It was time to get out of the house, but I was having trouble deciding which extra-curricular adventure to pursue and who I could get to join me. The local weekly entertainment publications were packed with music options for the holiday weekend and that was another part of the problem. Too many options.
Then the phone rang. When I read the caller I.D., I sighed in relief. It was an adventure partner calling. Our adventure criteria was simple: festival music. The planning was brief: leave in an hour. There were several nearby festivals that day so we based it on the weather, driving away from the rain to narrow the possibilities.
We finally agreed that our destination would be the 32nd annual Frog Festival in Rayne, Louisiana, about 10 miles from home. We headed west on old Highway 90, which runs parallel to the train tracks and interstate. My friend, Becca, graciously shared her abundant knowledge of local lore during the scenic drive. Much of that knowledge, I suspected, was gathered from years of family gatherings and shopping-talk at Early's market. As we passed a house that I had often admired, I inquired about the inhabitants. To no surprise, they were her distant relatives. Like many stories about relatives who have achieved upper-middle class economic status, there was a shady rumor of possible past wrongdoing that stood out from their other life accomplishments as the issue to divulge and ponder. Shocking, I agreed. Their questionable past now clouds my admiration of that stately house whenever I drive by it.
We swapped information about other landmarks along the way. The tiny country store with the incredibly delicious Boudin. The remnants of the Four Roses dance hall, and the mystery of what happened to it's lovely vintage wood bar after the building was torn down. The tiny shotgun house her aunt lived in was so close to the tracks that Becca said it shook every time the train passed. I wondered if a "Scott-to-Rayne" trivia board game might have marketing potential. No Park Avenue, No Boardwalk, but certainly there were other small town enthusiasts who would find enough humor in the concept to inspire them to invest in such tabletop entertainment.
The sun was low in the post-storm sky as we arrived at the festival entrance gate where the ferris wheel and bungie jumpers caught our attention. Admission three dollars; amusement priceless. This was our rockin' Saturday night. The beer booth placed conveniently near the entrance was the logical next stop. Business was still slow after the rain. The volunteer workers wearing civic club vests heavily decorated with patches and pins were happy to indulge our concern for which beer stayed the coldest, which led somehow to their fascinating explanation of how the chemical qualities of salt interact with ice in a cooler. I settled for a can of Bud Lite and left them with a wave.
Three teenage girls wearing tall rhinestone tiaras, matching green frog design t-shirts, lime green flip flops and sparkling satin sashes passed by as we strolled the carnival area. Francois the Cajun Corn Popper offered us a sample of his newest snack product called Cajun Puffs. Very tasty. At the next booth we sampled homemade roasted pecans and almonds. Also quite delicious. Along the carnival midway, a chubby little boy with round eyeglasses and a back-to-school buzz haircut caught our attendion. He was dressed in slightly oversized "he'll-grow-into-them" trendy blue jeans and a baseball shirt. He had the inspired look of a curious, happy five-year old as he enthusiastically navigatd his way through a rickety cage of child-size obstacles, including a rope jungle, a pool of rubber balls, spinning floor tiles and shiny slides. Oh, to be five years old again with a pocket full of carnival tickets!
Inspired by his enthusiasm, we bought our own ride tickets and headed for the 16-seat Ferris Wheel. Drinks were not allowed. An honest-looking middle-aged female bystander offered to watch our still full containers, which we had already covered with napkins and an upside-down koozie to prevent something from falling mysteriously into them during our absence. Mild paranoia. We placed them on a metal cabinet near the ride operator and climbed onto the worn seat made of cracking vinyl. Circling into the air, the sights and sounds of the community below came into new perspective. The sun was almost down in the west, and the colorful lights of the stage area and carnival were shining brighter against the dark, clouded sky to the east. A mild flow of interstate traffic bordered the fair grounds to the north and a steady stream of car headlights from the town were turning into the gravel festival road to the south. The remnants of a rainbow framed the scene. Un arc en ciel is what Aunt Gertie always called it.
The ride slowed and we climbed down onto the ramp. Walking toward the exit, I realized that I was doomed to spend the rest of the evening with a big wet spot on my butt thanks to the rain-soaked seat cushion. The drink-watcher was gone, but the drink containers looked un-altered so I bravely proceeded to sip my dollar's worth of beer. Walking toward the stage we encountered another tiara-clad teenage girl. I asked what she was the Queen of, and she replied "Herself" while pointing to the Barbie title on her t-shirt. She was a winner, we decided, with her comparably tiny plastic tiara and the courage to "spoof" the official festival pageant princesses, as Becca called it. "Mock" actually came to my mind, but spoof had a nicer sound.
