It all started when Drew Landry visited my office one day. He handed me a flyer for his upcoming CD release party as he explained the highlights of the evening. My eyes shot directly to the words as he said them: Mechanical Bull. Now that was going to be really funny, I thought, having a mechanical bull ride at a party in downtown Lafayette.
It had been years since I went to a dance hall that hosted a mechanical bull. Eighteen years to be exact. The last one I had seen was at a big country bar in Dallas in 1986. A Gilley's kind of place. I didn't ride the bull that night in Dallas, but I admired it from various locations around the room. I viewed it from the bar, from the dance floor, from the table where our friends gathered, and eventually I even viewed it up close.
Since I was just out of college, working my first real sales job and trying to act mature with my colleagues who line-danced until the wee hours, the notion of getting on the bull only remotely crossed my mind. It was intriguing yes, but out of the question. Despite owning two pairs of leather and sued cowboy boots, I didn't think of myself as an urban cowgirl. The movie residue was too fresh, the bull too post-trendy. Not to mention that the Texas female riders that night had that brave, blonde cheerleader look and were a tough act to follow. They knew how to ride for show, tossing their heads back with gleaming white smiles and hands waving carelessly in the air. Being the center of attention in that way had an allure, but I didn't have the courage or the look and never let on to my dance hall buddies that I even contemplated what the bull ride would be like. I discreetly wondered about it throughout the night but moved on to other thoughts as soon as we left the dance.
Fast forward.....July 2004. The party flyer ended up sharing space for about a week with a small wedding invitation hanging from a magnetic clip attached to my refrigerator. The pair represented unique opportunities scheduled for the same day, so my weekend social calendar seemed promising. I pulled the flyer down the day before the party to look at it again. Different type fonts were used to list each band that would be playing, and "Mechanical Bull" was mixed right into the entertainment list, like it was just a normal part of a CD release party. Yet I the reader knew, just like the author and most everybody else probably knew, that this was far from normal. This was so Drew. It was a great hook for attracting mild thrill seekers and folksie gen x party-goers.
I arrived at the event fashionably on time, about an hour after the music started.. I walked casually across the parking lot toward the dance hall as the sun was going down. When I spotted the bull my heart jumped a little and I laughed to myself thinking this was going to be an interesting night. A few other people were gathered on the front lawn, but nobody stood near the bull. Nobody was touching the uninflated red canvas mat, let alone walking on it, like it was to an oddity to be avoided. But it was directly in the path to the dance hall sidewalk and entrance so I decided to buck the norm and just walk right across it. What the heck. I realize now it was the beginning of a personal quest to conquer a mild fear, the fear of the bull.
After greetings and hugs to the birthday boy/CD honoree outside on the lawn, I wandered inside to hear the music and have a beer. I needed them both. Unlike the day I had planned to have, it had been a stressful afternoon rearranging Erin's mixed up flights and searching by phone for her missing luggage. The wedding went on sans my attendance, but I managed to make the reception and now the CD party, so things were looking up for my mental health. I sat down on a stool to listen to the band for awhile. Glancing around the audience, I noticed Sarah Spell sitting at the next table and caught her attention. We talked for a few minutes, and a while later went outside to sit on the worn porch steps.
It was a hot, humid summer night and people were moving about slowly. The bull cushion on the ground in front of us was inflated now, and a few people had ventured to ride. We settled in to watch as bold, petite Christiane marched up to the controller's table. She paid, signed the disclaimer paper, then hopped up on the bull's saddle side. Her friend climbed on the other end to face her. Technically, I think her friend was on the front end, but I wasn't really sure. Actually, I had never thought about two people riding at the same time, but it seemed to work for them. There was plenty of room and it was probably more amusing to have a fellow rider. Their voyeuristic natures were perfect for the fun evening mood.
The bull started to rock back and forth slowly as it turned clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then clockwise again. We speculated what it would be like to ride the bull. I had an interest, but not the courage. I didn't want to be the center of attention with an audience, which certainly was the case for anyone riding a mechanical bull at Grant Street on this Saturday night. It seemed too similar to the tilt-a-whirl, with it's slow motion jolts from side to side. The thought was making me nauseous.
