We didn’t know we were preserving a culture—we were just living it
When the air turns crisp and the wind carries that smoky scent of burning leaves, I’m instantly transported back to my childhood in Cloutierville, Louisiana.
I can almost see myself walking down Main Street, bundled up against the cool breeze, the sidewalks scattered with leaves. Fall in Cloutierville had a particular rhythm — part celebration, part reflection — that has never left me.
I remember Mr. Allen and Ms. Barbara’s house, an old Antebellum beauty that stood like a character out of a Southern ghost story. Every Halloween, they transformed it into a spooky seemingly haunted mansion, that was the destination for all us kids on Halloween night.
Mr. Allen would sit in the dark behind the wrought-iron fence, handing out candy with a flashlight, his face barely visible. The whole scene felt thrilling to a child, like something straight out of a movie, and yet it was all part of our small-town charm.
Up and down Main Street, we’d trick-or-treat from house to house, laughing, running, and squealing, the night air full of sugar, smoke from bonfires, and mischief.
Just a few days later, our attention turned from playfulness to reverence. All Souls’ Day was sacred in our community, a day to honor our ancestors and remember those who came before us.
Families came home from far and wide to clean and paint the graves, to sweep leaves from the plots and repaint the white borders. As dusk fell, the priest would bless the cemetery, and the night would come alive with the soft flicker of hundreds of candles — tiny flames dancing in the darkness, each one representing a soul remembered and a love that never faded.
To this day, I can still picture it: the quiet reverence, the smell of wax and earth, the sound of whispered prayers carried on the wind.
Usually, around this time of year, we would see the first frost. My grandfather always said that about six weeks after you see the first fog, you’ll experience the first frost, and he was almost always right. On this recent visit home, I was blessed to experience everything I’ve described here: the smells, the memories, the laughter, the love. On Monday morning as I gathered my things to head back to New Orleans and Mama was getting ready to leave for her work at the Creole Heritage Center, she called out, “Look out the back window!” I did — and there it was. The first frost had finally come, blanketing the roofs of the houses like a quiet blessing.
Inside the church hall, there was another kind of light — the laughter and energy of the women who seemed ancient to me then but were really just in their fifties or sixties.
Women like Miss Doris, Ms. Ella, Aunt Artelia, Miss “Sister”, Miss Rosalie, Ms. Judy, my Aunt Lucille, my Aunt Doris and my Grandma Cecile. They were the backbone of the church, the cooks, the organizers, the prayer warriors, the doers.
Many of them have passed on now, but their daughters remain, carrying the mantle, keeping the church and our traditions alive. When I see the ones who are left, my heart swells. They always smile wide when they see me, proud that I remember them, happy to be remembered.
And I do remember. I always will.
Looking back, I realize how deeply this community fed me — spiritually and physically.
As a child, I didn’t fully appreciate it. I thought the “village mentality” was just nosiness — too many people in your business, too many aunties telling you what to do. But now, as an adult, I understand that it was love. It was protection. It was Creole at its core.
That belief that we are our brother’s keeper, that we rise by lifting one another — that is the heartbeat of who we are.
Today, in a world where we’re more “connected” than ever yet more isolated than before — separated by screens, busy schedules, and the illusion of closeness — I long for that kind of connection again.
Through Bella Creole Life, I want to rekindle that sense of community. To remind us of our roots, to celebrate our elders, and to create a space where connection and compassion thrive again.
Life will always be messy, uncertain, and complicated. But what remains constant is our ability to love one another, to build community, and to honor those who gave us both roots and wings.
That is what I carry from Cloutierville — and what I hope to pass on through this platform.
If you’ve ever found yourself missing the warmth of community — the sound of familiar laughter, the feeling of being known, the peace that comes from shared prayer and simple fellowship — you’re not alone.
Our ancestors built something beautiful: a way of living that fed both body and soul. We can build it again, together.
So light a candle, say a prayer for those who came before you, and reach out to someone today. Let them know they’re remembered.
That’s where the healing begins.
With love,
Bella 💕
