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.

 

Morgan City, Louisiana: The Brownell Memorial Witch Project

Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

I knew when I turned into the Brownell Memorial Park that I'd see a tall white tower, but I experienced much more.

Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

First came the devil's horses. Having survived the assault of the devil's pains-in-the-ass only a couple of weeks before, all I could do was laugh at the quantity of all these creepy, yet oddly-attractive, over-large insects.

Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

While I laughed, I continued walking, picking my way carefully through the black grasshoppers.

Note: I never mentioned the crunch-crunch I experienced at Sabine, did I, as I walked over all the little dried crab claws, the orts of birds' daily feasts?















So I was laughing while avoiding the black grasshoppers, alone on the path, lined on both sides by cypress knees and water and tall trees with Spanish moss. I heard birds. It was almost idyllic.

Then came the bleating of the lambs. One bleated, then several answered. Another bleated, and several answered.

It was all very Blair Witch Project-y, with me playing the role of an unnerved and expendable Star Trek extra, about to be taken out by a creature from the depths. Because lambs - why and where are they? Sacrifices tied to a stake, awaiting dusk and the approaching monster?

In New Mexico, all I had to be paranoid about were bears and mountain lions. In Louisiana, who knows what lurks in the swamps. 

The next day, I learned what made the eerie sounds:

Louisiana, you're such a jokester.

And Now for a Word From Dave

Yesterday, it was the devil's horses. Tomorrow it will be eerie bleatings from the swamp. In the meantime:

"South Louisiana is a giant sponge. That's why we keep in constant motion. If you stand still, you'll either sink or be eaten alive by giant insects." 

Dave Robicheaux, Pegasus Descending, by James Lee Burke

Morgan City, Louisiana: The Devil's Horse

Source: What's that bug?

The devil's horse ... or lubbers .... or handsome black grasshoppers. Yeah, I know that sounds kind of weird for a grasshopper to be handsome, but once I got past the heebeejeebees, I was able to see it.

Devil's horses, Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

I met them .... LOTS OF THEM ... on a visit to Brownell Memorial Park outside Morgan City.

Whereas New Mexico regularly surprised me with hidden, jaw-dropping panoramas, Louisiana regularly surprises me with sudden assaults by bizarre, 1950's-esque-creature-flick creepy-crawlies.

These lubbers are big. Fortunately, they're pretty polite. They're slow and don't fly at you. While they don't necessarily move out of your way, they don't move in your way, either.

But holy gee, there were a lot of them at the park. It was so crazy, all I could do was laugh. I mean, really, Louisiana, seriously? I don't want to know what you're going to send my way next.

Devil's horses, Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

I'm guessing rutting season for devil's horses.

Wikipedia illustrates a difference between the artistic sensibilities of South Louisiana and Mississippi (of which northern Louisiana is considered a bedroom community). In South Louisiana, these insects go by the name devil's horse, the devil, or graveyard grasshoppers. In sober Mississippi, they are "giant locusts."

I saw a snake, too. The docent told me that some years back, after it rained and rained and rained, snake refugees covered the place. There were so many snakes at the park that it closed for awhile.

Snake, Brownell Memorial Park, Morgan City, Louisiana

Let me tell you, the trail at Brownell Memorial Park is very short. But I can't think of a time when I experienced so many visual and auditory surprises in such a small distance - until I drove down the very short Grand Bayou Street in Bayou Corne only an hour later. 

More to come.
 

  

Lafayette: On the Porch with Chubby Carrier

Chubby Carrier, jam on the porch, Vermilionville, Lafayette, Louisiana

One of the things I love about South Louisiana is the symbiotic relationship between local musicians and the communities within Cajun/Creole Land. The communities hire and showcase the local musicians and the local musicians donate their artistry at times. When I say communities, I mean both the organizations and the individuals within.

Video of Chubby Carrier and Zydeco Joe playing - dancers on the porch toward the end.

Now, I'm sure there are complexities to the relationships, as there are with all relationships, but to this long-term visitor, they look solid.

Chubby Carrier and Zydeco Joe, jam on the porch, Vermilionville, Lafayette, Louisiana

At the 2014 Creole Heritage Day in Vermilionville, Chubby Carrier and company did a jam on the porch of one of the historic houses.

Chubby Carrier and Zydeco Joe, jam on the porch, Vermilionville, Lafayette, Louisiana

In the photo above, note the inter-generational aspect. Folks here are very aware of the need to bring up the young'ns' in the Cajun/Creole and Zydeco music. I wish girls were more involved, but I suspect their participation is growing. 

You don't see him here, but the man wearing a rastacap has a little boy, maybe six years old, and he already plays onstage with a rubboard. (And that little boy has a big stage presence.)