Louisiana: What They Do in North Louisiana For Fun

Heretofore, my primary cultural informant on northern Louisianans has been Dave Robicheaux, and he's a fictional character. Dave doesn't think much of northern Louisianans.

An actual North Louisianan recently offered me some information about his homeland.

While it may be true that not much drinkin,' dancin,' music-makin' or boudin-eatin' may be going on (and y'all know these are sure-fire fun), let it not be said that North Louisianans don't know how to have a good time.

Three Things North Louisianans Like to Do for Fun: 

1. Poke a wasp nest with a stick and then run like H- E - Double Hockey Sticks

This was a favorite, childhood past-time of my informant. As noted above, my informant is of the male persuasion, information that is probably redundant considering the nature of the activity.


2. Tie a string to a june bug's leg and fly him like a kite.

When the same North Louisianan told me that when he was a child, he and his friends would tie a string around a june bug's leg and walk behind it while it flew, it sounded fantastical, but, damn, it's true! Not just in North Louisiana, but elsewhere. 

Below is a story about this very thing from a North Carolinian. The story is called June Bugs, a page from the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Story, administered by the library of the same name.  I wouldn't normally post an entire story from another source, but this well-told story seems to be on an archive page, and I'd hate for it to be lost in the ethernet. Wish I knew the author's name.

I REMEMBER THE FUN we had during June bug time. These big green bugs appeared from nowhere just about the season that our peaches got ripe.

We would get up early in the morning to hunt June bugs. The only equipment needed was a jar to put them in and string to tie on their legs. We had to be very particular about the kind of string we used because a piece that was too heavy would cut down on their ability to "june," and a piece that was too fine and sharp would cut off their hind legs.

An overripe peach was an excellent place to find June bugs since they like to eat soft fruit. Whenever we spied a cluster of them on a peach, we crept up on them as quietly as a cat stalks a mouse. The poor unsuspecting bugs would be poised with their heads down in the fruit and their fat green bodies sticking up, enjoying a luscious meal when our hands would close over them like a vise. They scrambled madly in our hands. Sometimes the tickling of their tiny feet was too much, and we’d have to let go. Usually, we held on until one or two were deposited in the jar.

After a good number were caught, we selected a big strong-looking bug and tied a string on his hind leg. Then we were ready for him to "june." When we threw him out in the air he would fly frantically in an arc making a buzzing sound. Sometimes one would be stubborn and wouldn’t begin to fly quickly enough to suit us, so we would give him a few hard swings around in the air to stir him up and start him buzzing.

We always evaluated each bug’s ability to "june" because some performed much better than others. As they were put through the selection process, the strings with the best "juners" were tied to a banister or a bush while the auditions continued. Quite frequently, all of the tethered ones would decide to start buzzing and flying around at the same time. This created quite a commotion and became a serious problem.

"Oh!" we screamed as we saw what was happening and then made a dive for them, but we were often too slow. The strings would get tangled in a hopeless mass as the bugs buzzed in and out around each others before we could separate them. In desperation, we would cut them loose and let them fly away, strings dangling behind them like kite tails. Sometimes, the poor things would get caught on a limb or a bush and hang there buzzing madly. If they were not too high up in a tree, we would try to liberate them, but their fate was often to provide a bird with a delectable dinner.

I mustn’t forget the awful stink that accompanied hunting for June bugs. They had a sickening odor that made vigorous hand washing necessary before the smell could be eradicated.

We usually emptied our jar of bugs in the evening, but each morning during June bug time, we would again be on the hunt to replenish the jars with big green bugs.

3. Immigrate to South Louisiana

  

Louisiana: New Iberia: The White Sugar Festival

I was scoping the horizon for things to do this weekend and found the Sugar Cane Festival in New Iberia. Woohoo! Ever since I arrived in South Louisiana last November, I'd wanted to be sure and go to this festival.

Excited, I checked out the bands that were to perform.

Oh. That's odd. Most often, South Louisiana festivals feature a mix of regional music: Cajun or Creole, zydeco, swamp pop, and the occasional oldies cover band. Even venues that highlight only one band at a time tend to rotate the genres.

