By CAY SONNIER GIBSON

Tour of Avery Island, Part 2

Posted June 5, 2010 at 8:45 pm
Filed Under Avery Island, Botany, Family Fun, Outdoors/Nature, Travel | Leave a Comment

I must apologize for leaving my readers unsupervised in the wilds of Avery Island. It was very unhospitable and un-southern of me. An optimist would remind us that being left in a garden during the month of May is not a bad thing at all, so we’ll go with that.

I’m sure everyone knows what happens to families in May and our family of seven is no different. Being good Cajun Catholics that we are, we had a first communion, a confirmation, a May Crowning, graduation for friends, an anniversary, and a birthday to celebrate. May was, in brief, hectically busy.

Springtime in all its pomp and glory!

Speaking of which … let’s get back on the trail and sneak down into the Sunken Garden.

Suspecting the reason I like this section best of all the gardens is because of my longtime desire to explore the Mayan Ruins, I was anxious to show it to my daughter. Daddy and other daughter didn’t want to walk down into the sunken pit of the earth so our descent into hades was quieter and more meditative.

The Sunken Gardens are a hidden cave of palms, ferns, papyrus, and shrub which shelter a picturesque pool of water. It’s a perfect spot for a young girl to sit, daydream, and stir the fountain of youth. I think my daughter liked it as much as I do.

I admit that I was a bit hesitant to the prospect of mosquitoes mists and serpents lurking around the reflective pool, especially when my daughter sat on the edge and began swatting at the water with a bamboo pole. With a younger child I would have been more anxious because the area is very secluded and hidden but there is a time for safety precautions and a time for reflecting in the moments we are given. Luckily there were no mists of mosquites to test my serenity. Bamboo sticks abound on Avery Island and make wonderful walking sticks, stirring spoons, magical wands and flashing swords.

We got lost coming back up the incline and trying to find Dad and sister. It gave us a chance to view some parts of the garden that are probably a no-man’s-land of sorts and, as it took us to the gravel path where we were able to backtrack to the car, all ended well. Back on the road, it is time to hitch a vehicle ride to Bird City, only with people you know, of course, as this bird sanctuary is a little way down the road.

Bird City! The kids love this city because it is none like you (or they) have ever seen before. When you arrive you’ll park your car and walk through a lovely open meadow.

And approach what was originally known as Willow Pond. Be observant of signs.

As you near a swamp of guacamole algae …

… and climb a flight of stairs to a viewing alcove, …

… you’ll hear the gentle flapping of wings and the harsh squawk of thousands of birds who have returned to Avery Island along the spring breezes to air out their bedding and set up housekeeping.

Your first sight of this bird sanctuary is ______________________________ (I’ll let you fill in the blank when you see it).

The story is that E. A. McIlhenny was concerned about the demise of the Snowy Egrets which were being killed off to supply their thick white mimosa-spiked plumage as adornment for lady’s hats in the 1890’s. E.A. McIlhenny’s desire was to preserve these birds for future generations so he banded several young ones and set up a natural habitat for them. You can read about this history of Bird City in E.A. McIlhenny’s own words at the bottom of this page (click and scroll down): Saving the Egret and Making Bird City

(Snowy Egret painting by naturalist John James Audubon)

E.A. McIlhenny (affectionately known as Mr. Ned) released his birds in the fall to do something as natural as breathing … fly out over Gulf and migrate to the south … and every spring since tourists, who flock to Avery Island, await and welcome their return. You can see E.A. McIlhenny’s own documentation concerning the banding of his birds on Avery Island here: A Record of Birds Banded at Avery Island, Louisiana

To view this sanctuary with a child is to stand in awe and thanksgiving of the naturalists of the past who gave generations of the future a present view from the eagle’s nest. That’s the link that connects one generation to another. Thank you, Mr. Ned.

Come back soon. We still have the Bamboo Garden and Live Oak Groove to visit before we exit the garden gate.

Tour of Avery Island, Louisiana

Posted May 10, 2010 at 7:38 pm
Filed Under Avery Island, Botany, Family Fun, Outdoors/Nature, Travel | Leave a Comment

It wasn’t Mother’s Day but it was my birthday (last month) and instead of presenting me with a nosegay of flowers, my husband presented me with 250 acres of magnolias, azaleas, bridal wreaths, camellias, junipers, irises, roses, and lilies tied up with a ribbon known as Avery Island.

What a bouquet! averyislandcarpet

Since yesterday was Mother’s Day and those floral arrangements are still fresh in everyone’s home, I thought I would share this bouquet because flowers in May are what justifies the rains in April.

For those not familiar with Avery Island, it is a minature mountain of salt that rises 163 feet at its peak and is found in Iberia Parish. It is known for its salt resource which is used in the production of the McIlhenny family’s Tabasco Sauce.

I’ve been to Avery Island many times and we’ve always called it Avery Island, so I never paid any mind to the fact that the gardens found behind the Tabasco Factory were known as the Jungle Gardens. Such is how we came to be here. When I saw mention of a Jungle Gardens in Louisiana, I thought that sounded exciting and wanted to go … only to find out upon arrival that it was nothing new. The gardens at Avery Island were my old stomping grounds, part and parcel of my childhood. No matter! I love Avery Island and touring the gardens never get old.