Anxiety grew in my body as I swallowed the last of beer number three and Sarah asked me again to ride the bull with her. She showed me her fancy cowgirl boots, and mentioned that she rode horses during her life. I told her about Spring, my assigned horse for equestrian class in college. All the while I continued to wonder....should I ride this pretend bull? Would I look like a fool? Would the controllers keep it slow? Would I break my neck if I fell? What if I had to puke? I barely know Sarah. What if I puked on her?
Acquaintances passed by on the porch as we contemplated the bull riding, and they chimed in with encouragement and even verbal bribes to boost our intent. The question kept coming for the next half hour: Would I ride? Finally I decided. Yes, dammit. I would ride!
With a sudden swell of courage, I stood, Sarah stood, and we walked to the table to sign up for the bull ride. It turned out the controllers had gone to the bathroom so we had to wait a few minutes. Well, we made it to the sign-in table now so there was no turning back. The others had survived. How hard could this be? I told myself I was making too much of it.
The controller's helper returned first and collected our money. We signed the disclaimers, and stood waiting. As we talked with the helper, a mid-20's looking man wearing a ball cap, t-shirt and jeans, I asked where they were from and learned that the bull and the boys resided in Church Point. It was kind of a let down, because I had assumed this mechanical bull came all the way from Texas. Aggies and rodeo riders practice on the bull, I found out. I forgot to ask if the bull had a name, like Buster or Bullwinkle or Buffy or something. We were the only interested riders at the moment, but he assured us that the line would be long before the night ended.
Then the controller returned. I asked him to please keep it slow though Sarah didn't look worried. We climbed onto the cushioned mat and approached the bull. There were two leather handles attached to the center of the light brown fiberglass bull's back. To the right was a quasi-saddle, which I opted to take. I climbed onto the saddle while Sarah climbed on the front end to face me. We were both laughing now. This was crazy, we said. But we were on it and now had important decisions to make, like how should we put our arms in the air? Parade wave style or full fingers extended? The bull started to sway back and forth in a clockwise direction. We looked at each other and just kept laughing. Suddenly, it reversed directions, still swaying back and forth in slow motion. We screamed a little, and waved some more but not to anyone in particular. We thought we were so haha. I felt like I would fall off and didn't quite know what to do with my legs to stabilize myself. So I tried what the other girls had done and wrapped my legs over Sarah's legs. The leg wrap wasn't working either. Was anybody watching? I felt like I was falling off of the bull but the competitive urge to stay on kept growing. This was crazy. We were barely moving.
I had enough after a few minutes and climbed down onto the mat. Sarah climbed onto the saddle side and continued to ride as I wandered off to the steps smiling. I turned back to look at my riding partner who was smiling contentedly and waving her hand in the air. A cowgirl in her element. As I sat down again on the worn steps, I noticed my hands were shaking, my body was quivering and I was starting to sweat. Small physical consequences, I suppose, in comparison to the satisfaction that resulted from the reality that I had conquered the bull. I was proud.
We didn't get much applause for our ride compared to the male riders later that night who dared high speed twists and turns and eventually fell off sideways and headfirst onto the mat. Small bruises appeared the next day on my inner thighs, just above my knees. I guess it was from squeezing the saddle.
The bruises have faded to a light bluish-green skin tone a week later, but the lingering marks offered me suitable inspiration for storytelling about life experiences in Lafayette. Thank you, Drew and Sarah, for leading me to the bull.
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 criteria was simple: festival music. The planning was brief: leave in an hour. Check the weather, drive away from the rain, pick an options along the way. C'est tout.
Our destination, we finally agreed, 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 stories of many relatives of means, there was a shady rumor of possible past wrongdoing that stood out from their other life accomplishments as the issue to divulge and ponder. The questionable past will forever cloud my observation of that stately house from this day forward.
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 so close to the tracks that it shook every time the train passed. I wondered if a "Scott-to-Rayne" trivia board game might have marketing potential. 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 and why salt was not added to the iced coolers. The explanation of the chemical qualities of salt interacting with ice in a cooler was fascinating. I settled for a can of Bud Lite.
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 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 dressed in blue jeans and a baseball shirt was enthusiastically navigating 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. He had the inspired look of a curious, happy five-year old.