I don't subscribe to the idea of "black music" or "white music." There's no such thing. (As a friend from another country once said, "people confuse culture with color.") Nevertheless, as I looked at the music line-up for the Sugar Cane Festival, I noticed it was firmly homogenous.

But you decide for yourself:

• Taken Back Yesterday. Rock 'n roll cover band. 
• Spank the Monkey. Rock 'n roll.
• Louisiana Red. Cover band - many genres.
• Wayne Toups. "Zydecajun."
• Bad Boys. "Variety and dance band"
• The Vermilion. unknown.
• Debbie Deb.
• Chee Whiz. "Kiss" cover band.

I can't find images for the Bad Boys or The Vermilion. I don't see the members of Wayne Toups' band. Of the bands where I can see their members, I see one black musician.

The city of New Iberia is 53% white and 42% black. Louisiana at large is 63% white and 32% black.

I perceived an exclusionary subtext in the musical line-up.

Is perception reality? No, of course not. But as they say, "perception is everything." And as I dug deeper to see if I was jumping too early to conclusions, I discovered there is a history of bad feelings surrounding this festival in the New Iberia community. 

Based on my perceptions, I made a decision not to attend this festival.

Rootless: Long Walk: "This Wild Call From Inside Me"

Sarah Marquis. Source: Femina

"After a year, year and a half, I get this urge to go. I get cranky. And my family says, ‘All right, it’s time to go.’"

Source: New York Times, 25 September 2014.

Sarah Marquis is one of National Geographic's Adventurers of the Year for 2014.

The New York Times has a long interview with her in The Woman Who Walked 10,000 Miles in Three Years.

I like reading about women who take long journeys. Some previous examples: 

Rootless Lit: Eighty Days - about Nelly Bly's and Elizabeth Bisland's competitive race around the world in 1889.

Janet Moreland's (a fellow Missourian of a certain age) solo kayak trek down the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers in 2013.

"One Thing That Scares You A Day Keeps Apathy at Bay" with references to Molly Langmuir's solo hike in the Grand Tetons and Cheryl Strayed's solo hike on the Pacific Crest Trail.

Sisters of Sinai: How Two Lady Adventurers Discovered the Hidden Gospels around the turn of the 20th century.

Louisiana: New Iberia: Armless Jesus

New Iberia, Louisiana. Armless Jesus.

Louisiana: Franklin

Franklin, Louisiana.

Behind the main drag, I like the colors and shapes.

Louisiana: Delcambre: Blue Boats

Blue boats, Delcambre, Louisiana. August 2014.

Blue boats, Delcambre, Louisiana. August 2014.

Louisiana: Are You a Teacher?

Oh, how many times have I been asked that since I've lived in South Louisiana!

Strangers ask me this question, and it happened again just last night.

I respect teachers. And because South Louisiana must have more teachers per square inch than perhaps anywhere else in the world, I've had the pleasure of meeting many lovely representatives of the teaching profession here.

I have discussed this "are you a teacher?" question at some length with a local buddy, also a transplant from Not Around Here. He is of the opinion that he can identify a teacher from afar. His claim has some credibility because he used to be a teacher and had ample time to study many females of the species in their natural habitat. Last night I asked him to define exactly how one profiles a (woman) teacher, and here's what he said --> A woman is possibly a teacher if she wears a:

• Jean skirt;
• Flow-y skirt; 
• Skirt that falls below the knees; 
• Sandals with wide straps; 
• Gabardine shirt;
• Blouse that is worn over a skirt (i.e. not tucked in); 
• Blouse or dress with a bold print; or
• Shirt that covers her ass.  

He suggested I could probably go online and find websites devoted to what teachers wear. I said I would definitely do this, because based on my experience in South Louisiana, maybe my very own photo is on those websites as a Sample Teacher.