So, if and when you get to go, don’t get confused over this little bit of wanderlust. Avery Island is home of the McIlhenny family’s Tabasco Sauce Factory and the Jungle Gardens . Bird City is also found on the island as well. They are all one place and the same.

But let’s get on with our tour.

You will first cross a small bridge where fishermen and boats are doing what fishermen and boats have done for years. You will pay a $1.00 conservation fee per vehicle as you drive onto the island. The tabasco factory is to your left and the Jungle Gardens are to the far back. After Hurricane Rita’s left devastating effects to their business in September 2005, the McIlhenny family invested in a 17 foot levee around the factory as well as preventive measures such as pumps and generators. I didn’t take photos of this massive levee construction but, let me say, it is massive. Like many people in South Louisiana, the McIlhennys are playing it safe.

Let’s leave the red hot little peppers at the factory for another tour another time. This is the month of May so our focus is on flowers and beauty.Instead of turning left where the levee wraps its protective arms around the Tabasco Factory, continue to drive forward.

As the day wraps itself into darkness and you go about your many household duties and family cares, I want to direct you to the gardens that lie behind the Tabasco Factory where one would be surprised that such exquiste beauty grows while surrounded in a brine and bed of salt.

The floral and fauna are just past “the second star to the right and straight on ’til morning,” or so Peter Pan says.

Let’s open our road map of Avery Island and begin our Mother’s Week Tour.

Don’t forget to stop and smell the flowers.

Up ahead is a wooden cabins at the entrance of Jungle Gardens. This is the lovely gift shop and powder room facilities. Behind it are tables and an open expanse of ground for picnic-goers.

Don’t forget your picnic basket and your blanket.

After cleaning up after yourself and making sure you save bread or cookies for the ducks, you may purchase tickets for the Jungle Gardens tour inside the cabin gift shop.

The prices are necessary to keep the grounds maintained and happily affordable: Adult $8.00/ Children $5.00 (ages 12 and under)

Back in your vehicle we begin our 5-mile road trip. You can leave your vehicle in the parking lot and hike if you are fit enough and healthy enough. The floral wetland’s long curvaceous drive waves you welcome.

Bayou Petit Anse (Avery Island’s original name was Ile Petit Anse) drifts leisurely along your righthand side. People pass in boats on the bayou: fishing, relaxing, and grilling. Manmade lagoons create giant water puddles on your left.

The children demand to be let out of the car to see the visitor who travels leisurely on the wayside and is as unblinkingly unsurprised as we are to see one another. He is as much a part of Louisiana as the azaleas and magnolias that lie overhead and around us.

There are courtships along the way and we pause to stretch our legs at each of them.

To get out and walk with nature is harmony.

The Cleveland Oak hails us. This big oak is a landmark signaling sacred ground. The ground it rises from is special to me in a peculiar, earthy way. Almost nineteen years ago, my little thirteen-month-old daughter took her first steps here while her older brother (aged four years at the time) whooped and danced around her. I remember the little pink romper outfit she had on and the little white plastic bow which kept the feathers of dark hair out of her eyes; and I remember the white hightop shoes that steadied those little feet. How I remember …

The Cleveland Oak is only one of many. The trees on Avery Island are as endless as the root system they have created. There are thousands of trees to relax under, picnic under, and climb upon.

Now is the time to make sure your car doors are locked and your camera is strapped around your neck. A bottle of water is another good idea.

Check your map again. We will now venture down a lovely bamboo-lined, stone-guided trail to the ancient Buddha statue who sits beneath the daytime sun and the stars at night in his lotus embalmed shrine of glass.

averyislandshrine

You can go here to read all about the Buddha. He’s quite the master of the island.

averyislandisle

Buddha Speaks

Peacefully I rest

Upon this lagoon’s bank

As pale green bamboo’s

Sway above my throne.

Clouds of blossoms

Soften the sifted light

Falling golden and misty

through the boughs above.

Long days of travel

Brought me from my home,

Yet I have known no hour of calmer rest

My thoughts are like

The swaying bamboos’ crest

waved to and fro

Above the rippling stream

Clear and blue

As from a glorious dream

~ EAMcIlhenny

We have the privilege of seeing a young bride in her wedding finery near the pavilion. Throughout our tour, she remains a few steps ahead of us so we have the pleasure of watching her primp and prep and pose at each new setting. She couldn’t ask for a more beautiful day … except perhaps her wedding date, of course.

Standing at the top of Buddha’s resting place, one gazes over a reflecting pool of wild iris, turtles, dragonflies, frogs, camellias, and cypress.

Muddy, boney cypress fingers dig their way out of the earth, welcoming you to this little bit of heaven on earth and beckoning you forward. averyislandcypressknees

Yet it is the bridge on the horizon that promises us something more to life if we’ll only cross to the other side. The reflecting pool catches a glimpse of the bride and her reflection is captured in its mirror. We take our turn trailing across and, like those who have heard of the Bridge of San Luis Rey, we ponder the question which Thornton Wilder tried to answer: “Is there a direction and meaning in lives beyond the individual’s own will?”

Nature has a strange way of making you question the paths you choose and the paths you don’t choose.

The bridge completes our circle. The wysteria arch has died and the camellia garden is waning. My daughter and I make a quick trip through it but we are quite sure there is more up ahead.

For now, we rest. There are still Bird City, the Sunken Garden, and the Live Oaks orchard to explore. Be sure to return to finish our tour.