Louisiana Red was playing a mix of pop oldies, country line dance, zydeco, swamp pop and Cajun standards. It was kind of bizarre hearing Journey, Le Rue, Van Morrison, and D.L. Menard all in the same set. We stopped at the official Frog Festival souvenir booth to browse. It contained an incredible collection of everything Frog. Ouaouaron, grenouie, and crapaud were all represented in some form or fashion. There were yard ornaments, green sponge hats, rhinestone lapel pins, wind socks, shirts, visors, key chains and furry photo albums. I settled on a bargain wood carving to hang on a wall. It showed a toad on a lily pad sticking out his tongue to catch an unidentifiable bug. Becca chose a ceramic refrigerator magnet of a tree frog on a leaf shaped like a heart to give to our friend Elaine for her 70th birthday the following week.
Gifts in hand, we headed for the audience area and found seats near the stage, but we didn't rest for long. We got up a few minutes later for a Cajun dance, twirling each other local-style, avoiding flashy, contrived moves like "the window" with the satisfaction that we could do them if we were so inclined. Dancing skill was not the question, just the motive. Spinnig around the dance area, I noticed a shiny big tour bus was parked behind the stage now that advertised the next band, Jamie Bergeron and the Kickin Cajuns, www.kickincajuns.com Obviously, there was a well-established business motive for this group. I had heard of the band and wondered what made them so popular.
The evening of small-town excitement was wearing thin and making us restless as we took our seats again. Just as we debated the option of staying longer or heading for home, the bus door opened and people started filing out. We wondered which one was Jamie. I figured he would be an accordion player, since that was usually the case with a Cajun band named after somebody in south Louisiana. It was hard to tell from a distance, but we seemed to recognize one of the band members. Not many guys walking off of a Cajun band's bus have long, thick silver hair and tout noir attire. Go figure. It was Becca's other distant cousin, Rick. We walked over to the backstage area to get his attention, mainly for something to do, but also to get some trustworthy scoop about the band. Why he was so shocked to see us at the Rayne Frog Festival on a Saturday night, was beyond us. He explained that he was playing keyboard for the Kickin cajuns band now in addition to other band commitments. After hearing the band worthiness report and miscellaneous stories from him, we converted to groupie mode and decided to stay for their show.
We grabbed a shrimp-on-a-stick snack from the white mini-RV food trailer nearby, refilled the koozie, and weaved our way to the front of the stage. A cluster of crowned Frog queens and princesses wearing was gathered around the center stage microphone enthusiastically shouting a well-rehearsed, unified introduction to the Kickin Cajuns band. They parade-waved their way off the stage as the band started their high-energy set. The first song was one of those rousing instrumental two-steps that lets the sound man test the levels while the crowd gets loosened up. Fans were lining the front of the stage in their black Kickin Cajuns / Harley logo t-shirts and hats anticipating the mid-song arrival of the band leader. We debated the logo design with the optimism that it was legit. Questionable, but not our problem, thank you very much. Dancers were filling the rain-puddled floor and looking festively happy.
Donning hi-tech ear monitors, the musicians nodded cues to each other with twinkling eyes and amused grins, seeming to sense that the energy of this hometown summer show was feeling really good. In the spirit of the now starry night, cousin Rick worked the keys sporting a black top hat to compliment his chic vetements and black boots. His band mates were a further mix ages and attires, from trendy-fashioned teen fiddler to bluejean and plaid-shirted guitarists.
Jamie sauntered in mid-song from rear stage right holding an accordion and headed for the center stage microphone. His shaved head was hidden by a straw cowboy hat with turned-up sides. His black cowboy shirt was embroidered with red trim and flowers on the front shoulders. Looking up at him singing, I didn't notice the really kicking part of his presence until I glanced below his knee-length khaki shorts and hairy legs to see that he was wearing very special decorative foot gear. Red suede knee-high cowboy boots. Then I realized these were not just any red suede cowboy boots. These red hot boot tops were firmly attached to red suede lace-up tennis shoes. Oh. Mon. Dieu. I was gleefully, knee-slappingly shocked. Red, suede cowboy boot/ tennis shoes to match his red-bellowed accordion. Maybe someone had tampered with our drinks and we were hallucinating. But no, this was for real. The Kickin Cajun fan standing in front of us confirmed the fashion trend. He, too, had invested in a pair of bright blue suede cowboyboot/tennis shoes and was wearing them with pride and an ear-to-ear smile. Just $125 a pair at the band's souvenir booth that was set up next to a chain link fence on the side of the stage. Such a bargain. Such a statement.
We stayed for several songs, enjoying the mood and new understanding of this popular local band. It had been revelational to discover what Jamie Bergeron kicked. I figured Mama B must be proud of her t-boy. The Rayne Frog Festival crowd was hoppin high at his Frog Festival show. We twirled a few more dances, gathered our souvenirs and strolled contentedly toward the car. Our three dollar Saturday night adventure just couldn't get much better than this.