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!

Zydeco in the Morning?

The slab-slamming cement road to Breaux Bridge proved to be long and brutal, with our rig porpoising horribly the whole way. When we arrived at the Poche Fish ‘n’ Camp RV Park feeling bruised and battered, we really missed ‘Happy Hour’ at Betty’s: so much so that we just settled the ePod and headed out for an early dinner.

The Pont Breaux, proved to be an excellent Cajun restaurant where a local band played and people danced while we enjoyed some lovely gumbo, followed by wonderfully grilled shrimp and catfish. One couple of a certain age, danced their Cajun steps with such precision and solemn joy; probably had been doing so together for at least 50 years. A younger woman, stepping alone, playing a triangle, orbited the other dancers, to stop and teach children how to play that traditional percussion instrument of Cajun music, forged from old hay-rake tines. Such a rich culture and it’s being kept alive!

The big draw in Breaux Bridge, besides the drawbridge, is Café Des Amis. Now, this Café was a bit more of a challenge to get to. It’s famous for it’s Saturday morning Zydeco breakfast. Breakfast is served at 8 and you want to be sure you make it for the first sitting, so you get up early–in our case 5:45. We drove in a dense fog, before sunrise, depending on Garmina to get us there to get in line early. We were so glad we hadn’t tried to make that run from Betty’s! We made it by 7, and we were not the first to arrive!

7am on a foggy Saturday

We’re no longer morning people, and don’t generally think musicians are, either, but waiting in the pre-sunrise fog, we watched Corey Ledet and his Zydeco group arrive and carry in all their sound equipment to set up. We struck up a conversation with another waiting couple from Kodiak, Alaska, Cid and Fritz, on a one-week Cajun whirlwind tour.

Waiting in the dim dawn.

Cid & Fritz join us.

The doors open at 8, you pay your $5 cover, and they seat you in any available seat, no empty seats allowed! Sitting with Cid and Fritz, we ordered Bloody Marys with pickled haricots vert, worked our way through a great breakfast of eggs, boudin patties, biscuits and andouille grits while the band continued its set up and sound-check.

Eggs & grits

Boudin omlet & grits

Then the place exploded with Zydeco and the dance floor filled immediately!

We tried to eat slowly, ‘cause when you finish, you lose your seat to others waiting in line. Ordering another Bloody Mary and some beignets stalled for only so long. Then it was dancing until noon!

Cid gets her chance at the rub-board, also known as a frottoir!

Wow, what a day and it’s only noon! Can’t stop now, on to St. Martinville.

On to Betty’s!

We’d heard about a place called Betty’s RV Park in Abbeville, LA: intriguing, glowing stories. After the death of her husband, the cherished RV lifestyle was no longer the same for Betty Bernard, so she decided to open her own RV park where the road could come to her. It has: beyond her, or others’ wildest expectations.

There’s a sign at the entrance that reads, ‘You’re caught in Betty’s web.’ We were skeptical, as we inched our way into an extremely crowded settlement of large RVs parked cheek-by-jowl, to the point we weren’t sure we’d want to squeeze in.

We muttered to each other, ‘Well, it‘s only for 3 days, after all’, but Betty came out and expertly guided us to a spot, then told us Happy Hour would start at 4:30. We’d heard that this was one of the great features. We attended, BYO, and met the most amazing crowd of interesting, lively people who soon felt like family.

Happy Hour 4:30 every day at Betty's

Many people first came for a few days and ended up staying longer. Many have returned the following year for weeks, staying longer, into months, and eventually for a season. It happens! We added three more days, but to do so we had to move to a different spot. This is called The Betty Shuffle and is a rite of passage for those who surrender to the web. Our new friends nodded knowingly and congratulated us on now being truly one of them.

Saturday morning at Betty’s, two musician friends, Cal and Dan had asked me to join them in a jam session Sunday afternoon. Dan, the guitar-player, is a lovely software retiree  who’s collected notebooks full of lyrics and tabs, and constantly learning on an exquisite guitar his wife, Merlene, gave him. Cal, the keyboard-player, is an equally sweet man who’s never had a lesson, can’t sight-read, but can improvise just about anything brilliantly. (How I envy that gift!)

Dan, Léna and Cal

They also told us we had to go to Le Café de Musée in Erath, not far down the road. (It’s actually a bar adjacent to the Musée Acadien, a densely-packed collection of Erath memorabilia and Acadian history).