Strolling Through Old Acadiana

Posted May 2, 2010 at 2:39 pm
Filed Under Lafayette, Travel | 3 Comments

Every parent knows what happens when a trip gets planned.

Somebody gets sick. Or you have car problems.

It’s a given.

Sometimes it is simply a flat tire. Sometimes it is a runny nose or stubborn allergies.

This time it was sickness with a capital “S”.

The question arose: should we cancel our trip or continue our plans in hopes that the malady would be a mere twelve hour spell?

We had already canceled a family reunion and bid adieu to a Shakespearean play production. Money had been deposited. Luggage packed. What more could go wrong? The reality was that, by the time we got to Lafayette, chances were our little girl would be on the upswing, as had her brother and sister done before her.

Yet what if the rest of us came down with the maux de tete (headache), maux de ‘vous (upset stomach), and maux de diarrhée (excuse the crude translation)?

All the What ifs? in the world have often proven to be a preventive measure which keeps people from the joy of simply living. Sick at home or sick in the hotel room. Those were our options. From a mother’s point of view, I wrung the tragedy of not having a washing machine in the hotel room over and over in my head; but I didn’t share my fear with anyone.

There were simply too many variables. It had been a tiring week of school and family duties. We decided to live life as planned. I lined a minature wastebasket with a Wal-Mart bag, dampened a washrag, and packed a towel near the sick child; then we headed down east … because Cajuns always “head down east” even if we are not going down at all.

My primitive mother’s instincts proved correct. As we drove into the Cajun Capital of Louisiana, Annie awoke from her nap with only a slight stomach cramp … and very weak legs, which I remember was the last leg (excuse a very bad pun) following the heels of her older brother and sister’s stint with the virus.

Friday night was the one event my husband and I desired to go to more than anything that weekend: an all-we-could-eat/under-the-stars crawfish boil at Acadian Village in Lafayette, Louisiana. It made the suspenseful hour-long trip worth the possibilities.

We arrived right at sunset. The landscape over Acadian Village was wiped gray with a slate quality. A misty rain threatened. We arrived a bit like the Acadians, overcome by a trip full of anxiety, stress, and sickness. I doubt the Acadian mothers, upon landing on surefooting and water abundant, worried about a washing machine. Being a traveler in the 21st century, I realized how quirky my fears were of not having a washing machine.

The parking police told us in the soft-slur of the Acadiana dialect that we would have to walk. Why was I not surprised? Wet wipes. Hand sanitizer. Umbrellas. Flip-flops. Crawfish tickets. We were travelers on a mission.

As we walked from the parking lot to the village, Annie’s arms peaked with goosebumps. Chills. One of the last remnants of the twelve hour sickness. I backtracked to my vessel and, despite the muggy Mayness, retrieved her jacket.

As we entered Acadiana, the world indeed divided. It was a world apart. My other daughter tranced along the brick walk. Having just read Longfellow’s epic poem Evangeline in Louisiana History, the world of Evangeline came alive. Was this a real village once? Did the Acadians really walk these roads? Did they truly live and work here? She wanted to know all.

In one breath I wanted to make her understand that it was a replica of a real village. In one realization I wanted her to know that rural life was never as picturesque as today’s reproductions make it seem. Yet being on Acadian soil befibbed me for, in truth, we were on anointed ground, land where Acadians walked and worked and lived. Some of the homes were even “authentic homes of the 19th century donated by the families whose ancestors once occupied them.”

How do we tell our children something is not real when, in fact, it did exist. It is real because it was. It is real in the realization that we would not be walking there if it hadn’t been real. And so, we walked.

We walked on and descended into a mass exodus of music, lights, boiled potatoes and corn, crawfish, and friends. Despite what we had left behind at home—stressful jobs, family problems, or sick households—we were all here in a humanitarian desire to escape one environment in pursuit of another.

My environment collided where I stood. My littlest girl still did not feel well … still. Her tummy hurt. The loud music hurt her head. The lights hurt her eyes. She distrusted her sea legs. The twelve hours were coming to a close. We edged towards the food line creeping and crawling towards the platters of crawfish. In resemblance of the Bayou Teche, it snaked under and around the tented area. I didn’t feel it was the best place for my daughter.

Regrettably I couldn’t make her feel better. I began to second guess this venture. It was not my finest mothering decision yet, even then, I realized it did no good to shout to the heavens or raise my fist in objection. It didn’t help to lament and curse. That would only make both of us feel worse. We were in the here and now. What would I do with it? What would I make of it? How would I handle it? So I did something I have learned after many mothering miles. I took the hand of my little girl and I withdrew. I left my husband and other daughter waiting in line and Annie and I escaped into the dusk.

We went on retreat. Retreats are wonderful forms of escape, if we view them as such. Lucky for me, God often meets me halfway.

Much too old for a stroller and without car, bike, or daddy; I became her domestic mare as we walked around the village and the quaint lake. On a pilgrim porch, I had her climb aboard my back and saddle me. The sun ladled dusk across the sky. We passed a handful of villagers. The places were being shut and locked as we walked into the quiet of the 19th century Cajun village. It really was the best of hours.

