There’s a Little Town: Bonita

[January 13, 2025]  A short drive north of where I grew up, maybe 15 minutes away, there’s a little town where my grandparents lived. Calling it a small town is giving it perhaps too much credit because there was no traffic light but a reduced speed sign at each end of the lonely main street. Granddaddy and Bigmama lived there for as long as I was alive, and where my Mom was raised with her sister and two brothers. The town is Bonita, Louisiana.  But, it was the best town to grow up in and to live in.

Alas, that was more than a half-century ago.  I remember the town and many of its inhabitants fondly and the good times I had running about the area around my grandparents’ home, located across from the town school. In my mind, I can still walk through it, even remembering the buildings, the color of most buildings (white, of course), who lived in the homes, each store and the owner (their face, not their names), gas station, and the post office. I can also remember many of the trees and species of an odd plant here and there. I even remember where the red wasps liked to build their nests.

It is not because I have a great memory, not at all. But I spent so many good times there with my cousins, uncles, and aunts nearly every weekend. My granddaddy cooking fish he’d caught in a large tub of hot grease outside by the outhouses and Bigmama’s cooking, her pecan pie made with Karo corn syrup, the best. Her recipe is lost to the times. So much is lost to those good old days. And, yes, they were good days. You see, the town went through some good and bad times and now the population is crashing, sadly.

The climate in northeast Louisiana is perfect for growing all sorts of foods, and the town was a stop on the Missouri Pacific Railroad for that reason. Cotton and other food commodities were shipped out to who knows where. I didn’t know or care. A kid has other interests that take him wherever his whims go.  I had the dream of “riding the rails,” of hoping onto an empty railroad boxcar between my hometown and Bonita, much like the hobos. I was never brave enough or maybe dumb enough for that adventure.

I would not trade that experience for anything. If Bonita were today, like then, I would be happy to move into town. Yet, like so many small towns of yesteryear, times have moved on, and this small town has lost more than its population to the “shiny and exciting” cities far away. I will say, based on locals still living in Bonita, they feel they still have that community spirit. I’m proud of them for that and for holding themselves up as a great place to live and work (although most jobs are out of town).

Growing up, I remember that every adult I met was called Mister or Miss, and I couldn’t imagine it any other way, whether that person was the town mayor or a hobo looking for a handout. You respected your elders, period. The only exception was our Pastor and Sheriff, who were called by their title; they deserved extra respect.  I looked up to those adults, where most of the men around town were combat veterans of WWII or the Korean War, sometimes both.

Any kid could seek safe haven in any home or business but I can’t imagine the need ever arising. If you were short of money, a kid could earn a quarter or two by turning in Coke-Cola bottles for two cents each. In my case, there was never any need for money in Bonita. Bigmama ran a tab at the only meat market, a grocery store. The entire store was about the size of an average living room and was run by a man we called the “Chinaman.”

Bonita was idealistic in many ways, but that was long ago when there was no air conditioning, treated running water, or 24/7 electricity, but most dry goods stores were found in other, larger towns. The people made us safe. We could fear nothing, except maybe a whopping if we did something bad. Every Sunday the town turned out to have church services. My granddaddy gave the Bonita Methodist Church land on which to build. I attended services with my grandparents often.

We should all claim such a town, grow up safe and happy, find good adults that will take you in their house, get a smile on the street because they know your grandparents and your mom and dad. There’s respect in those small towns.  Are they gone forever?  Maybe not.

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Please read my books:

1. “55 Rules for a Good Life,” on Amazon (link here).
2. “Our Longest Year in Iraq,” on Amazon (link here).