Every other Saturday at 2:00 PM this bar is the home of a Cajun jam session. A rotating group of musicians, singing, playing guitar, pedal steel guitar, drums, and, of course accordion, jam for four hours and people get to drink beer, dance and enjoy.

Sometime after 4:00, the wait staff suddenly brings out to-go containers of dinner for all–for free! Great beef-stroganoff, gumbo, bread, and sliced peaches for dessert! Talk about Southern hospitality!

I’d sung exercises in the shower, wanting to live up to what I’d told them of my long-ago folk-singing history, but cigarette smoke in the Museum Café had done me in, and I woke up Sunday raspy as a raven. I feared I’d make an utter fool of myself. I began to dread failure. It had been so long since I’d sung. So, when Cal and Dan started jamming, on Sunday, I let loose a few tentative notes, then just sat and listened. They seemed to think I had a voice and asked for a song.

Betty

Their kindness and my heart carried me, back into full-bodied, soaring song, still there, still remembered. Even the body said, ‘What the heck, this CAN happen’, and it was pure, breathing joy. After singing the ‘House of the Rising Sun’, (which I’d so much wanted to wail down Conti St. in NOLA, but knew I’d get ticketed for busking without a permit). I just jammed: jazz-liberated, knowing my voice would go where I felt it to go, through my whole vocal range, braiding with the sounds of these two wonderful musicians, and yes, I flew. After so long, I thought that was all gone, Lyme-dead. No so. Thanks guys. You’ll never know what you did for me.

At Betty’s, birthdays are important. One Saturday arrival had a birthday on Sunday, but as Betty was expecting to magically park 3 arrivals that day, a celebratory lunch outing was out of the question. As most area restaurants are closed Sunday evenings, she decreed an evening pot-luck to celebrate. It was truly a great pot-luck! Betty’s is just superlative!

Betty also has guests stop by her happy hours. We met Kristi, one of the “Swamp People” from the History Channel and singer Judy Bailey.

Kristi and Judy

We’d re-upped twice at Betty’s and were almost persuaded by all to extend further, but we wanted to get the famed Zydeco/breakfast at Café des Amis in Breaux Bridge and knew that getting there from Betty’s would be too far. So, we hooked up and left for Breaux Bridge.

Thanks y'all!

Next, we moved on to New Iberia.

Our first morning is chilly but sunny, and the light promises beauty not to be found in this RV park. It’s an old one, full of tired, long-term trailers, among which are 5 vintage, unrestored Airstreams. The park owner has collected them and rents them, we suspect, to oil-rig workers off their work cycles from rigs in the gulf. We are flanked by untenanted trailers, which make things more private, if a bit desolate. The few trees in the park are song-posts for mocking-birds and a cardinal, singing his territory. These are the scant adornments of this place. Fortunately, we’re not here for the RV accommodations, but for the rich Cajun culture that surrounds it.

We’d heard about an Airstream Cajun Rally after it was fully booked, so we’re creating one on our own, and doing quite well, so far. We found Landry’s Restaurant where whole families danced to live Cajun music, while we buffet-dined on etouffee, jambalaya, red beans and rice, crab bisque, okra and crawfish gumbo, hush puppies, stuffed crabs, okra/eggplant/crawfish casserole, boiled shrimp, and bread pudding. We had to pace ourselves.

Avery Island

Not far from here, are the beautiful and diverse attractions of Avery Island. The island, surrounded by swamp, is a massive salt-dome that’s one of the largest in the world. After the civil war, Edmund McIlhenny, a war-ruined bank owner, had moved in with his in-laws in their plantation home on Avery Island, where he tended the family garden, including tabasco peppers. Over time, he figured out the exact red ripeness needed for the perfect pepper. Even now, his pickers carry ‘un petit baton rouge’, a dowel painted the proper shade of red to match the color of the perfect pepper for picking a peck. He then mashed and salted the pepper pulp (remember the salt dome?) and aged the result in cleaned-out Jack Daniels whiskey barrels for three years. During that time, juices and gasses from the fermentation would bubble out of a hole in the top of the barrel. To keep contaminants from entering the vent hole, a layer of salt was spread on top of each barrel.

Fermentation barrels with a coating of salt on top.

After this fermentation was complete, grain vinegar was added and voilà! Tabasco sauce! It was prized by friends and family and soon McIlhenny was bottling to sell commercially. His entrepreneurial genius eventually spread Tabasco sauce into a vast, hot, worldwide empire and established a tourist trap on Avery Island.