Acadian Village at nightfall takes you back in time as daytime ventures simply cannot do. During the daytime there is no veil, no curtain between you and the past. At dusk all things are imaginable. Yet I can only imagine the beauty during the day as well. There are many open spaces and fairytale bridges in this historic village. There are wishing ponds, spouting fountains, and gravel trails. There are ducks swimming in the pond. The red brick paths twist and tarry in this land where nothing moves fast except time.

We paused in the church, the last building to be locked-up. The domestic mare needed to rest her bones. Stepping into the church was a reverent find. Souls gathered here. Souls and the spirit of what once existed. Annie acquainted herself with the 19th century altar while I just breathed. Annie climbed onto a church pew and I hoisted her onto my back again.

At the blacksmith shop my little traveler sat in a broken down buggy and pretended to be a fine lady out for a ride. We amused ourselves with old rusted travel gear from times gone by yet, when we returned to reality, I was the only transportation my sick little girl had. Languishly, she leaned from the buggy seat onto my back. Her weak arms encircled my neck. We trotted off again into the twilight. acadianville4

Circling the pond, we listened to the silent water being pelted by the fountain. Annie sat atop a bridge railing as we enjoyed a brief moment at the reflecting pool. In the dimming light we could not make out any fish, gold or otherwise; but water is a funny thing in the way it refreshes our very being. I heard a perk in Annie’s voice as we chatted. It was nice to sit by the water and reflect. Once again, her pony refreshed, Annie climbed aboard and we were off.

We found ourselves at the opposite end of the park, far away from the music and lights, in a quiet spot where ferns grows and moonlight prances. In the distance, the lights of the village danced. The music serenaded the night. The wind carried the lull of friends’ voices to our ears. It was just enough, just enough to not feel alone in the world and yet just enough to be alone.

A romping hill in the distance promised a place to run and roll once a little girl felt better and had gained steady legs. I promised mine that we’d return on a day trip and have a picnic lunch in that very spot. Her face smiled. We found a grove of trees where two little benches resided and a pile of boulders whispered a resting place for travelers.

And we rested.

Acadian Village offered my little charge and I everything we could possibly want and need that Friday night. It took us back to a time that was gentler and kinder. It was a time for walking and listening. It was a time for breathing and healing. It was a time for just being in the here and now. The coolant for my anxiety was the quietness, the lack of things to do, the ordinary of the unordinary.

The night was quickly dancing towards us. Annie said she felt strong enough to walk so we clasped hands and walked towards the swirling tent, the strumming music, the lights and echo of life.

We found daddy and sister as they carried platters of red crawfish, thick coral-colored sauce, plates of jambalaya and cokes. Deciding it best to keep Annie apart from the crowd, we ventured onto the lawn where sprinkles of other parties dotted the tranquil landscape. Chelsea returned with some ice cream. They were out of the Cajun Mud Swamp ice cream but the vanilla proved more soothing on our convalescent’s tummy. We sat and ate in the gathering twilight and Annie finally reached out, desiring nourishment and refreshment.

The clock struck the twelve hour mark.

She could not have realized it but I found it obvious. She found strength in the land of her ancestors, as had I. In a very different way, yet just as real, it had mediated to her … and me.

We left renewed and blessed that we hailed from a hearty people; a people who sang and danced and laughed and lived … still.

Louisiana Belongs to the People

Posted April 27, 2010 at 2:54 pm
Filed Under Entertainment, Family Fun, Festivals | 4 Comments

I’m going to jump right in here, snorkel and all. In a mere two days, one of the largest festival in Louisiana (second only to Mardi Gras) will dive into Lake Charles, Louisiana. Avast ye maties, it’s Contraband Days 2010 !

Forget the economy and cast all your troubles to the winds of change. The pirates have come to save us from the local, deceitful politicians who have corrupted our fun and stolen our pleasure.

Jean Lafitte has issued a statement from the Seven Seas: Ode to the Old Lakefront

His merry band of pirates are not deterred by the construction zone along the Civic Center seawall. They laugh in the face of such scare tactics. Rest assured! They will come and confiscate the whole city … lock, stock, and blarney. Such has it been for the past 52 years and we are deceived if we think city officials can keep these buccaneers from laying their claim to the city and surrounding waterways of Lake Charles, Louisiana.

Jean Lafitte (Donnie Istre) and his privateers will capture the mayor of Lake Charles (Mayor Randy Roach) and proceed to make him walk the plank. Don’t think he won’t. Randy Roach has been an outstanding mayor but he represents what pirates detest the most: authority and orderliness.

Now I’ve heard from some local folks who aren’t fond of this takeover. They fear the pirates are a bunch of unruly scoundrels who cause unruliness and pilferage. I can understand that. We all feel a little threatened when we hear of takeovers, terrorists, pirates, and such; Jean Lafitte doesn’t exactly have the best reputation around here. But the pirates who take over the city each year truly do have the public’s best interest at heart. They mean no harm. The pirates are simple folk. Their task during Contraband Days is to uncover and unlock the bountiful riches this fair city (the land and water areas around it) has to offer. They have no other agenda. If you look behind the masks, you’ll see that they are truly one of us. They have a heart for the Gulf coast. They admire the bling-bling and sparkle that is found in Louisiana’s cities and towns. They love to hear the sound of cha-ching in their pockets … especially during Mardi Gras days. Don’t we all? And, God bless ‘em; they do love their freedom. And the fishing and shellfish found in this little bit of providence God gave us! Oh, heavens! The French and the Spanish and the Germans who came here looking for a home and, in turn, their descendants are reminded that Louisiana belongs to the people who have stayed and call it home.