Here are the results of my search on what teachers wear. You be the judge of my buddy's analysis:

Teachers Have Lives, Too

Chioma's Evolution of Style

Pencil Lead and Lace

Again, I love teachers. But it's got to be said that teachers don't have the same panache as, say, librarians.With librarians you never know what they're going to do, like pull off their glasses, let down their hair from that tight bun, and you know, become very un-librarianlike while maintaining their presumed intellect. Librarians are unpredictable, thus a little dangerous. But not teachers. Nope, teachers go to prison for doing what librarians do.

This morning I shared my experience with several women, all of whom are native South Louisianans. I wondered if such queries might even be a local culture thing - maybe other people are approached with conjectures about their profession. Maybe it's just a conversation starter.

The jury's still out on all that, but we considered a couple of new responses to the question:

"Yes! I teach pole dancing! How could you tell?"

Flash a fake badge and say, "No, I'm with the FBI on an undercover operation, and things are about to pop. Move away or you might get hurt."

One of the woman said, "Well, what profession do you want people to think you have?"

Good question. I don't want them to have an assumption about my profession. If anyone is going to say anything, I'd like them to say to me what a stranger said to me in Bernalillo, New Mexico: "You are really having fun, aren't you?" and the answer would be yes.


Note: The fact that I am a teacher is beside the point. 

Lafayette, Louisiana: Sweet Baby Breezus!

Awhile back, one of my kind cultural informants introduced me to The French Press Cafe in Lafayette.

The menu seduces with smooth south Louisiana charm:

I remember my very first encounter with the sensual pleasure of a spoonful of Steen's Syrup. It felt like the shocking rush of a narcotic. Or what I imagine such to be. Not a substance to play with. 

Louisiana: Lake Martin, Late Summer, #3

I like the composition and textures of this scene.

Lake Martin, Louisiana. Septmber 2014.

Louisiana: Lake Martin, Late Summer, #2

There's something about the lilypads on Lake Martin that draws me.

Lake Martin, Louisiana. September, 2014.

Lake Martin, Louisiana. September, 2014.

Lake Martin, Louisiana. September, 2014.

Lake Martin, Louisiana. September, 2014.

Louisiana: Lake Martin, Late Summer, #1

On a recent kayak tour on Lake Martin, I saw water droplets on lilypads that were more beautiful than any designer crystals. If I disturbed a leaf, the droplets moved like liquid creatures across the surface. 

Gad, how difficult it was for me and my companion to maneuver the kayak to the right spot and without movement to get a decent pic! Didn't quite succeed, but these are the best I could get:

Lake Martin, Louisiana, September 2014

Lake Martin, Louisiana, September 2014

Louisiana Lit: Katrina in a Nutshell

Titling a post "Katrina in a Nutshell" may sound grandiose.

But when I read the first chapter in James Lee Burke's book, Tin Roof Blowdown, I thought it might be one of the most powerful pieces of literature I'd ever read. When I say "powerful," I mean that in the sense of receiving a punch full in the face.

An excerpt from that chapter:

In the dream I [Dave Robicheaux] lie on a poncho liner [in Vietnam], dehydrated with blood expander, my upper thigh and side torn by wounds that could have been put there by wolves. I am convinced I will die .... Next to me lies a Negro corporal, wearing only his trousers and boots, .... his torso split open like a gaping red zipper from his armpit down to his groin, the damage to his body so grievous, traumatic, and terrible to see or touch he doesn't understand what has happened to him. 

"I got the spins, Loot. How I look?" he says. 

"We've got the million-dollar ticket, Doo-doo. We're Freedom Bird bound," I reply.  ... 

The Jolly Green [helicopter] loads up and lifts off, with Doo-doo and twelve other wounded on board. I stare upward at its strange rectangular shape, its blades whirling against a lavender sky, and secretly I resent the fact that I and others are left behind to wait on the slick and the chance that serious numbers of NVA are coming through the grass. Then I witness the most bizarre and cruel and seemingly unfair event of my entire life. 

As the Jolly Green climbs above the river and turns toward the China Sea, a solitary RPG streaks at a forty-five-degree angle from the canopy below and explodes inside the bay. The ship shudders once and cracks in half, its fuel tanks blooming into an enormous orange fireball. The wounded on board are coated with flame as they plummet downward toward the water. 