We’d taken the Tabasco tour, but it being Sunday, no factory activities were running, and the only part shown on working days is the bottling, (750,000 bottles a day). The films and exhibits were well done, with an actual full, working mash stirrer (redolent of hot pepper), aging barrels with their salt-crusted tops, a detailed scale model of the entire island, showing its peculiar topography due to the salt dome beneath, and hands-on devices for kids to determine the hotness of Tabasco.

BTW, Tabasco is a town in Mexico, and the name, meaning ‘hot and humid’, perfectly describes the Louisiana location where the specially-selected pepper seeds are raised before being shipped to South America to be planted in a grand scale in that optimum growing climate.

Where Tabasco Sauce is bottled.

The bottling line.

Another, and arguably more interesting feature of Avery Island are the Jungle Gardens.

From the island’s layer of topsoil grows a lush woodland of massive live oaks, a bamboo forest, camellia, azalea, holly, and palm plantings. Surrounding all of this, are lagoons of ‘gators, turtles, herons and egrets.

One large lagoon has long, elevated bamboo piers, on which hundreds of egrets nest and to which they return from their migrations. This remarkable ‘Bird City’ was created by McIlhenny’s conservationist son, using some South-American-imported egrets’ eggs. He hatched them, cared for them, and after their winter migration to South America, they returned to Bird City and have been doing so ever since.

Bird City

The entire ‘Jungle’ is looped with gravel roads for people to drive, park, and explore. I’m sure there must be a season where people can enjoy a stroll. On our self-guided tour, the trick was to jump out of the truck and photograph all this beauty before mosquitoes found us for their blood meal. They were very much out in force, explaining all the different bottles of repellant on the Jungle Gardens’ Gift Shop counter! Sometimes, breezes protected us, but often, not: very distracting when you’re trying to get a perfect composition, light exposure, and focus.

Live Oak

Azeleas

Bamboo forest

Konrico Rice

Determined to track down as many elements of Cajun cooking as we could, we visited the Konriko Rice Mill: the first of its kind in the U.S. It was probably saved from eventual ruin by its current owners’ efforts to get it registered as an historical site, thus guaranteeing that its operations could continue, unchanged, in the same charmingly antiquated but ingenious processes of the last century. The twenty-plus people employed here don’t seem to mind being part of a functioning antiquity and the number of rice products they produce and ship everywhere is impressive: lots of great rice mixes, spice mixes, gluten-free mixes as well as finished products: everything you could possibly need to become a good Cajun cook, including the generous advice of our store-keeper/docent, who grew up here and has stirred giant pots of gumbo, jambalaya, and etouffee ever since she was old enough to hold a paddle.

Before touring the old mill, we watched a good little film on the history of Acadiana, from the tragic deporting of French Canadians by the British in 1755, to their desperate years seeking a new place in which to survive and finding it at last in the Eden of the Louisiana bayou country.

Jeanerette

Seeking area history, we found a delightful museum in Jeanerette, housed in a sweet pink Victorian House. Its many rooms surprised us with the diversity and abundance of donated artifacts from the region. Very little was under glass and our charming docent led us from room to room, delighted to answer any and all questions as she turned on the lights before us and turned them off behind us. What could have been an attic-like jumble was artfully arranged and the dedication of local volunteers to conserve and instruct Jeanerette’s history was inspiring.

We’d been told not to miss the Le Jeune Bakery, and like the Konriko Rice Company, this 5-generations-old bakery has been listed as an Historical site, with the obligatory tour. Like Konriko, nothing can be changed, but the present Le Jeune-in-charge, Mathew, knows machine fabricators in the oil industry who can make replacement parts for the elderly ovens, and mixers. Le Jeune makes an extraordinary ginger cake: really a cross between cake and bread, with a light ginger flavor. I wish we’d bought more; must order some online. We also bought some warm-from-the-oven French bread and garlic bread, both of tender, memorable texture and taste. Mathew trucks his breads to NOLA, and in turn, carries NOLA’s Hubig’s tarts mentioned in the HBO series, ‘Tremé’. We got some and they’re in our freezer, waiting for a nostalgic viewing of ‘Tremé’.

We finally found a vet with a good groomer, and Sprocket was restored to his former elegant self.

A well-groomed, decorated Sprocket.

I had to record the silly ribbon, but took it off immediately afterward and despite the discomfort of its removal, he seemed most grateful. Now he’s cooler, and full of himself: just in time for a surprising heat-wave.