We bought our 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 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. We danced 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. 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 debated the option of staying longer, 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 Lagneaux. 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, I really didn't know. After hearing the band worthiness report and miscellaneous other stories from him, we converted to groupie mode just in time for the show.
We grabbed a shrimp-on-a-stick snack from the white mini-RV food trailer nearby, refilled the koozie, and weaved to the front of the stage as the band opened their set. The first song was one of those rousing instrumental two-steps that lets the sound man test the levels while the crowd gets cranked up. Fans were lining 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 were nodding cues to each other with smiling eyes, seeming to sense that the energy of this hometown summer show was feeling good.
Jamie sauntered in mid-song from 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 notice 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 Martin accordion. Maybe someone had tampered with our drinks and we were hallucinating. But no, 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. I just shook my head. This really was a kick. 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.
It was revelational to discover what Jamie Bergeron kicked. 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 toward the car. Our three dollar Saturday night adventure just couldn't get much better than this.
We didn't exactly know where Robert's Cove was located, but figured we would find it somewhere between Rayne and Crowley. As we exited from the interstate, a bright yellow sign was posted for the 10th Annual German Fest with an arrow pointing to a side road. Kathy wondered if the title was ever abbreviated as the "Germ Fest," which would probably catch a lot of attention. We' had heard about this annual festival for years, but this was our first outing to it. Kathy had been to a dance supply shop once behind someone's house in Robert's Cove. I had recently met the owner of a Bed & Breakfast located there, and recalled that one of my Board member's had been raised in the area. That was pretty much all we knew about the community.
As we rounded the curve of the tree-lined rural road, the German Fest grounds came into sight. Hundreds of cars were already lined up in rows in the field behind the town hall. We turned into the entry gate, which was framed by a specially constructed archway decorated with traditional German flower pattern designs around a "Wilkommen" greeting. Three teenage girls wearing peasant blouses, plaid skirts and aprons greeted us, took the entry fee, and handed us our 2-day festival event schedules. This was a big weekend in Robert's Cove.
A team of plow horses, several tractors, and some old-time machinery displays surrounded the outer edges of the small festival area. Two blacksmiths were hard at work forming small metal objects. We talked about the primitive oil drilling exhibit and how happy that farmer a few miles down the road must have been some happy several decades ago to learn that oil was found on his land.
Choir music floated out of the gigantic white tent. About 30 people dressed in traditional German costumes were on the stage singing "The Sound of Music" in near perfect harmony. Several songs featured the choir director yodeling her solos, which generated a lot of applause. I reminisced about my third grade teacher, Miss Warren, who I recall had learned to yodel from her grandfather. She would yodel for us as a special reward on Fridays if we had been well-behaved that week in class. I was awestruck by her performances time after time. Being a teacher herself, Kathy suggested that I locate Miss Warren to let her know now how much I had enjoyed that yodeling 35 years ago and how I fondly remember her doing that for the class. What an interesting idea, tracking down a teacher from 35 years ago to let her know she had a big impact on my sense of music appreciation and my German Fest experience.
Food smells floated through the air, luring us toward the ticket booth. Scanning the hardy German food menu posted there, we debated the ingredients and made some selections. My goal was to have a totally carbohydrate meal, which was easy since that was basically all that was offered. No shrimp-on-a-stick at this gig. This was an event staffed by happy local volunteers and the cooks at the food tent were more than happy to show us their creations before we tested them. I chose potato stew. Kathy decided on a bratwurst sandwich. Beef stew, hot pretzels, sweet potato twists, and sauer kraut were also on the menu. We agreed to wait until after noon to have beers and desserts.
We found some chairs under the small tent where a food demonstration was just beginning. The interviewer on the stage was explaining the Zaunbrecher family geneology of the two men at her side. According to her story, there were just eleven founding families of German heritage that first settled in Robert's Cove, and according to the statue plaque on the festival grounds, they produced thousands of descendants. The demonstrators talked about their family tradition of preparing sausage and proceeded to show how it was made. It was kind of disgusting. The older man held the microphone and told about the cuts of meat bought from Prejean's wholesaler in Carencro. It was seasoned with a special mix including red, white and black pepper with a touch of salt and nutmeg. He had prepared about twelve hundred pounds for the festival. The younger man wearing a large cowboy hat stuffed some meats into a silver grinder bowl, attached it to the grinder, and started the hand-turned grinding process. He turned the handle for several minutes as the facts about cooking times and the use of synthetic versus real intestinal casings were reviewed. My sausage-free potato stew was satisfying me just fine through all of this discussion, so I skipped the samples of sausage on a toothpick that were being passed around the tent.
