the U.S. Navy at the end of World War II. Yes, as you’ve already likely concluded, I’m officially labeled a “Baby Boomer,” — a dying breed that now makes up only 12.5% of the U.S. population at the time of this writing.
Mom and Dad grew up in the small West Louisiana town of Anacoco, Louisiana. Both of their fathers were “truck farmers,” Papa Whitley with a small 10-acre farm and Papa Brown is a small 32-acre farm. Mom was 19 and Dad was 20 when they got married. It must have been a wild honeymoon because I was born 8 1/2 months from their wedding date.
Dad’s first big promotion called for a six-month temporary assignment in Atlanta, Georgia to train for his new job in accounting. When Dad had to relocate to Atlanta, Mom, my younger sister Pam, and I moved from Northeast Louisiana to Anacoco to live with her mother and father (Papa and Granny Brown) so that Mom would have some assistance in raising and taking care of me and Pam while Dad worked in Atlanta. I was 2 years old and Pam was a baby.
When Dad completed his training and made the long drive from Atlanta, Georgia to Louisiana he had a horrific car wreck about 55 miles from Anacoco. Another car came over a hill in my Dad’s lane and hit him head on. He was laid up in a hospital for some time with leg and knee injuries. Once he recuperated we relocated to Kansas City, Missouri, where Dad would start his next big assignment with the paper company.
We lived in Kansas City for just over 2 years, when Dad had yet another big accident. Like me (or me like him), he loved to tell jokes. During a lunch break he walked from his office, through the company warehouse and out onto the loading dock to take a smoke. Several loading dock and warehouse employees were on the dock. Daddy got to telling the guys his latest job, became animated acting out the story in his job, and accidentally fell off the loading dock, and landing on his head and upper shoulders, hitting the concrete payment six-feet below.
The horrible accident caused a concussion and led to epileptic seizures. In those days (1952) their were very few drugs that doctors had the liberty to prescribe. Phenobarbital, a barbiturate, was used often to treat a number of ailments then, particularly epileptic seizures. Dad was not only embarrassed by the seizures, he was extremely distraught, despite the doctors insistence that he felt the seizures would go a way in six months time. Daddy was always paranoid about dying early and in many ways was a scaredy cat. With each new seizure he became increasingly convinced that he was going to die within months.
Our time in Kansas City, about two years, culminated quickly, with Dad becoming so paranoid about death that he decided to move the entire family back to their small home town in Anacoco, Louisiana — stating, “If I’m going to die I want to die back home. I don’t want to die here and leave you and the kids here by yourself.” Obviously, I have no memory of his decision, it was passed on to me years later by my mother.
What I haven’t shared is that Daddy had just received another promotion, one that would take these transplanted Louisiana rednecks to Kalamazoo, Michigan. Many times throughout my life I’ve wondered if Dad made the decision to move back home because he really feared he was going to die, or if at the young age of 25 he was just homesick and couldn’t bear the thought of having to move even further away from Louisiana. A third, but remote possibility, was that he either had doubts about his ability to perform his new assignment or knew he wasn’t going to like it. Regardless, the move back to Anacoco, a small town of roughly 450 residents at the time, forever changed the direction of all our lives — Dad, Mom, me and Pam.
Ironically, Dad’s epileptic seizures stopped completed about six months after the accident, long after we had made our move back to Anacoco. Daddy lived for 60 more years, dying of kidney failure in 2013. There was not much he Dad did not enjoy about living in Anacoco all those years. It was home, and the only home he ever wanted.
Pam and I lived in Anacoco until we graduated from high school and called it home until we graduated from college. Now we both live in Houston, having moved here many years ago to pursue our careers. And although I’m a happy Texan and have considered Texas my home for over half my life, I will always cherish my Anacoco roots and wouldn’t trade my childhood in Anacoco for anything in the world. Growing up on my grandfather’s farm was magical in so many ways. I look forward to sharing those stories with you very soon.