Carol Allen - Leah Chase

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LEAH CHASE

To our daughters,

Robin Lynn Jones

Stella Chase Reese and Leah Chase Kamata

To my mother, Coy Hart Allen, another woman who changes lives around her

And to the memory of Emily Chase Haydel

Memory, in short, is engraved not merely by the life we have led but . . . by the lives of others, which can cut into ours every bit as sharply as our own experience.

Anthony Lane

Acknowledgments

When a writer writes her first book-length work, she's like a marathon runner. I think she is the only person who can cross the finish line, but a number of people have prepared her for the event and encouraged her along the course. I owe great thanks to many people.

My good friends and cheerleaders Debra Gawron, Sandi Getler, Anna Hayes, Susie Morgenstern, Kathryn Seris, and Drusilla Walsh spent time proofing drafts and giving me excellent input.

Several professionals were patient and steadfast in answering my many questions and assisting me in finding necessary documents and materials: John Bullard, Alice Yelen, and Bill Fagaley at the New Orleans Museum of Art; N. Burris, the New Orleans Times-Picayune librarian; the highly competent, friendly, and accommodating professional staffs at the main branch of the New Orleans Public Library, Louisiana Collection; Williams Research Center of the Historic New Orleans Collection; the University of New Orleans Library; the Amistad Center at Tulane University; the staff at John Folse Company; and the on-line research staff at the Smithsonian Institute.

Friends and acquaintances in the literary world gave counsel and listened: Odile Hellier, Tom Kennedy, Diane Johnson, Jake Lamar, Angela Miller, and Heather Jackson.

New Orleans friends opened doors and kept me abreast of what was happening in the city while I was far away: Laura Claverie, Lee Brasseau, Joe De Salvo, and Marda Kaiser Burton. George Dureau, longtime friend and artist, graciously allowed me to use the photo portrait he took of me for my book jacket.

Dee Moses, who few know to be an unrelenting proofreader, gave my manuscript a thorough going-over prior to my turning it in.

Many friends and acquaintances of Leah Chase gave generously of their time, allowing me to interview them.

The members of the Chase and Lange families were patient and enthusiastic in their responses to my many questions.

My two computer gurus, Jean Claude Mazuy in France and Westley Annis in New Orleans, were lifesavers when my technical inaptitude reared its ugly head.

The people at Pelican Publishing Company made the actual publication of the book a pleasure: Dr. Milburn Calhoun, owner/ publisher, who took a personal interest in my book; Cynthia Williams, editor, whose editing was professional and precise, yet allowed the book to remain my book; Stephanie Williams, publicist, who worked untiringly to promote the book; and Kathleen Calhoun Nettleton, whose early interest in the book motivated and inspired me to work diligently toward the book's completion.

One dependable person who knew how to ferret out information and involved himself completely, literally becoming my eyes, ears, and feet in New Orleans, although he did not always agree with my interpretation of information, is a good friend and superb researcher, and deserves a special thank you. Thank you, Al Kennedy.

Naima Laaoeur is a wonderful woman and my good friend who took care of my household so I could work.

Finally, this project would have been a lot more difficult and a lot less fun without Fred the Great.

Introduction

When Carol Allen asked me who was writing my life story, I said, "Now, there would be a tale." When she asked me to consider letting her write it and we started our interviews, I laughingly told my friends she might get three pages on me. Now, she's actually written an entire book.

Carol and I have spent hours and hours and HOURS together. She has sat in my kitchen while I've worked, followed me around when I've been invited to do various things, met and talked with just about everybody in my family, traveled to Madisonville where I was born, and met my family who still lives there. She has talked to friends, reviewed old taped television shows, and even came to one of my family reunions. We've had a lot of fun working on this together.

As one is living one's life, one doesn't have time, really, to reflect on all that has passed. In reading the words Carol has written, I have been able to relive some of my experiences. Some have made me laugh; some have made me cry. Many have made me reminiscent of moments I had forgotten.

Carol asked me more than once, "Can I use that?" I told her, "Anything I tell you, you can use. I have nothing to hide from anybody." I believe my feelings, words, joys and sorrows, and hopes and disappointments have been captured in this book. I recognize myself and my life in these pages, and I am happy they reflect my love for my family, my love for the people who have helped and supported me, and my love for New Orleans.

My hope now is that someone will read this book and say, "Leah did it like this. I think I can do it better."

Leah Lange Chase

LEAH CHASE

CHAPTER ONE

Madisonville

When it's cold in Louisiana, folks say, the cold cuts to the bone. Humidity hangs wet over the state, making the cold seem colder, wetter, and worse than, say, in Montana. Wintertime in Madisonville, Louisiana, was bone cold. When the rain on the dirt yards around the houses would freeze over, the kids would skate across the ice, in their shoes. Cradled between the Tchefuncte River and Lake Pontchartrain, Madisonville caught the cold, wet air from every side.

The area around Madisonville was known for its fishing, the river deep and enhanced by the abundant oak and pine trees. The river had plenty of perch and bass, and the lake was a natural source of crabs, oysters, and shrimp. Numerous cypress, willow, and gum trees shaded the river's edge in summer, and the marsh grasses, water hyacinths, and lilies created soothing, colorful landscapes. But winters were hard.

In January 1923, Hortensia Lange was about to give birth to her second child. Her first child, Claudia, had died at eighteen months. A pot of scalded milk turned over on her and she didn't survive the ensuing complications. This second child would be the first of thirteen to come, but only eleven of Hortensia's children would survive. Hortensia was not about to give birth to her baby in Madisonville. She would travel across the lake to New Orleans, where her mother lived. Babies weren't born in hospitals in those days; they were born by midwives, and Hortensia's mother was a registered midwife.

With a bundle of baby clothes she had made herself, Hortensia boarded the Steamer Madisonville. Black people couldn't sit in the upstairs part of the boat, where there was a wood-burning stove and oil lamps; they rode below with the cargo and the vehicles. So Hortensia huddled into a seat, isolating herself from the cold lake air as best she could, wrapped herself in a blanket, and prepared for the three-hour journey across Lake Pontchartrain. It was bone cold.

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