The logical question to start the small talk here was, "Are you German?" Everyone we talked to could find some connection to German heritage. If not through bloodlines, then they could certainly find a connection through a next door neighbor, in-law, co-worker, travel or their love of beer. My connections are strong on both sides of my parents' families, I was proud to explain. Mom's parents were Bremer and Mohler, very German names, and Dad's parents were Kleiman and Solis, German and Polish. The Polish part was always a lot of fun to joke about growing up but today was about German, so German I was.
On the way to the crafts shop we met a lady wearing a button pinned to her German Festival t-shirt that said "Lucky me, I married a German." Her husband wore a matching t-shirt and a traditional style black felt German hat with a feather stuck in the decorative band. The lady had been the boudin sausage-maker at Rowena's store in Sunset for 17 years before changing deli careers. Kathy knew her from shopping there years ago before the store closed. The discussion turned to language. Collectively we knew how to count to five in German, and I knew the three daytime greetings of "Guten morgen, Guten tag, and Guten abend," but that was all of the language we could muster up to support our heritage. We calculated that 9 words of German learned in my two semesters of college had cost me roughly a thousand dollars of tuition. Expensive words. We decided to drink to that.
Our next stop was the crafts tent. Christmas displays were set up on various tables along with decorative ceramic beer steins, metal crosses, dried flower headbands and festival memorabilia. Hand-made, laminated German Prayer books for children had phoenetic pronunciations in parenthesis under each line of text. I finally chose a red and green glitter-covered collector's ornament of a jester frog playing a fiddle. It was one of those "Ohhhhh, look how cuuuuuute" must-have holiday gift items. Kathy chose a Virgin Mary close-up in a small wooden frame.
We walked to the car to deposit our purchases. A man was walking behind a team of horses pulling an old-time plow in the field near our car. One rein was slung over his shoulder and the other was in his hand. We were quite amazed as he maneuvered the reins with one hand and the plow with the other while turning the horses to start the next row. We talked about the next round of German Fest activities to explore and decided it was beer time. There was really no other acceptable option to drink at a German Fest than the featured German beer. Three flavors of one brand were offered at the beer garden tent: dark, amber, and light. We both chose the regular size glass of Amber, which I liked but Kathy didn't.
We sat in the big tent sipping our beers, watching the small local children of German heritage singing in German and dancing on the stage, the girls wearing colorful German dresses and the boys wearing felt hats and nicker-pants outfits held up by suspenders. They had undoubtedly practiced their routines for months in preparation for this big day. With big smiles on most of their faces, they performed with great enthusiasm to their families and friends in the audience with a few hoping to gain extra attention by singing just a bit more boldly than the others. One little boy in the front row sang mostly to his feet and occasionally to the ceiling.
Our next stop was the "Zoo-zoom" petting zoo. The array of animals was perfect, including three small goats, two prickly-furred animals that looked like miniature porcupines, a hairless rat that felt like a penis, a large and a small tortoise, not to be confused with the two medium-sized turtles, some very soft brown and white rabbits, a grungy-looking guinea pig, and a black pot-bellied pig with a very happy tail. I think we liked the petting zoo as much as the kids. But we missed not having little ones to explore with or worry about on the fun jumps. A six-car children's train came to a halt behind the petting zoo, pulled by a four-wheeler. A tractor pulling a load of pre-teens sitting on hay bales made it's way around the fields in the distance.