Indeed, the whole festival is a salute to the people of Louisiana. Contraband Days is a two week allotment when politicians are put in their place and the people’s cry that this land belongs to ‘We the People’ is heard. It’s a time to hold city officials accountable and—in a fun, humanitarian, communal way—make them answerable concerning their agendas.

So if you’re looking for some fun and freedom these next two weeks, or would just like to get out and enjoy some Gulf spring breezes, get yourself to Lake Charles by car, yacht, fishing boat, or pirogue. Doesn’t matter. The people of Louisiana don’t care how you get here. Just come.

I’ve heard Jean Lafitte plans a sneak attack at 5:00 PM on Friday, April 30th and I have no doubt the city will valiantly try to protect the city walls. Come out and see how it goes.

If the pirates succeed to raid the city, as they have in the past, you can go here to see the schedule of events: Contraband Days Schedule

Lake Charles is directly off I-10 between Houston and New Orleans. You don’t need a treasure map to find it. Y’all come, cha!

To receive updates and wanted posters, you can visit Contraband Days Facebook page. A Facebook page? Yes, that’s what I said. Whoever thought the pirates had become such techies?

Jean Lafitte and his buccaneers who traveled the waterways of Louisiana all those many years ago would be very proud.

Weighing-In Fish and Camper Living

Posted April 2, 2010 at 10:54 am
Filed Under Entertainment, Family Fun, Fishing, Outdoors/Nature, Toledo Bend Reservoir, Travel | 2 Comments

North Toledo Bend State Park is officially full. Like us, people from all over the state of Louisiana (and beyond) are here from some Easter R & R. The park is speckled with campers, pop-ups, and tents of every color, shape, and size. There are Laredos, Terries, Dutchmen, lots of Wildcats, Cherokees, Springdales, Pilgrims, Aspens, Denalis, Cougars, Big Country, Mallards, Sprees, Prowlers, Hideouts, Flagstaffs, Montanas, Palomino, Pioneers, Big Countries, and Weekenders. There is even a retired FEMA trailer amongst us.

Name tags reveal each camper’s identity: Duboise, Mayfield, Tucker, Rollins, McCloud, Royer, Williamson, Campbell, Hebert, Harris, Clark, Melancon (wish it was my friend Marcie), Whittington, and Henry. I don’t see any Boudreaux or Thibodeaux but I do see a Smith (of course) and Jones (of course).

There is even a Squire found in this hovel of trees. And the Woods are certainly in the right place.

In our group we are Gibson, Ellender, Delano, and Sonnier. The campground host is a Gibson we do not know but his host spot is directly across from my oldest son’s camper and the prospect of this being a family affair thrills my two younger children.

I’m sure male readers are wondering about the variety of boats out here. Tell you the truth; I don’t pay much attention to boats unless my husband or son says something about them so I don’t mind you muttering what you’re thinking: “Just like a woman!” I’ll try to rectify that and pay more attention on my next walk down to the lake. I understand that there are so many boats now that boaters are having to turn around at the end of the cove and backtrack in order to find a parking spot. The fish are running scared.

Some of the girl cousins have arrived for a couple of days so my girls are abundantly happy. Equilibrium is restored. Daddy takes the two older girls (and the two dogs) in the boat while Annie and Ashlyn form a secret club. They set-off to establish a nearby meeting ground. Here in the piney woods of Louisiana the possibilities are limitless.

My name is on the menu for dessert tonight. I have everything laid across the counter and realize the only oil I brought is in my son’s camper. Neighborhood bartering is alive and well in these parts. I walk down the road with my little plastic measuring cup and he meets me halfway. In the middle of the road, he pours me ½ cup of the fluid ingredient every German chocolate cake needs.

At the sound of excited little voices, I make a detour. Cousins Annie and Ashlyn have found the perfect spot for their club. Seems there is one vacant spot in the neighborhood. They call me over to hear their building plan. As excited as two prospective homeowners, they give me the grand tour. They will park their bike and scooter on the camper slab. And see here: a lusciously comfortable house pad already filled with a bed of sand, blanketed with pine needles and sheltered by pines. Ah, sand and pine needles. What more does a child need?

Isn’t it cool? they ask.

It’s awesome, I answer.

I leave the girls chattering like a couple of domestic hens and head for my own domestic headquarters where I:

stir the cake mix in a gumbo pot because I discover I’m lacking a mixing bowl,

juggle a carton of eggs, mixing cup, and various ingredients on the edge of a three-foot countertop (with sink),

squeeze between the table and the counter and stand almost on my head in order to light the oven’s pilot light

My oldest son wanders over from the lake. He isn’t having a good day of fishing so he does what every little boy who trudges home empty-handed does. He finds me. And I do what every mother has done for little boys who come home empty-handed. I give him the chocolate-coated gumbo pot—filled with the taste of mom’s kitchen —and a spoon to coddle it with. Everything becomes better with chocolate.

I slide the cake into my miniature oven. Contentment and warmth are locked in. My son and I sit and fold a couple of freshly washed clothes together. The laundry station at North Toledo Bend State Park is free for all paid Toledo Bend campers to use and is next to the main office. This morning, I was able to check email while washing clothes. Two birds with one stone or, rather; two bass with one shiner.

