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Master O'Banion, King of Evangeline



Master O’Banion,
King of Evangeline



  When I was a little girl, I never met my Grandpa, Alfred O’Banion.  He was gone and settled in heaven by the blue, blue river of life way before my time…1974 a year that looms.  I knew I came from a long line of strong, noble-like men.  My dad was the hero in my life, a real-life, big “S” on the chest, Superman.  There were things in the past that made him Redwood bark tough.  His past poured some pints of terror upon toiled land, but there was also a genre of love woven into shadows.  “I still loved my dad.” My dad would often say.  Some peeks of sunshine dabbled the Evangeline Parish grass.  The story about my dad’s childhood has never really been told, only by family members and close friends.  So, I will build up the renowned man from the Oakdale dust…Master O’Banion.

When I was a young girl, I heard stories that spun like tractor tires over untillable land.  They out-stretched to the outer stakes of the “war” cattle fields.  The words were horrid, what entered my ears sounded unreal, untillable.  Yes, they were evident, true, like seeds that sprout sugarcane each year.  Calamity and chaos grew out of melancholy muck.  The O’Banion crop was tilled and tilled with strife and threatening thorns.  It pricked and prodded at little nerves.  “What will daddy do? Will he whip us and beat us?”  My dad, along with his five brothers and two sisters lived in “little white house” fear.  My grandma lived in dark corners along with her children, as dark as her Seminole hair.  Gray clouds did cover Beaver Creek, but bits of buttery sunshine would sometimes smooth rough spirits.  Love covers a multitude of sins…it covers all offenses.  My dad would talk about Alfred with tenderness.  Oh, yes. There was that peek of lovable light.

My grandpa, was King of Evangeline.  His name was known throughout the piney hog-trotted land.  The general store had a tab in his name.  Mr. O’Banion was reliable and trustworthy.  He was as reliable as their horse, Buckwheat.  He was as trustworthy as a plow, tending the red dirt.  His firmness and fearlessness adhered to him. Alfred's word was his bond. Wherever he walked, a red carpet went before him.  Dapper and sophisticated, he would bear a tie and dress clothes to the local bank.  “Hello! Mr. O’Banion! How can we serve you today?”  Solidity seeped from his swishing “I’m on a mission” suit.  One divine mission he was bestowed, a calling from God…Pastor O’Banion.

 Alfred was an old Southern-style Baptist Preacher.  He was an educated, Latin-knowing Doctor.  Family have said that his preaching would make the hair on the back of your neck stand up.  “Repent now!” “Follow God!” would rattle the pews and rafters.  Brimstone and fire fell over pulpit, bringing people to repented knees.  Pastor O’Banion was shepherd to his flock and he would take staff and lead you into the corral.  Sometimes the path to the corral was beat into you. 

One Sabbath day, Alfred heard of a certain man that was sinning.  In the middle of his service, he took sinning Simon outside and beat the righteousness into him.  Mr. O’Banion straightened his gait and tie and entered back into his sanctuary.  “Now then, open your books to…”

The King of Evangeline made his way through the dynamic pines.  Here he comes, make way, and do not stray!  Dust conjured behind tenacity feet.  Come, Master O’Banion, take a seat…

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