Driving south one afternoon near White Castle, Louisiana, I noticed the remains of a Mardi Gras parade float oddly out of place on the side of the two-lane road. Vines had grown up the sidewalls and nearly covered the abandoned structure, which I guessed measured 20 or more feet long and eight or ten feet wide. It looked like a double-decked float, where one row of people could stand along the lower rim and others could sit on the higher center section.
It was hard to tell if the sides were made of plywood, or if the float was constructed of some other more, or less, durable materials. The field grass was nearly two feet high around the abandoned float, so it was even harder to see if it was still resting on a trailer bed or if it had been dumped on the ground after the base was salvaged and rolled away.
As I drove by pondering the old float on that sunny day, the sparkling, glitter-covered ornamentations caught my attention through the encroaching greenery. Even the slightest breeze made the loose purple, green, and gold metallic fringe decorations twinkle in the bright sun. At night, by contrast, I imagined the float would rarely be noticed. It sat too far off of the road for normal headlights to embrace it, resting alone against a barb-wired fence lining a sugar cane field, far from street lamps or any other logical landmark.
Once upon a time the decaying float had probably been a glorious, rolling pedestal for local revelers and a joyful sight for parade-goers who surrounded it. I imagined it had a special time in the spotlight of the holiday season, it's usefulness generating a surge of local pride. But now it just serves as field art, a rural monument, a home for insects and mice. It's bold, glimmering colors are in stark contrast to the natural earth tones of the farmland and greenery around it.
I imagined the float's ad-hoc construction crew years before, gathered around someone's kitchen table sipping Coke's and Bud lights as a Krewe meeting was officially called to order a week or two after the Halloween social. They were probably more of a local committee than a crew within a Krewe, appointed, recruited, or volunteered by spouses or relatives depending on the need for hammering, painting, and general entertainment.
Times were better in south Louisiana in recent years, and a Mardi Gras float that was once a luxury was probably represented as a justifiable necessity for celebrating good times. Based on that logic, the meeting would proceed. Someone probably unfolded a slightly worn paper on the table to display a design borrowed from a friend's float used the year before in another nearby town. From there, the discussion probably turned to solutions for who could spare a trailer to it build on, who could purchase supplies on their next trip to the city, and who had an empty barn where it could be stored during winter construction. A quick review of the dues collection to date would have added a little business concern to the ideas, prompting furrowed brows, rubbing of chins and scratching of heads. But optimistic discussion that led to general agreement probably followed with a decision that building a float instead of renting or contracting the construction to a parade float company was the right thing to do. It would be so great that they would probably use it for years. Without a doubt at that point, they were convinced they could make it happen. There was probably a lot of joking then about who knew which end of a hammer to hold, and who could be counted on to spill the paint can. In the end, a basic plan would have been laid out for building the mother of all floats to accommodate the enthusiastic, backslapping group.
Evenings and weekends just after New Years had undoubtedly been set aside for working on the float, with teams of three or four people getting together at random as the materials came in piece by piece. Someone always did a little more building or decorating than the others who spent most of their time socializing, sharing the latest hunting stories, looking at catalogs, or testing any food that was cooked on site or delivered by another Krewe member. But in the end, with deadlines looming, the paint would have dried, the decorations would have been attached, and the excitement surely grew as the big day approached.
I can just about hear the happy screams of the parade-goers as the big float finally passed by them along it's route, with music playing and riders laughing as they called to friends while showering them with cups and beads and plastic toys thrown through the air. As this scenario plays out in my mind, unanswered questions about the abandoned float intrigue me, like: What year was it built, and where was the parade? Who rode on the float and could tell me the story? Did the float have a theme aside from Mardi Gras, like happiness, or holiness, or hippy-ti yo? Was the Krewe really a Krewe, with Bylaws and all? Did they adopt an official small town name like the "Krewe de Cane Sucre," or the "Krazy Krewe," or something more creative and symbolic? Was the float used more than once? Or was this a one-time endeavor that disbanded amid broken beer bottles and a vow to never use it again?
After the parade was over and the revelers had parted, someone ultimately had the task of pulling the float to the field where it now rests. Maybe the driver was instructed to put it on the side of the field with the intent of it being moved later. Or maybe the driver wasn't given any clear instructions and just chose the field randomly out of convenience for where the driver was headed next. The reason for the final resting place remains a mystery to me. I wonder if anyone else has ever questioned the reason, too.
It seems unlikely that this once chivalrous object will ever be revived. Only a large tractor could dislodge the float at this point from the odd parking spot where it has been left neglected for whatever reason, absorbed and sunken into the field. If that were to happen, I wonder if it would crack and crumble from the movement? Sitting there for a such a long time, it has endured the heat, the cold, the sun, the wind and the rain of many south Louisiana seasons. I suspect only progress might alter it's stagnancy some day. When the fields are sold and plowed over to build more houses or apartments or shopping malls or factories or airports, the float will somehow disappear.
But things don't move too fast near White Castle, Louisiana. As the seasons come and go, and the vines entangle the float year after year, the sparkling monument is evolving perfectly into the condition of a useless relic, seen by many but respectfully ignored. For those who once rode on that Mardi Gras float and for those who travel by it now, the peaceful remains are a melancholy reminder of an exciting small town celebration. With such a legacy to uphold, my guess is that the float will stay right where it is for many more years to come, and probably for many more years beyond that.