Their lives are taken incrementally - by flying shrapnel and bullets, by liquid flame on their skin, and by drowning in a river. In effect, they are forced to die three times. A medieval torturer could not have devised a more diabolic fate. 

..... When I wake from the dream, ...assure myself that the dream is only a dream, that if it were real I would have heard sounds and not simply seen images that are the stuff of history now and are not considered of interest by those who are determined to re-create them. 

... When I go back to sleep, I once again tell myself I will never again have to witness the wide-scale suffering of innocent civilians, nor the betrayal and abandonment of our countrymen when they need us most.  

But that was before Katrina. That was before a storm with greater impact than the bomb blast that struck Hiroshima peeled the face off southern Louisiana. That was before one of the most beautiful cities in the Western Hemisphere was killed three times, and not just by the forces of nature. 

 There's nothing I can add to that.

Louisiana: We Still Stop for Carcasses

Dead bluejay, Franklin, Louisiana

In December 2012, when I was in New Mexico, my mother came to visit. I wrote this post: We Stop for Carcasses.

Still do, and the number of photos has increased to the point of warranting a slide show:



~~~~

Not sure why I mark these remains of what used to be life. Perhaps it's that taking a photo and sharing that photo is a conscious noticing of them.

The original post: 

"We Stop for Carcasses."

My mother, Carol, who is visiting me from Missouri, and I were driving at a speedy clip down Highway 117, I think, when I saw chicken-sized ravens making merry on the remains of a large mammal. I wondered if I should stop to take a look, but passed on.

I commented to Carol, "Did you see that animal the ravens were eating"?
"No," she said. 
I asked, "Do you want me to turn around"? 
"Yes. We stop for carcasses," she replied.

So I turned around.

Dead elk, Highway 117, New Mexico

Earlier in Carol's visit, we'd stopped for this fallen elk on Highway 70 between Tularosa and Mescalero.

Dead elk, Highway 70, New Mexico

As Carol was framing her shot, a car pulled up behind us. A man emerged and walked toward us. What? Ah, he was a tourist from Nebraska. He had his camera out, too.

A few years ago, on another trip to New Mexico with my mother, I stopped for a wilderpee along Highway 152, only to almost stumble on this dead dog.

Dead dog, Highway 152, New Mexico

Speaking of almost stumbling on carrion while finding a good place to relieve oneself, here's a shot of a dead deer in Carson National Forest, also in New Mexico, on yet another past trip.  I got all artistic on this shot.  

Dead deer, Carson National Forest, New Mexico

 There has been no lack of carrion in Missouri, either:

Dead armadillo, Highway 21, Missouri

Dead frog, Missouri

Dead snake, Missouri

Dead something, Highway 21, Missouri

Then there was the horse in Nazret, Ethiopia:

Dead horse, Nazret, Ethiopia

... and the one in Monument Valley:

Dead horse, Monument Valley

This poor bird got caught in some branches in Arkansas:

Dead duck, Arkansas

Remains of dove killed by hawk, which later return for leftovers. Alamogordo, NM

 We stop for carcasses.

The Louisiana Proposition

"I'd really like to wax your car."

The Bayou Teche: Highway 182 Between New Iberia and Jeanerette

Bayou Teche, Highway 182, Louisiana

In July, the Bayou Teche has a belly full of water from daily rains.

Bayou Teche, Highway 182, Louisiana

Bayou Teche, Highway 182, Louisiana

Bayou Teche, Highway 182, Louisiana

Bayou Teche, Highway 182, Louisiana

Bayou Teche, Highway 182, Louisiana

Bayou Teche, Highway 182, Louisiana

Bayou Corne, Louisiana: The Sinkhole, Part 1

Bayou Corne, Louisiana

Just a little over a year ago, while still in New Mexico, I ran across something astonishing. Well, three astonishing things.

Below is my September 2013 post:

Louisiana: The Sea Below

I'm not in Louisiana yet - won't be til November, but this grabbed my attention: 
From the New York Times article, Ground Gives Way, and a Louisiana Town Struggles to Find Its Footing:
Much of Louisiana sits atop an ancient ocean whose salty remains, extruded upward by the merciless pressure of countless tons of rock, have formed at least 127 colossal underground pillars. Seven hundred feet beneath Bayou Corne, the Napoleonville salt dome stretches three miles long and a mile wide — and plunges perhaps 30,000 feet to the old ocean floor. 
A bevy of companies has long regarded the dome as more or less a gigantic piece of Tupperware, a handy place to store propane, butane and natural gas, and to make salt water for the area’s many chemical factories. Over the years, they have repeatedly punched into the dome, hollowing out 53 enormous caverns.

More here and here and here.


At the time I wrote the above post, I thought: 

Louisiana sits atop an ancient sea?!
Salt domes?!
The sucking sinkhole?!

I made a vow to visit this sinkhole when I came to Louisiana.

In July 2014, I went to Bayou Corne to see the sinkhole. Look for Part 2 to learn what I found.

  

Bayou Corne, Louisiana: Grand Bayou Street

Grand Bayou Street, Bayou Corne, Louisiana

You'd think a street named Grand Bayou Street would be at least a little grand. But even calling this a street is a over-reaching; it is more a lane.

Perhaps because of the many recent rains and the higher water, this stub of a road called Grand Bayou Street was chock full of wildlife out for a stroll.

Look at the photo at the top of this page. Do you see the 15 speed limit sign? Now look up a little ways and  to the left, just past the curve of the road. That's a gator tail.

Grand Bayou Street, Bayou Corne, Louisiana

As I creeped up the lane, birds ambled in front of me.

Grand Bayou Street, Bayou Corne, Louisiana

I couldn't help but think of Stephen King's short story, The Mist, where a section of Maine was engulfed in a rolling fog from whence nightmare versions of everyday spiders, birds, and the like swooped out to prey on humans. Not that this is a thing in South Louisiana. But it could be. On a hot, dark night. On a little lane named Grand Bayou Street. Next to a gigantic, bubbling, sulphuric sinkhole.   

Grand Bayou Street, Bayou Corne, Louisiana

 I saw a big galoot of a gator slide into the water, but a little further on, I saw this pretty girl stay by the road until I got very close, and then she, too, moved into the water.

Grand Bayou Street, Bayou Corne, Louisiana

The bird above has some good cover.

Grand Bayou Street, Bayou Corne, Louisiana

This is Louisiana, so there was the ubiquitous oil/gas line:

Grand Bayou Street, Bayou Corne, Louisiana

Grand Bayou Street, Bayou Corne, Louisiana

   

Bayou Corne, Louisiana: A Bird

Bayou Corne, Louisiana

... and again, because I can't choose between the two photos: 

Bayou Corne, Louisiana

Morgan City, Louisiana: Swamp Bells

Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

The privately-owned Brownell Memorial Park is packaged in a small box, but inside are multiple micro-adventures.

Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

First, there were the devil's horses.
Then there were the spooky bleating swamp lambs.


And then  ....

Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

... and then as I walked on the path between the bodies of water, the cypress knees, the strong trees draped with moss, the sounds of the birds and the 'lambs,' I heard:

Claire Brownell founded this park as a testament of her love for the area and a desire to share its beauty with visitors. She had the carillon bells cast in Holland and brought here.

Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

Ms. Brownell's gift, which she shared with so many, reminds me of the couple in Rustavi who had fled their homeland in Abkhazia.  In the midst of stark cement towers in New Rustavi, they created a tiny paradise and built a tiny church, both open to any who entered.

Abkhazian-Georgian woman on far right created miniature garden with her husband, Rustavi, Georgia (Caucasus)

It reminds me of something a friend told me years ago - that the flowers that Ladybird Johnson had planted on the Texas highway meridians brought joy to thousands of drivers when they were in bloom, and how can you measure the pleasure we receive by looking upon natural beauty? -  does not an endeavor like hers, like Claire Brownell's, like the Abkhazian couple's - have just as much merit as other good works?   

Ladybird Johnson amid bluebonnets. From 100 Ingredients.