We discuss the current wind condition, the problems of guiding a small craft over a coughing lake, and the various fish the men are catching. I’m sure other guy readers are wondering about the fishing this week at Toledo. The oft-repeated question here has been: “Will there be enough for the family fish fry?” At nightfall, the men string enough bass, perch, and catfish between the two weigh-in trees to give St. Peter’s boat a worthy competition. So there should be. (As of April 1^st, we quit asking this question. There’s plenty.)

Fish: Day One fishdayone

Fish: Day Two fishdaytwo

Fish: Day Three is still on my camera along with my nephew’s 18 lb. catfish he scooped off the troutline. It’s a biggie!

Later, while the Butterfinger Cake is chilling in the refrigerator and I am shutting the oven door on my apple cobbler (because camper ovens are too tiny for more than one cake pan at a time), my oldest son surges breathlessly back into my camper. His diligence, perseverance, and determination have paid off. Here’s the 9 ½ pound bass he caught the old-fashion way…on rod and reel…because all fishermen know that’s what’s important.

Pollen, Anyone?

Posted April 1, 2010 at 6:33 pm
Filed Under Botany, Outdoors/Nature, Toledo Bend Reservoir, Travel | Leave a Comment

It’s almost like the Emerald City, only it’s golden. Louisiana is cankered in a bubble of life gone mad. The fish delivered to our communal camping spot are sometimes bloated with life, wombs ripe with uncured caviar. These are often let back into the lake to live another day. My girls come to me, keeper of the camera, wanting to take pictures of cardinals and dogwoods and chalk drawings and cardinals. Cardinals are a favorite.

Nature is alive. And it knows it.

Pollen is everywhere. My husband warned me before I drove up to Toledo Bend Lake that it would be like “driving through a yellow haze.” The stuff literally sweeps across the park.

When the dogs trot through the leaves and underbrush, tulles of pollen puff around their feet. As vehicles pass us, the tires leave markings on the yellow brick road. The vacant camping spots are blanketed in frothy yellow. The tops of campers and pop-ups are saddled in a filmy tape. Forget the sidewalk chalk. Find a picnic table or bench and draw still-life in the pollen.

My youngest daughter flies like Superman off her bike. Lifting her off the ground, I find myself automatically dusting off the front of her shirt while asking if she’s alright. Yellow dust covers the hurt.

We hike and stop at the pier to dip our feet in Toledo Bend Lake. The pollen churns the lake into lemonade. My daughter and niece stop to sit on a wayside bench. They strap on their shoes then run ahead of me. Almost like a comedy scene from Laugh In, bootie prints are left on the wooden plank and blue jeaned backsides are painted yellow.

My husband sees puffs of sulfur erupt from the treetops. It’s nature, potent and armed.

My oldest daughter, studying for nursing, is a font of microbiology this semester. She tells me that when we breathe we are, in actuality, “breathing in sperm from a multitude of plant life.”

I have gone forty years without this visual. Thanks to my daughter, spring allergies will forever take on a new visual: a life of their own.

Camping in 21st Century Louisiana

Posted March 30, 2010 at 1:15 pm
Filed Under Current Events, Outdoors/Nature, Toledo Bend Reservoir, Travel | Leave a Comment

I bid each and every one of you Good Morning! from our camping spot at North Toledo Bend State Park where the dogwood is blooming, the perch are perching, and the pollen is pollinating. Or would pollen be plural as in “the pollen are pollinating”? I don’t have Internet to check on that so I’ll let it go.

Our family camping trip to the piney north woods of Louisiana has become as traditional as the Easter egg. We are joined here by a caravan of other campers, many from the Baton Rouge and Lafayette area. Stuffed tigers sit in camper windows and LSU décor pollinates hammocks, lawn chairs, welcome signs, and licenses plates. We’re in Tiger Country. Beware!

Though South Toledo Bend State Park is beautiful and has its own perks, we prefer North Toledo simply because the camp sites are spaced further apart and their cleavage is woodsier. If one is going camping in the woods, one wants the woods. Right? At North Toledo our camper slumbers in its own natural cave. It’s cozy that way.

I’m wondering though, if South Toledo has wireless Internet at the individual campsites. Seems we were promised free Internet connection on our last three trips to North Toledo. It’s failed every time which leaves me feeling contrary. You see, I tell myself, and my oldest son tells me, that one should not be on the Internet while camping in the piney woods. It’s just not right. I agree with him. It’s bad enough we’ve moved out of a tent and have a bathroom on site. Where’s the camping spirit? Internet while trying to commune with nature doesn’t pollinate together.

Still, I defend why I packed my laptop:

We live in the twenty-first century. Hello! Anybody home?

My oldest daughter back home has a college report she wasn’t quite finished with and wanted to be able to send it to me to read over.

I have a contract which needs to be sent off via email…like yesterday.

I write. It’s my best form of communication. I’m left feeling cut at the throat.

My oldest son has an Iphone. I don’t.

