Strength to Fight Off a Bull

We all have more than one story to tell. They collect in our minds, begging to be vocalized at dinner parties or whispered during a private discussion. Maybe it’s about an experience or a stage in our life or about the people we admire and respect the most.

Selecting which story to share at a given moment is usually enjoyable and not a stressful situation. But what if you only had a short time left on this earth? How do you choose from hundreds of thousands of memories that make up your life? Where will you find the strength?

My dad’s sister, Mae Couvillon Bouillion, passed away last week at the age of ninety-four. A few days before, just after she was moved from a nursing home to a hospital, she requested time with all of her nieces and nephews. Although she and I didn’t have a close relationship, she specifically asked to speak to me.

When I entered the hospital room, my Aunt Mae’s daughter, Priscilla, and granddaughter, Stephanie, greeted me. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and took a moment for hugs and smiles.

“She’s been asking for you all day,” Priscilla said. “I don’t know why.”

I saw my Aunt Mae three times in the last five years. The first two meetings, she told me that I didn’t look at all like a Couvillon. But at the hospital a couple of weeks ago, she pointed directly at my face as soon as she saw me.

“Now I see it,” she said. “Now I see your father.”

I sat down on her bed, and she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. Then she took deep breaths as if searching for the perfect one to give her the strength to speak.

“I’m so weak,” she said. “But I want you to know about your grandparents.”

Aunt Mae began her story with a woman named Lucy Toups, who married my great, great grandfather Ernest Broussard back in the Nineteenth Century. The woman convinced her husband that Cow Island needed a school. He used his influence with the school board, who in turn sent my grandpa, Raoul Couvillon from New Iberia to help start an education system. This is when he met my grandma, Lucy Broussard.

“Your grandpa was an intellectual,” Aunt Mae said. “Your grandma’s brothers gave him a hard time because he wore a suit.”

Aunt Mae told stories of my grandparents that spanned from World War I through the Great Depression to World War II. Since I’d only known my Grandma and Grandpa Couvillon during the last few years of their lives, this new information introduced me to a whole other side of them.

“Grandpa taught me to do the right thing,” Aunt Mae said. “Grandma taught me to work hard, and made me scrub the kitchen floors.”

Aunt Mae laughed and then asked for some water. She continued talking about how my grandpa rode around Cow Island on horseback to collect money to start the first school. Then she suddenly stopped, and looked me in the eyes.

“If anybody asks where you heard this, it wasn’t from me,” Aunt Mae said. “Tell them, my sister, Corine told you.”

It didn’t make sense to me that my Aunt Mae wanted her sister to have the credit for passing along these wonderful stories. Yes, some of them were of tough times and vulnerable moments, but shared the value of integrity and strength.

When it was time for me to leave, Priscilla and Stephanie walked me out of the room. I asked them if they had any idea why Aunt Mae had specifically asked to speak to me.

“I guess she wanted everyone to know about how much she respected her parents,” Stephanie said. “She probably figured that you would be the one to write a story about them.”

I wasn’t sure what that story was until the morning after Aunt Mae’s funeral, when I stepped into our garage and looked across the pasture at my grandparents’ home. There was a thick rain falling from the sky, which made the house look like a gray and white painting from a time long ago.

Memories floated through my head until one outshined the others. I was seven-year’s old and my grandpa rescued me from a charging bull by hitting it with his walking stick. He hugged me afterwards, and then brought me inside of his house and gave me a glass of water.

My grandpa was always a hero to me, and for the longest time, I thought he was born all knowing and powerful without having to work at it. But Aunt Mae’s stories of the vulnerable moments in his life made me realize I was wrong. He was a good man, who grew wise and strong over time through education, hard work and doing the right thing.

My realization sparked a connection that I’d never felt before with my grandpa. I understood that he touched the hardness of rock bottom. He felt the pain of humiliating moments. He thought he was alone at times. He was human. Just like me. Just like all of us.

Knowing that my Grandpa Couvillon died understanding every challenging moment in my life makes me love him even more, and gives me strength. Aunt Mae gave me a gift with her stories, which is why she wanted me to give her sister, Corine credit.

“Mae was like a mother to me,” my Aunt Corine said at her sister’s funeral. “Now, I’m the only one left.”

I will make a more conscious effort to spend time with my Aunt Corine. I’m hoping she will tell me more about my grandparents, but also about my dad. Through her words, I will be graced with wisdom that can only be experienced from age.

My Aunt Mae used her last few breaths to share stories of her parents. Through them I found a connection with my Grandma and Grandpa Couvillon, which is now one of my most valuable possessions. It warms my heart, fills me with courage and brings me strength like a big walking stick to fight off a bull.