The Robert's Cove heritage museum was open to festival-goers for the day, and staffed by costumed docents. Even without the costumes, they had a nordic look and height that is distinctly different than the Cajuns of neighboring towns. Just inside the exhibit area an accordionist played well-known German songs on a red Hohner accompanied by a costumed guitarist, adding to the festive heritage ambiance. An antique doll room displayed old porcelain, fabric, plastic, and Barbie brands. The volunteer explained that the summer display was of lace items and lace quilts, and that the volunteers rotate the exhibits throughout the year. Family trees and photos covered the walls, with hand-written captions on paper taped to the spaces around them. Black and white wedding photos of generations of Robert's Cove descendants were displayed in large portfolios with names, birth, death and marriage dates labeled on each photo. As far as I could tell, the newlyweds never embraced in a photo until 1930, the grooms all wore black leather gloves before 1920, and nobody smiled until after 1940.
Lunch had settled and it was time for dessert. I chose a sweet apple cobbler and Kathy chose German chocolate cake. It had seemed sacrilegious to walk into the small chapel earlier with beers in our hands, but justifiable now to venture into the open-air cemetery eating desserts. We speculated that the spirits were probably celebrating the festival, too, and enjoying desserts among them was perfectly acceptable as we roamed the rows. Some other festival-goers were walking through with beer mugs, so it was ok. Cemeteries tell a lot about the community. The German names, mostly ending in -ein, -atz, and -schler, on the headstones dated back to the mid-19th century. A few French names were mixed among the others, but not many. One headstone among the small children's tombs listed twin boys that must have died at birth. Another showed photos of young brothers buried side by side who died just one year apart. Tracing them back, most of the dead buried here were probably related.
Polka music was blaring from the big tent. We arrived as the band was getting the audience loosened up with the recently famous Chicken dance. Despite our agreement that this was among the most trés lame things one could ever do publicly, our Louisiana German Fest experience would surely be incomplete if we stood on the sidelines. Spotting some acquaintances, we joined in their circle and started quacking, flapping, twisting and clapping along with the others. Four large circles of festival goers joined hands to polka around the floor as each stanza moved faster and faster. It was all in good fun, hot and sweaty as it was dancing under the tent, but the band leader finally sang the words we were actually thinking: "I can't believe ....I'm doing this dance.... I feel so stupid..... I hope it ends soon..." This, however, was only the beginning of yet another annual Robert's Cove German Fest celebration in the heart of Cajun country.
It was a busy day of boating, jet-skiing, and partying on the bayou. Combined with the general imbalance that results from floating in a rocking watercraft with friends for several hours on a hot, sunny day, my adrenalin was in high gear. We shared salads, grilled fish, and chardonnay as we strummed a guitar and told stories on the deck while watching the beautiful orange and pink sunset over the bayou. By nine o'clock, I staggered to bed with a queasy feeling and a trash can at my side. Sleep was difficult because the foolish bed kept spinning.
When I awoke at four in the morning, my bad head was even worse. Thunder shook the building and harsh rain pounded the metal roof. I vowed to start a 12-step program immediately if and when I ever made it out of bed. I willed my leg to wiggle, but it refused to move. Lightning flashed. Maybe it was a sign. As I lie there with my eyes closed listening to the storm, I wondered where we had left the boat and jet ski tied to the deck the previous night. "We," I say, because the conversation about the danger of parking a boat under the deck roof had come up often. It was high on the list of things one should never do, like leaving a sun roof open in the car when you just have to run in the grocery store for a gallon of milk. But after grabbing the milk, you grab a carton of eggs. Walking toward the checkout, you remember the laundry soap. For some reason, that triggers the need for toilet paper, spaghetti noodles, and so on, and so on. By the time you reach the register, the minute-for-a-gallon-of-milk has turned into half an hour, 42 dollars and 38 cents. The gray sky has turned into rain which is now pouring through the sunroof of the car and soaking the seats and carpet. All this despite the fact that you knew to never leave the sunroof open when not in the car even though it only takes a minute to buy some milk. Surely the rain wasn't bad enough to cause any damage to the boat, I thought, and I hoped we had tied everything tightly. Thunder cracked again.
