THE LIFE AND TIMES OF AN INSURANCE AGENT

WITH A DEBIT ROUTE

IN THE DEEP SOUTH, 1980’s

By Jo D. Honeycutt

You have really missed a lot, more than I can tell you, especially getting to know the common people–the salt of the earth– if you have not run a debit route in the rural and small towns in the south. I live just outside Natchitoches, Louisiana, and at one time or another have run debits that went from Black Lake, Winnfield, Cloutierville, Provencal and its outlying roads, Robeline and local roads, Marthaville and all roads between those two towns; up to Noble and Converse, out to Toledo Bend Lake and all its various roads; Many, down to Florien, Fisher, down as far as the Devil’s Branch Road out from Negreet.1 have gone up highway one as far as Lake End, and over to Jordan’s Ferry. Around Natchitoches I went to Town South, East Natchitoches, The Square, Breda Town, Payne subdivision, Bailey Hights; and Oak Grove. I really put some miles on my cars! I know there are people who would immediately buy a small car to get good gas mileage; I knew I had to sit in said car for miles on end, and I wanted comfort. I began my route with a ‘79 Thunderbird. Now that was a car! It sure had a great stereo system. I made my own cassette tapes and listened to the best music in the world every day. Next I had an 83 Crown Victoria Ford. That car rode like a Cadillac. I put 300,000 miles on it! Then I got an ‘85 Crown Vic and put 250,000 on it. I can tell you every alley way and pig trail in Natchitoches, and every back road and cattle trail in Natchitoches, Sabine, Winn Parishes. I began working as a debit agent for the National Life and Accident Insurance Company, with its Alexandria office. , At the time it still owned WSM and the Grand Ole Opry. We were noted for always giving out calendars in January and packets of good needles every month. People knew us by the needles. Back then they were prized. I mean, who ever goes to a store to buy a needle?

One of my first funny experiences (and there would be many more) involved a young college graduate with a business degree who was hired to be a staff manager, even though he was only 23 years old. He was a man with a plan. He fully intended to be a millionaire by the time he was 36. That was his schedule. (I was in my late thirties, and my degree was in social studies, which didn’t count for much). He came up from the Alexandria office one cold winter day, determined to help me write some new business. We left

Natchitoches on highway six west , and it was freezing outside. We went up a hill to see some people I knew and I thought might buy some insurance. The house was up on piers, and the wind was blowing like a blizzard. (yes, it does get really cold in northwest Louisiana!) the lady of the house let us in and said come on in the kitchen where it’s warm. We sat down at the kitchen table and Ken put his insurance books on it. Some men were working at the sink, with one man outside working–we could see through the window. The lady said her pipes were frozen, and they were working to get them thawed out. She then asked if we wanted some coffee, and Ken said “sure! I’m about frozen too. (he was a city slicker!) She brought him a cup and looked at me, and I said, “no, I don’t drink coffee”. She poured herself a cup and sat down to listen to his insurance spell. Ken took a big drink, then another. He said “this coffee sure is good!” She said “I’m glad you like it; the pipes were froze so I had to get the water out of the back of the commode.!” Ken spewed the coffee out so fast— it went all over the table and his papers. The lady laughed and laughed, and kept telling him it was okay. He made his excuses and got up to leave. When we got back in the car, he said “If you tell this at the office, I’ll fire you! ” I laughed and laughed until I had to wipe my eyes. I said “all I can say is 1 am sure glad I don’t drink coffee!”

Next month ‘Memories: Trouble on the Insurance Debit Route -  Bad Times’

The Yankee Character

by Terry Isbell

In the early 1800’s, a popular comic character on the stages of New York and London, was the ‘Yankee’.  Often some sort of trader or a peddler, the Yankee was an exaggeration of the country bumpkin come to town.  The Yankee, almost always named ‘Jonathan’ or ‘Joshua’, was usually dressed as a frontiersman, but with an item or two of ‘dress up’, usually a hat or waistcoat.

            The Yankee speech was an exaggeration of the New England twang, filled with country sayings emphasizing stereotypical New England virtues – particularly thrift.  The Yankee was almost always portrayed as a skinflint, and usually, as in Mr. Mathews’ play, he’s a skinflint who gets suckered in a deal by a shrewd city Yankee.

            The Yankee character thrived on stage from the 1820’s through the 1850’s.  For some reason, he was particularly popular in England. 

The character probably would have continued in popularity, but in the early 1850’s the public became fascinated by a different sort of country bumpkin.  Instead of a northern rural white rube, theater goers flocked to see white men playing southern black rustics.  The minstrels became wildly popular on stages across Europe and America, and the comic Yankee became a footnote in theater history.