Pitiful reasons, I know. But they are what they are. So I go to the main office and ask, in a pitiful voice because I’m supposed to be camping and communing with the wild instead of worrying about Internet service, if my friend Bobby Jindal did away with free Internet during the recent budget cuts. The lady at the front desk says no, there’s just a problem somewhere in the lines and they have called a technician to find the problem. Notice, she doesn’t say “fix”, she says “find” the problem. She leaves it at that. They have “called” the technician. There is no mention as to when he will be out. We all know what that means. It’s Easter vacation. Who’s going to demand anything during the holiest holiday of the year?

She does tell me that I can make a connection at the office. That drags me even further away from my natural home in the woods. I have to sit at the office in my vehicle in order to connect to the Internet. How primeval is that? How cozy is that?

I leave with a feeling the technician probably won’t show up until next week, after we’ve gone home; or beyond. When I tell my brother-in-law about it he reminds me that the state has already spent the money getting these poles and routers put up throughout the state parks. The money has already been spent. Thus, we should have service. He promises to go to the office and check on Speedy Service.

I’ll wait.

*****

[Update: I'd like to add that after I posted this, I discovered that my son thought his leg might be broken. As teenage sons are apt to not do, he did not call me or his father. He posted it on Facebook so all his friends and his I.E.W./Finance teacher knew about it before I did. See what I mean?]

Lenten Grub (and other Delicacies)

Posted March 7, 2010 at 9:21 pm
Filed Under Food, Recipes, Traditions | 1 Comment

Today I proceeded to eat my bowl of sauce piquante in MawMaw’s yellow kitchen as she proceeded to tell me how to mix up a patch of cockroach and pig lard.

No, this is not some kind of voodoo treatment; rather, it is an old-fashion form of Neosporin(R). She tells me they used it on rashes and cuts and tick bites and burns. I don’t suggest you try this at home. I certainly won’t. As my uncle said, “Back then you either had to get tough … or die.”

Ain’t that the truth! People in the 21st century just aren’t that tough. Not in that way, anyway. Gives you the creepy-crawlies, doesn’t it.

I was able to finish eating my sauce piquante as she gave me a detailed recipe for this medicinal concoction. I call that “tough” enough.

But that’s an article for another day … and time … entirely.

What I wanted to write about today is Lenten grub.

No, not the wormy kind found in the ground. Do you really think I would write about something that gross?

No, I want to talk about Lenten grub as in fare, meals, food. Due to a large Catholic population in South Louisiana, it often becomes the subject of conversation over many Lenten tables.

Any of you who treated yourself to a copy of the Lake Charles American Press on Monday, March 1, 2010, might have seen the Expressions column by writer Grace Dalton: Lent Lessons where she explains the Lenten practices of prayer, fasting and almsgiving.

Grace writes:

“Why do we (Catholics) not eat barbecue, hamburgers, or sausage and chicken gumbo on that day (Friday) of the week? The answer is simple: We abstain from meat on Friday in honor of the Passion of Christ, for it was on a Friday he died. … The (Catholic) church gives such emphasis to this significant day … Why meat? The church chooses meat because of the connection to the flesh of Christ. It is a small symbolic sacrifice Jesus made in sacrificing his flesh for us.”

It might seem atypical for Louisianians of other faiths to look over their bowls of pork jambalaya and plates of spareribs at Catholics on a Friday night having their stemming “symbolic sacrificial” seafood gumbo and tangy boiled crawfish with butter sauce and think, “Who are they kidding!”

I have always upheld that Catholics should be home eating an egg, grilled cheese, or peanut butter sandwich in place of that lobster tail. That’s true sacrifice and real penance, but one does not preach to or correct a Cajun Catholic over an ice chest of live crawfish. You just don’t do it! And, I must say, Catholic clientele are just as weak in the flesh as any other religious clientele. What other excuse do we have?

And so … Steamboat Bill’s is loaded every Friday night.

My family is blissfully blessed stoic in going to Steamboat Bill’s at least once during the sacrificial days of Lent. I have one child who was born during this solemn penitential season, so every March the family fudges on any sacrifice we made and crawfish our way to Steamboat Bill’s where the birthday boy is presented with his bright red-hot cake on a glossy white tray, flaming tails saluting him for all his wisdom and age. And the rest of us glory in his birth over a sinful array of bloodless crustacean.

Last sharing I gave you all a Blend of the Bayou recipe, perfect Lenten fare for those committed to eating at home this Lenten season.

Here is another Lenten grub dish for you (void of grubs, of course). Cajuns really aren’t that gross. And this dish is soooo simple! you know you’re going to LOVE it:

Shrimp Soup

2 – 2 and 1/2 lbs. peeled and cleaned shrimp

1 medium onion, chopped

1 teaspoon minced garlic

3/4 tablespoon Tony’s Seasoning

4 cans Campbell’s cream of potato soup

2 cans cream-style corn

1 large can and 1 small can evaporated milk

Saute onions in butter until transparent. Add garlic and Tony’s. Stir. Add shrimp and cook until pink. Add everything else and heat to warm. Delicious!

*****

Btw, a little pelican told me that Grace Dalton, Lake Charles American Press Expression’s writer, is looking for some really good Lenten dishes for her next piece. Perhaps you have a sinfully good one that your family has passed down from generation to generation?

Would you consider “sacrificing” the recipe so that all our families will be blessed? If so, please write me at caygibson@gmail.com and, though I can’t promise it will make the printed version, Grace and I will be sure to sample it. You can also leave it in the comment’s section.

