“You know who can proper tell a good story?” I say to my brother. “Cha-cha Deen.” Cha-cha Deen is we father youngest brother. “Shees, he can talk just like Jean Labadee.”
Jean Labadee was a thin, gallivanting, story-telling Frenchman who dwell in a book we had as chil’ren. Was a thick, red hardcover book, Friends and Neighbours...or maybe was More Friends and Neighbours. When Jean Labadee tell a story, the audience hear the sounds, smell the smells, see the sights. No, you ain’t just imagine them, you actually see, hear, smell, feel...as if is real.
Brother snicker. “When cha-cha Deen tell you something, you don’t know what to believe. One time, he want to tell we that where they used to grow rice had plenty, plenty snake. But he ain’t say that. Instead, he say when they plough the field, all you could see behind the tractor and the plough...”
”Yes,” I holler. “Snakes flying up in the air...”
“The plough digging them up, cutting them up, and the air thick, thick with snake and the field full up with snake blood...”