The Infamous Henry Methvin

By Terry Isbell

Clyde Barrow with Henry Methvin

I’m always amazed at how interconnected north Louisiana lives and stories are.  When researching our cover story on the shooting of May Elvin Allen, we found that her boyfriend of the time, Percy Methvin, was related to Henry Methvin, one of the last of the famous Barrow gang.  Even more interesting, it was Henry’s parents who helped set up the ambush that led to Bonnie and Clyde’s death.

            As the story goes, Henry had become a member of the gang fairly late in their crime spree.  In 1934, Clyde Barrow broke his friend Raymond Hamilton out of a Texas prison farm in Waldo, Texas.  Several other prisoners were also freed in the famous ‘Eastham Breakout’, including Henry Methvin.  The recent movie, ‘Public Enemies’ fictionalized the breakout and that movie switched the gang from the Clyde Barrow gang to John Dillinger’s gang, but the results were similar.  The shooting of a prison guard during the break led to an all out manhunt for the gang, which now included Henry Methvin.

            Henry proved to be an enthusiastic gang member.  He willingly participated in several brutal robberies and later admitted to killing an Oklahoma motorcycle policeman the gang had taken hostage.

            On the run and nursing various injuries (particularly Bonnie’s badly burned leg, the result of an earlier car accident), the gang decided to stay with Methvin’s family in an old farmhouse in north Louisiana.  While the gang trusted Methvin, they were less trusting of his family.  Clyde had reportedly told Methvin’s parents, Ivy (Ivan) and Avie that he would kill them and Henry if they caused him any trouble with the law.

            The couple became increasingly scared of Clyde and, concerned that the law was closing in, they decided to cooperate in exchange for a leniency for Henry.  As all our readers know, this cooperation would result in the violent death of Bonnie and Clyde in an ambush just south of Arcadia, Louisiana.

            The Texas and Oklahoma lawmen kept their promise to the Methvins and Henry was not charged with death penalty offenses in either state.  However, Oklahoma had not agreed to the deal, and he was extradited to stand trial.  In 1935, Henry Methvin was found guilty of murder and sentenced to death.

            On appeal, Henry’s sentence was reduced to life, but he was actually paroled in 1942.  However, prison was not a rehabilitating experience for Henry.  He stayed in and out of trouble, much of it alcohol-fueled, until 1948, when he was hit by a train while passed out on the tracks.

Conspiracy theorists have made much of the fact that Henry’s father, Ivy Methvin, had died as a result of a hit and run driver a year or so before Henry’s death.  Did a relative of Clyde Barrow or Bonnie Parker decide to exact revenge on the family he saw as responsible for the deaths of the famous outlaw pair?  I’m afraid that barring a death-bed confession from what would now be a really old man, we’ll never know the truth behind the death of Henry Methvin, the last member of the Barrow gang.

by Kellie Gandy Haddad

I am somewhat new to this “outdoor stuff”. Don’t’ get me wrong I’m not a “city girl.” I grew up on a farm running barefoot from first warm day of Spring until arrival of the first frost…the soles of my feet had a similar texture as that of shoe leather. But, I grew up in North Louisiana among the rolling hills, verdant green pastures of alfalfa- red clay and gravel roads, stock ponds and pine trees. Nary a nutria or bayou in sight.

Although I had lived in Baton Rouge for more than a decade and dated and subsequently married) the original Mr. Fisherman, I still held a rather benevolent idea of the “outdoors.” We would camp, hike, and take leisurely walks amongst the wild flowers that grew along well marked trails . My idea of fishing was sitting on the banks of a pond or on a wharf with a cane pole and bobber. And I never camped more than 100 yards from a bathroom with running water. But at the ripe old age of 36, I accepted a job as an outdoor writer. My concept of “the outdoors altered with my first assignment.

Within three days on the job, my supervisor asked me to represent the department on a public relations media fishing trip. Flush with the excitement of new employment and an overwhelming desire please, I readily agreed, not exactly sure what I was agreeing to. As my mind was whirling over such climatic decisions such as what to wear I vaguely heard my supervisor utter the words “off-shore” and “charter:”

My mouth dried and my hands became clammy. “Exactly what do you mean by off shore? Like, in a boat?” Duh uh. My patient and benevolent supervisor graciously explained and told me with a slight smile that I would have a wonderful time. Yeah, right. My traitorous brain immediately began forming visions of violent seas, lochness monsters, jaws-size sharks, pirates, sunken ships, impalement with giant fish-hooks run amok and throwing up till you died. Not to mention, really bad sunburns.