Blend of the Bayou

Posted February 22, 2010 at 12:35 pm
Filed Under General, Hunting, Outdoors/Nature, Sports | Leave a Comment

(Edited to add: Today is golden. This was written yesterday under churning gray, soupy skies.)

It’s raining.

Again.

Surprised?

Yet?

Sunday morning at MawMaw’s house, my aunt commented that her sister living in Nebraska has gotten an extra sledload of snow this winter. So has the northern part of Louisiana. We, on the other end of the bayou state, have gotten extra pirogues full of rain.

I have ceased to be amazed. I’ve decided that I live in a swamp area so I might as well sing in the rain.

Which, in part, means writing to you. And eating popcorn and watching iCarly with my youngest daughter. And washing laundry. And taking time to sniff the pork chops and rice dish my oldest daughter is cooking in her new slow cooker. And nuzzling my barefeet into the blankets my daughter has tented across the sofa and coffee table. And reading a great new read (so far): Nine Lives: Mystery, Magic, Death, and Life in New Orleans by Dan Baum

Beats holding a dripping umbrella over my head.

Yet, even with the wet umbrella that drips on either side of Louisiana, I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.

And, in its true sedimentary form, Louisiana and water are indeed one and the same. Let me share with you a tour through a bayou in Louisiana with author Barbara Hurd as our tour guide:

“We are aboard his (Cyrus) small skiff a few miles from New Orleans, wending our way through the maze of bayous, dark bodies of sleeping water. They are fringed with cottonwood flowers, wild iris, and an orange flower (we) don’t recognize, its blossoms like a bustle of burnished sequins. … The bayous of southern Louisiana are slow, brackish creeks that cut through thousands of acres of marshland … formed by the centuries-long rovings and digressions of both the ancient Gulf of Mexico and the Mississippi River.”

In the book I have, Barbara Hurd shares with us the place water has in our life, and “What is it about water that invites reverie? … “

“Dependent on the moon sloshing the tides from one side of the world to the other or on spring rains that cause the river to jump its bank, you learn something about seasons and trust. There’s no hurrying the tides or the rains, and so your life settles into a rhythm of waiting and working. You adjust your pace to the bayou, its dappled sunlight and Spanish moss, its languid water. So much of the bayou world bends and floats—the land, the white plumes of egrets, lilies, your sense of direction. Surely living by slow water nurtures patience, an appreciation for the quiet. In swamps, you don’t hear the jewely jangle of whitewater or the percussion of surf. If you sit still and hear the water at all, it’s more like the water in a well-drenched potted plant. It’s a land that, like the poet Roethke, takes its waking slow, a land where one eye opens, ringed with spider lilies and wild iris, while the other eye rolls over under its green lid, heavy with muck and algae, and closes.” ~ Stirring the Mud by Barbara Hurd University of Georgia Press, June 1, 2008, ISBN-10: 082033152X

My oldest son embraces water … fluently. On his Facebook profile, he baits his heart upon his cap: “I love to bass fish. My biggest hobby has to be duck hunting. It’s the getting up in the early, cold morning, getting a cup of coffee and running out to the marsh in the MERC.”

Ah, yeah! Can’t you just smell the salt water. This kid definitely has roux and Chachere’s seasoning simmering in his blood.

Honestly I have often wondered about hunters who go out on drizzly, freezing mornings, buzzing across the marsh in the MERC with the frosty air pedicuring their facial hair, and sitting amongst the reeds and marsh grass in anticipation of … a duck!

But my son and many others love it. And I’ve slowly come to understand what they love about this Sportsman’s Paradise. louisianasunrise

It’s the leisure of it all. The stillness. The union with nature. The dawning of your new day and being the first to ladle it with your five senses.

It’s the thermos of hot black coffee. The heater big enough only for your hands. The stocking caps and the fashion statement made with Mossy Oak waders from Cabela’s. louisianaheater

It’s the splintering of ice as the MERC stirs up the roux in a gumbo lake. The being on your own and the command of the MERC. Where no one can touch you but where you can feel the breath of God. louisianaMERC

It’s the silence. The hush of a Louisiana lulla-bayou. The song of waterfowl. The sigh of cattails.It’s an ancestral quest for provision and taming our environment. louisianaduckhunt

It’s part of the song that is Louisiana.

And while duck season has ended the bayou still serenades my boy and many others to that Louisiana Bayou where the water, the rain, and the land create a blend of the best that the bayou has to offer.

Blend of the Bayou Recipe

8 ounces cream cheese

1stick butter or 8 tablespoons

1 pound peeled shrimp

1 finely chopped onion

1/2 finely chopped bell pepper

finely chopped celery (amount to preference)

2 tablespoons butter

1 can Cream of Mushroom soup

1 can mushrooms (drained)

1 tablespoon garlic salt

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon tabasco sauce

1 pint crab meat

3/4 cup cooked rice

Grated sharp cheddar cheese

Butter-flavored cracker crumbs

Melt cream cheese and butter in a sauce pan or microwave while preheating oven to 350F. Saute onion, bell pepper, celery and shrimp in 2 tablespoons butter. In a large mixing bowl blend all other ingredients (except cheddar cheese and cracker crumbs) together. Pour into a casserole dish. Top with grated cheddar cheese and cracker crumbs. You may freeze this dish to bake later or bake at 350F for 15 to 20 minutes or until bubbly.