I heard thumping on the deck outside of my room. Turning toward the window, I saw a shadow flash in a lightbeam. A new kind of pain shot through my already sick stomach. Sitting upright in the bed was an unpleasant, but necessary, sudden movement. Fortunately, I had fallen asleep in my clothes the night before. I got up quickly, walked to the patio door and drew back the curtain. My father-in-law was pacing the deck wearing rubber boots with his work clothes and carrying an umbrella and flashlight. I walked onto the deck toward him as he turned to look at me with a strained expression, caused only in part because he had forgotten his glasses. Mumbling a few curses in French, he flashed the light toward the railing. All that was visible in the sleeting rain and rising bayou water was a small section of his silver boat's bow and the rope holding it to the deck post. It was officially a sunken boat.
Water from the metal roof over the deck had drained directly into the boat parked below it. The big aluminum crawfish boat didn't have a drainage pump, and had apparently flooded quickly in the torrential rain storm. The thin rope that connected the back of the boat to the deck had broken, and only the stronger front rope remained secure. We estimated that the back end of the boat sank first from the weight of the old 70-horse Evinrude motor and that it was resting in several feet of sludge under about six feet of water. I prayed that the front end weight wouldn't collapse the deck posts and roof.
Misery loves company, so we knocked on my neighbor's door. His boat was rapidly filling with water as well, and we didn't know how to start the bilge pump in it. Larry, the neighbor, opened his patio door half awake as we explained the problems for his boat and ours. After starting the pump in his boat, we stood together on the deck surveying our sunken boat in the dark, stormy night. Determining a salvage plan required caffeine, and lots of it. As the rain continued, we stood shaking our heads, sipping hot coffee, and apologizing to each other for the rain, the stupidity, and anything else that seemed worthy of a 4 a.m. condolence. There was not much else we could do then but commiserate. It was going to be a long night.
Our discussion finally turned toward solutions. Block and tackle pulley systems surfaced among the best options for raising the boat, and we debated who might have a set. Our neighbor Larry's 80-something year old daddy was a possibility but we agreed to wait until daybreak to call him. Some time around 6:00 a.m., the wait until daybreak seemed to be taking too long and Larry called his father anyway. Help was on the way! We hoped the deck beams would support the weight of raising the sunken boat. I felt the need to contemplate my new 12-step life in a horizontal position, so I popped some aspirins, 2 spoons of Pepto, and went back to bed.
Shortly after daybreak, the rain subsided. Our life jackets and boat seat had broken loose and floated down the bayou, alerting the bayou-savvy neighbors that somebody's boat had sunk. It was the first sunken boat for Mr. Pip in his 60 years of boat ownership, and he wasn't proud of it. Concerned neighbors began arriving at the deck by land and by water, returning our boat supplies that had floated their way. I wandered back onto the deck where the neighborly boat-raising crew was assembling. They debated whether 4 or 5 inches of rain had fallen during just the first hour of the storm and maybe more afterwards.
The first set of ropes and pulleys were attached to the beams near the front, left side of the boat. A second set was delivered by another neighbor and attached near the back. A long chain was produced, and Larry graciously dove to the bottom of the bayou to attach it around the back of the boat. We secured it to the pulley ropes on the deck and hoped for the best. Inch by inch, the men cranked up the pulley ropes and the boat started to rise. It tipped to the right as the water slowly drained out. Donuts arrived along with more spectators. I worried that the deck beams might crack with the weight of the boat. Visions of the roof collapsing on the unsuspecting helpers and the boat re-sinking into the bayou flashed through my mind. But nothing more tragic happened. The pulleys ropes kept hauling the boat upward. Finally, enough water drained over the side and the boat floated upright again. A few tiny brim fish flopped in the remaining water near the back. Small plastic containers were quickly gathered to bail out the water and fish by hand, one scoop at a time.
The spectators marveled and celebrated at this first phase of good fortune during their coup de main. Wasting no time, the motor experts among them began removing the Evinrude's cover and calling in French for tools. I was glad to offer the help of my needle nose pliers and some paper towel to the cause. The mood was suspenseful as the carbuerator was dismantled, the spark plugs were dried, and the gas tank, battery and motor parts were examined. Would it ever start again? That was the next hopeful question on everybody's minds.
After a few sputtering tries, the old motor started. We were all relieved and thankful. The repairmen packed up their supplies amidst an abundance of back-patting, hand shaking, and more donut consumption. They drove away casually in their own aluminum boats, content that they had offered help to their long-time acquaintance, Mr. Pip, in this time of need.