I immediately turned to my all-knowing and all-caring husband for advice as to how to deal with the unknown and untold hidden terrors of the deep. Mr. Fisherman was deeply sympathetic and incredibly helpful when confronted with my fears. Or at least he was after be resigned himself to the fact that he could not go with no as a “marine advisor.”

“Don’t worry honey you’ll have a wonderful time, he said with a slight smile. He then regaled me with advice and tips for making the trip a successful one. “Know where the life jackets are…wear plenty of sunscreen…don’t worry they’ll bait your hook…drink plenty of water and…don’t fall in.” {Like he had to tell me that!) For days, my friends would call and ask how the new job was going and had I been given my first assignment. When I would tell them about my upcoming adventure, they would, one and all alike, smile slightly and say, “Oh, You’ll have a wonderful time!” I was beginning to become suspicious that someone wasn’t telling me something.

The days passed quickly with the upcoming fishing trip never far from my thoughts. I thought it was an omen when the tropical storm that was brewing in the Caribbean, became Hurricane Bertha. I casually asked Mr. Fisherman three nights before the big day if the seas might too rough for sailing come Wednesday morning. “No way,” he replied vaguely while watching the replay of a stock car race, “I remember charters going out just days before Hurricane Andrew hit and the fishing was great.” I guess he was under the impression that I was worried more about whether the fish were biting instead of the ship sinking in rough waters. This is from the man who actually believes that I watch basketball, fishing, and car racing because I enjoy the programs and not because I don’t have custody of the remote control!

Now before, you, the wise reader, begin to believe that I am a total weenie girl who doesn’t want to go her hinds dirty and break a nail, you should know that I have one serious flaw …I can’t swim. Oh, I can paddle around in the pool and float on my back if it’s really necessary and I concentrate really hard. But, save myself in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico in water that is rough and at least one million feet deep? No way.. .I’m shark bait.

The big day finally arrived. Mr. Fisherman’s final words (“Be careful and have fun! Oh, by the way, did you pickup any Dramamine?”) rang trough my head as I pulled up to the wharf, literally at daybreak. I knew that it would be too much for me to ask that I know someone on the trip. Not only did I not know anyone, but they were all of the male persuasion and judging from the looks of eager anticipation that lit their faces, I was also the only first-timer. Oh, joy.

All thoughts of my companions fled in screaming panic when I go a look at our sailing vessel. It was larger than our batcau back home, but it was hardly the ocean liner I had expected from Mr. Fisherman’s descriptions! His lack of accurate proportions would definitely be a topic for discussion once (or if) I returned home. With much trepidation and after I had convinced myself that it wasn’t the size of the boat that determined seaworthiness, I climbed aboard with my erstwhile companions. The moment we reached the pass leading out of the bay, I realized that I have made a drastic error and was in serious trouble.

According to Cap’n Bob, our fearless boat captain, a large thunder story had breezed through sometime before sunrise and the waters would be a little “choppy.” If anyone ever describes the water condition as “choppy” as you are about to sail on anything less thatn the QEII run, do not walk, stroll or amble but run to get back on land. I am not going to explanin any further…trust me. By the time we reached the pass, the boat had already done about two belly rolls and crested three of four BIG swells. My stomach was doing th ole churn and roll, and I was furiously concentration on not throwing-up. I figured positive thinking could give the Dramamine an extra boost so it would kick in quicker. Sure.

One old-timer told me to just ride with the waves, shifting my balance with the movement of the boat and soon I would get my “sea legs.” He was a nice old guy and he meant well, so I refrained from screaming at him that I didn’t have any sea legs to get used to. I remember reading somewhere that if you keep your eyes on the horizon, you are less likely to toss your cookies. Actually, this works rather well until you are forced to look down at the deck or the water. Then…well, lets just say you learn not to look at anyone or any thing except the horizon regardless of what is being said to you. (Man overboard or abandon ship being tow things that you should pay attention to.) Think of it as one of those mindless corporate cocktail parties, just smile vacantly, nod your head and say, “Uh-huh, Oh really, You don’t say” occasionally.

Did I mention the aroma that pervaded the boat? This was not just any aroma, this was serious ODOR! Imagine two day old fish guts laying in the sun mixed in with dog breath and pond water. The fist time this odor hit me in the face, I concentrated heavily on keeping my breakfast bar and banana in my stomach where they belonged, but the best I could do was to keep it somewhere between my belly button and throat. When the odor hit me the second time I swore (while swallowing frantically) on the head of Mr. Fisherman that I would NEVER eat again!

