Pow Wow

Just down the road from Longwood, we attended a Pow Wow of several different Native American tribes, gathered at the site of the long-vanished Natchez community. A Boy Scout Camporee was also in attendance, with tents here and there in the surrounding woods.

It was an unseasonably warm day, but budding hardwoods dappled the surrounding booths of Native American crafts  and food-vendors with shade.

Every possible Southern-fried thing (including pickles, Twinkies, and funnel cake), lemonade, sweet-tea, sausage, corn-dogs, and tacos distracted people from the heat and fueled the circular processions and dances out in the open field.

The 4-beat-per-second drumming of a great pow-wow drum became the heart of the event, occasionally hit harder for emphasis by the many elders honored with the task. Participants in handsome Native regalia, accompanied by the rhythmic ring of knee and ankle straps of brass bells, punctuated the otherwise prosaic crowd of T-shirted tourists and khaki-clad scouts.

Flanking the pow-wow activities in the field, rose two ancient green mounds of the Natchez. The larger  one had once been the dwelling-place of the Great Sun chief,  and now provided people a fine overlook on the gathering below, as well as a serious grassy roll-down for small boys.

These mounds would be the first of many more we’d see later on the Natchez Trace.

Frogmore Plantation

Back in Louisiana, just west of our campground, is cotton country. Before flood control, the Mississippi River periodically flooded its west bank low country creating ideal soil for cotton growing. The plantation owners held vast acreage in Louisiana to grow their cotton, and built their palatial homes, like Longwood, on the high, flood-proof bluffs of Natchez across the river in Mississippi.

The cotton boll ready for picking.

We’d seen cotton fields in Alabama, with their three-foot high stalks unpicked, a dull plum color, with the white bolls shabby and blowing into small drifts in the ditches that got us curious about the cotton growing process.

Frogmore Plantation, an actual present-day working cotton farm, gives a tour presenting the history and present day story of cotton production in detail. That history pays great attention to the pre and post Civil War lives of the slaves at Frogmore.

Slave quarters.

Slave quarters interiors

Lynette Tanner, the present owner of Frogmore, wearing simple period dress, took us through the various outbuildings of the farm and proved to be a gifted teacher of history who could entertain and answer all questions.

A still-functioning Munger Cotton Gin. One of two in existence–the other is in the Smithsonian.

The heart of the Munger cotton engine (gin) where the seeds are separated from the cotton.

When I asked about the standing Alabama cotton fields, she frowned as LA requires ALL fields to be cut at the end of season to discourage boll weevils, which are still a major threat. She obviously loves her business, is happy that UnderArmor has been shown the superiority of cotton which will be replacing the synthetics it’s currently using, and she’s an excellent promoter of American cotton–not to mention the gift shop!

Longwood

Longwood, in Natchez, is a poignant example of the reversal of Southern fortunes, having been the dream-house of wealthy cotton producer Dr. Haller Nutt. He had vast plantations of cotton, 800 slaves, and had decided to build his family a spectacular ‘Oriental’ showpiece of a house, designed by a Philadelphia architect, to outshine his neighbors’ standard, Greek Revival-style mansions. It’s the largest octagonal house built in the US, but unfortunately, after its magnificent outer structure was finished and the basement had just been made habitable, the war stopped the interior construction; it’s skilled workers leaving their tools and returning home to the North for what they thought would be a short interruption.

Nutt was not in favor of secession. He was victim of the times, nonetheless, and his cotton plantations and other holdings were burned by the Confederates so they wouldn’t be assets for the Union army. Fallen from great wealth into ruinous debt, Poor Nutt died of pneumonia and stress at 41, leaving his wife and 8 children to make do with the 10,000 square foot basement space in which to live.

At this point in the narrative of our hoop-skirted, garden club docent, the damn Yankee in me ‘innocently’ asked what happened to the 800 slaves, and sort of derailed her spiel about the Nutt family’s terrible misfortunes. (it’s a dirty little job but someone has to do it, and I’d recently read enough antebellum black history to feel it was mine) I’d seen the adjacent quarters built for the slaves, and had heard of the 700,000 bricks they’d made on the premises for Longwood’s construction, not to mention the fortunes their aching backs and bleeding fingers had made for the cotton industry. I’m sure many of those women had had at least 8 children as well. Ah well.

The upper floors of Longwood are frozen forever in a state of  incompletion , which is actually more interesting architecturally, with the still visible brick and cypress construction, which would have otherwise been ‘finished’ with painted plaster inside and stone-stimulating stucco outside. As we creaked about the raw, dusty second floor, our docent said, “This would have been the drawing room,” or, “This would have been the breakfast room.” It remains a hunting commentary on wealth, hubris, and the transience of all things: especially dreams.

Natchez and Another Roadside Attraction

We crossed the river to Natchez, explored the visitor center, one street of antique shops, and then went down Silver St. to ‘Under-the-Hill’. Beneath the bluffs (Natchez proper) where respectable folk built their fine homes and culture, Under-the-Hill (sometimes referred to as Natchez improper) used to be a low area of disrepute with all manner of shady businesses looking to fleece the crews of the docking riverboats.  In Mark Twain’s time, hundreds of paddle-wheeled steamboats passed this spot loaded down with passengers and freight.