We reviewed the night's events several times as the sun rose brightly to create another hot, steamy day. It would take a week of testing the motor to be sure that it would outlive the brief excursion to the bottom of the bayou. Nobody was hurt in the rescue process, and just our prides were bruised by our carelessness. But the lessons learned from bad boat parking and overindulgence in fine wine were forever instilled in my memory bank of another day and night on the bayou.
Driving south on highway 69 one afternoon, I noticed the remains of a Mardi Gras parade float oddly out of place on the side of the two-lane road a few miles outside of White Castle, Louisiana. Vines had grown up the sidewalls and nearly covered the abandoned structure, which I guessed measured 16 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 stand or 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. With the field grass nearly two feet high around it, it was even harder to see if it was on a trailer bed or if it had been dumped there on the ground after the rolling base was salvaged.
As I drove by pondering the float on that sunny day, the glitter-covered ornamentations glistened through the encroaching greenery. Even the slightest breeze made the loose purple, green, and gold metallic fringe decorations sparkle 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 any other logical landmark.
Once upon a time the abandoned float had probably been a glorious, rolling pedestal for local revelers and a joyful sight for parade-goers who surrounded it. I imagine it had a special time and usefulness in the spotlight of the holiday season. Now it serves as field art, a rural monument, a utilitarian home for insects and mice. It's glimmering colors are a stark contrast to the natural earth tones of the farmland around it. For those who once rode on the float and for those who travel by it, the peaceful remains of the Mardi Gras float are a melancholy reminder of exciting parade events in the past.
I imagined the float's construction crew years before, gathered around a kitchen table in someone's home sipping Coke's and Bud light as an ad-hoc Krewe meeting was officially called to order a week or two after the Halloween social. They were probably more of a committee than a crew within the Krewe, having been appointed, recruited, or volunteered by their wives or brothers depending on the need.
Times were better in south Louisiana in recent years, and a Mardi Gras float that was once a luxury now became a justifiable necessity for celebrating good times. 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 had a trailer to 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 meeting, prompting furrowed brows and rubbing of chins. But optimistic discussion leading to general agreement would have followed with a decision that building a float was the right thing to do, and that they could make it happen. There was undoubtedly a lot of joking about who knew how to use a hammer and who didn't. In the end, a basic plan would have been laid out for building a float to accommodate the increasingly enthusiastic, backslapping group.
Evenings and weekends around Christmas and New Years had undoubtedly been set aside for working on the float in small teams of three or four, as the core materials came in piece by piece. Someone always did a little more building than the others who spent most of their construction time telling hunting stories, looking at catalogs, or testing food that was cooked on site or delivered by another Krewe member. But in the end, with deadlines approaching, the paint would dry, the decorations would be attached, and the excitement would build for the big day.
A lot of questions about the abandoned float remained unanswered in my mind. What year was it built, I wondered, and which town had the parade where it was used? Who rode on it 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 an official small town name like the "Krewe de Cane Sucre," or the "Good Time Krewe," or the "Krazy Krewe," or something more symbolic? Did they throw big beads, doubloons, candy and purple panties? Or was this a one-time endeavor that ended not so favorably with the committee members disbanding over a vow to never do it again? No matter the answers, someone ultimately had the task of pulling the float to the field where it now rests. Maybe they were instructed to put it on the side of the field with the intent of moving it later. Or maybe they weren't told anything and they just chose the field randomly out of convenience for where they were headed next.
It seems unlikely to me that this once chivalrous object will ever be revived. Maybe a large tractor could dislodge it from the odd parking spot where it has been left neglected for whatever reason. If that were to happen, I wonder if it would crack and crumble from the movement. Sitting there near the field, it has endured the heat, the cold, and the sun, wind and rain of many south Louisiana seasons. As the seasons come and go, and the vines regenerate to cover the float more thoroughly year after year, the now sparkling monument will evolve further into the state of a useless relic, seen but ignored.
Progress might move or bury the Mardi Gras float one day, if the fields are sold and plowed over to build a factory or a residential subdivision or apartment buildings or a shopping mall. But things don't move too fast near White Castle, Louisiana. My guess is that it will stay right where it is for many more years, and maybe for years beyond that.