Gradually, the queasiness began to subside. I risked a glance at my fellow passengers, and with some satisfaction, I noticed several looked pale and green around the gills. Two of these macho “let’s getus sum fish” guys were horizontal on the top deck in the bow of the boat, trying their best to simultaneously sleep and not puke.

I began to may my way over the heaving hull toward them. When I asked if I could join them, I received a grunt in response which I accepted as an invitation. Miracle upon miracles, my stomach immediately began to behave in a civilized fashion of which I was accustomed. While keeping one hand wrapped around the overhand and one foot propped against the railing so that I wouldn’t be tossed over the side, I took a little snooze.

Inevitable, the boat stopped and we tied up at an abandoned oil rig. Land was nowhere to be seen in any direction and I couldn’t see any other fellow seamen. Visions of being “rig-wrecked” flashed into my overactive imagination. I began to surreptitiously search for something to send a note in if the need should arise.

The moment the motors stopped, the boat began a dip and roll that made walking or standing almost impossible. Once again I was struggling for control of my stomach and my dignity. The deck hand shoved a rod into my hand, baited hook ready, and told me to let the line drop until there was slack. Sweat broke out again as I waited for the hook to hit bottom. One minute…two minutes…three minutes. I began trying to calculate the depth by how long it took the line to hit bottom but I gave up at 620 yards, give or take a hundred or two. (I never claimed to be a mathematical genius!) Regardless of my calculations, I felt certain that it was over my head and therefore not part of my swimming repertoire.

Then it happened. As I was holding the fishing apparatus in my hand, something pulled on the other end. The guys started yelling at me to “hook it” and even though I had no earthly idea what they were referring to, I tried to jerk my line back into the boat…all 620 yards plus fish. At my companion’s rather hysterical instructions, I began to crank the reel. Whatever was on the other end began to fight back. From that point on I took this resistence personally; I didn’t care if that fish pulled me in with my rod, I was not letting go. (As you can tell, machismo is contagious.) I felt like the old man in the sea; not only was my honor at stake, but I really wanted this —– creature battered and deep-fried in my skillet!

After several hours (ok, minutes), I finally pulled my prize into the boat. I was stunned and amazed while a red snapper barely over the size limit continued to flop and wheeze. As the deck hand proceeded to remove the hook from my trophy a sense of well being overcame me. My nausea diminished, the odor of the boat became a tantalizing scent representing the quest for fish and I was ready to go again, visions of a trophy sized Marlin dancing through my head.

After that, the day passed quickly. By that afternoon, I had caught several fish. I was also dirty, stinky, and sweaty and a wee bit sunburned. But I was also grinning like a fool and immensely proud of myself. I consider the trip a rousing success…I didn’t fall overboard, I caught a few fish and I didn’t throw-up on my self (or anyone else)…all in all it was a great day.

By Maurice Macterlinck

From: August, 1904 Century Magazine
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Of All Animals Only the Dog Has Made Alliance

Man loves the dog, but how much more ought he to love it if he considered, in the inflexible harmony  of the laws of nature, the sole exception which is that love of a being that succeeds in piercing, in order to draw closer to use, the partitions, everywhere else impermeable, that separate the species!  We are alone on this chance planet; and amid all the species that surround us, not one, except the dog, has made an alliance with us.
Among the animals, we number a few servants who have submitted only through indifference or cowardice, or, stupidity: the uncertain and craven horse who responds only to pain and is attached to nothing; the passive and dejected ass, who stays with us only because be knows not where else to go, but who never the less, under the cudgel and the packsaddle, retains the idea that lurks behind his ears; the cow and the ox, happy so long as they are eating, and docile because, for centuries, they have not had a thought of their own; the affrighted sheep, who knows no other master than terror; the hen, who is faithful to the poultry yard because she finds more maize and corn there than in the neighboring forest.
I do not speak of the cat, to whom we are nothing more than a too large and uneatable prey, the ferocious cat whose contempt tolerates us only as encumbering parasites in our own homes.  She, at least, curses us in her mysterious heart; but all the others live beside us as they might live beside a rock or a tree.  They do not know us, care not to know us, and scarcely notice us. They are unaware of departure, our return, our sadness, our joy, our smile.   They do not even hear the sound of our voice, as soon as it no longer threatens them; and when they look at us, it is with the distrustful bewilderment of the horse, in whose eyes still hovers that infatuation of the elk or gazel that sees us for the first time, or with the dull stupor of the ruminants, who look upon us as a momentary and useless accident of the pasture.