All that remains is a large, disappointing, riverboat casino, ‘The Isle of Capri’ that’s permanently moored there. We boarded her, took an elevator up from the chaotic chimes and flashing lights of the slot machines and fog of cigarette smoke on the main deck, to dine in its upper restaurant, only to discover that its recent refurbishment had replaced all the clear windows with frosted glass, negating what could have been a pleasant river view, and the stale cigarette smoke negated the smells of the buffet. We disembarked.

Big Momma’s Barbecue sounded promising: it might be the same sort of discovery as Rita Mae’s had been in Morgan City. It turned out to be similar: tiny, with just a few tables inside and sincere Southern food. It had its own smoke-house out back and our meals both had some excellent smoked turkey as part of them, with no cigarette smoke. The proprietor was very friendly and food was good.

Next day, we couldn’t resist dining at Mammy’s Cupboard, built in the 40s, first serving as a gas-station, later as a gift shop and now as a very busy little lunch restaurant known for its chicken pot pies.

The dining room was not in the ingeniously bricked skirt, but in a rectangular building behind it, but road-side architectural oddities like this must be supported or they’ll disappear from the landscape altogether.

Crossing the Atchafalaya Basin

With a longing to return, we left Cajun Country headed north and east, crossing the Atchafalaya Basin, the largest swamp in the country, and its floodways. Roads are few and follow the levees.

We landed at a campground on the mighty Mississippi in Vidalia, LA.. Powerful tugs propel long flotillas of barges up and down the river, their low-frequency ‘rumble-hum’ throbbing a long passage past this pleasant green shoreline campground opposite the bluffs of Natchez, MS.

Tomorrow we cross the bridge to Natchez to see what’s on the other side of Ol’ Muddy.

Heard about this accordion maker…

Martin Accordions are handmade in Scott. We called about a tour, and timed it right to be included in a group tour already booked. Several generations of the Martin family have been making their accordions by hand in this small workshop. These aren’t the big, piano-key accordions associated with Lawence Welk and Oktoberfests, but rather the smaller ‘button-boxes’ that produce a rich and lively Cajun sound that’s almost irresistible to healthy feet.

We were treated to a lecture/jam session with three Martins spanning three generations. We learned much about the whole family of accordions, originally called melodeons, and the differences between Cajun (French Acadian story-songs in 3/4 or 4/4 time) and Zydeco (more black/jazz style with simple, repetitive lyrics and a wild, compelling 2-step beat) Both of these styles are still evolving and Joel Martin, a young master of the accordion, said that there’s also now a style known as Zydecajun. BTW, he’s played at Café Des Amis and explained that most musicians appearing there simply don’t go to bed the night before.

This music runs up your spine and cleans the cobwebs out, and would be great for cleaning house, or any situation where you need to tap into your high energy. It takes possession of your feet and spirit, utterly.

St. Martinville

After Zydeco, we traveled south a bit to St. Martinville, the center of Acadian culture in the USA. At The Evangeline National Park we toured an early Acadian plantation cottage, and learned lots about Acadian farmers and their architecture. Did you know that they lived on the second storey of a house because the mosquitoes don’t fly that high?

Then, we went into the downtown. St. Martinville was having a festival. We were too late for the food, the parade of antique autos, and probably many other things, but in time to see lovely wooden boats, the Acadian pirogues, plying the Bayou Teche, with other beautifully crafted wooden boats displayed on shore.

We also saw the statue of Emmeline Labiche beside the Church of St. Martin. Emmeline Labiche and Louis Arceneaux were Acadian lovers separated by the British transports of 1755. They were reputed to have finally reunited in a joyful embrace beneath the oak tree at Bayou Teche in St. Martinville, only to have Emmeline learn that Louis had married during their long separation.

She lost her sanity and died soon after, inspiring Longfellow’s poem, ‘Evangeline’. Though the story is tangled in myth, it illustrates the truth of a very cruel time: The Grand Dérangement, in the history of the Acadian, or ‘Cajun’ people. Their extraordinary joie de vivre today comes out of their indomitable spirit. They work hard and play harder, and every happy thing warrants a festival or celebration with abundant food and music.

As for the live oaks, there are so many venerable, history-witnessing ones here: their muscular boughs, hairy with resurrection fern, arch and undulate over dappled lawns, sometimes drooping to rest an elbow into the ground before rising again to continue their serpentine way, their shiny green foliage thickly bearded with Spanish moss that waves gracefully, if funereally, in the breezes along the bayou. I’ve seen no tree-houses, and only one or two tire swings fastened to these trees. These mighty tree-divinities command respect, awe, and stewardship. Once one turns 100 years old, it is named and cataloged, and never cut down.

Now off to Natchez, MS, leaving the Cajun Country with a longing to return to experience the warm, friendly people, the hot food, and the hot music!