The Ninth Ward: The Sobering Side of New Orleans

Only a foundation slab and three concrete steps remain of what was once somebody’s home. Ed and I sat there quietly on the corner of Tennessee and North Galvez Streets in the Lower Ninth Ward. The effects of Hurricane Katrina tragically hit this New Orleans neighborhood on August 23, 2005 after the storm moved inland. The levee system and floodwalls here catastrophically failed sending flood waters to the roof levels. Life there changed forever.

Traces of the emergency efforts can still be seen as painted graffiti on the fronts of houses and apartments. A poodle had been evacuated from the 2^nd floor of one high rise. But mostly, we saw the ghostly remains of tree-lined streets with no houses on any of the city blocks in this distinctive region of New Orleans.

Now and then, noise interrupted the silence. We’d hear the sound of a hammer from a home being built or a lawnmower cutting the calf-high grass on a vacant lot. There was a little activity. A California film crew occupied a block for the staging of movie scene. We could see a boat glide along the water and under a drawbridge along the Industrial Canal.

We watched a woman carry boxes from her car into a second floor apartment. She told us that some families were beginning to return to the community. Her family was moving back because this neighborhood was where her husband grew up and her children grew up – this place was home.

Oh! Those Delicious Crabs!

“I swore I’d never shovel crabs in my life!” Dennis proclaimed as he shook his head in disbelief.

At the impressionable age of 13, Dennis went crabbing and didn’t like it one bit. That all changed when he fell in love with a blue-eyed blond. Sandra’s Daddy used the powerful leverage as a father to convince Dennis he needed greater aspirations and a higher income before he married Sandra. Over 25-years ago, Sandra’s Daddy taught Dennis how to crab. Now, Dennis and Sandra Landry operate Crabs, L.L.C., as a fresh crab meat wholesale dealer, and own a restaurant called The Crab Station.

Ed and I wandered into The Crab Station after our drive from New Orleans. Our coach sat boondocked across the street from the restaurant in a large truck lot on West Main Street in LaRose, Louisiana.

Dennis sat at the restaurant counter with a steaming platter of Special #8 – three-pounds of crawfish, two potatoes, one corn, one sausage, and a container of dip. When I read the menu, I wished for an appetite. Why had I eaten a bowl of chili in the coach only moments ago? I could have dined on boiled seafood: crabs, jumbo shrimp, lobster, king crab legs, oysters on the half shell or scallops. The back wall coolers offered a similar sampling of seafood for sale, frozen and packaged to cook at home. As I pondered about seafood recipes and what I might buy, Ed engaged Dennis in conversation. Ed roused me from my food fantasy to join the conversation. Dennis immediately had my attention as soon as he offered me a crawfish from his mound of food. “Thank you!”

As a teenager, Dennis could not have predicted how crabs would become such an important part of his life. Nowadays, he wears a gold charm shaped like a crab on a necklace around his neck. His livelihood depends on crabs. Because of our curiosity about the crab business, Dennis invited us to visit his plant in Lockport, Louisiana for a private tour the following day.

On a normal day, Dennis told us his plant process 8,000 pounds of crabs brought in by local crabbers. On a small day, workers process as much as 3,500 pounds. First, they separate the crabs – bright blue males from red colored females. A select group of large size male crabs will go out via air freight to crab buyers for restaurants in New Orleans and as far away as Baltimore, Philadelphia and Destin, Florida. With the current costs of fuel, Dennis admits his product costs more to ship than it’s worth. Still, people want crab on the menu of their favorite fine dining restaurants.

The smaller crabs earmarked for packing are washed in a machine that rotates and sprays them to remove sea grass and other debris. Once they are cooked and cleaned, pickers separate the meat from shells on sterile metal tables.

“There’s plenty of work here,” Dennis tells us. “The challenge is finding workers to pick the crabs.” Each year, Dennis goes to places like Tampico and San Fernando in Mexico to personally interview workers willing to perform this tedious task. “My foreign employees have work visas… and I give them a place to live on the plant property. I become their employer, their friend, even caregiver.” Dennis showed us the workers’ housing facility. It was not unlike college dormitories I’d seen when visiting my kids at Edinboro or William Woods Universities. They have a common kitchen and living room area, separate bedrooms, bathrooms and laundry facilities.

On the day we visited the plant, we met some of the workers. Six pickers showed us how they filled containers with bits of crab meat. Some designated containers held only the succulent, gourmet claws.

We watched packers fill containers labeled “Jumbo Lump Crab”. Dennis explained that “Jumbo Lump” comes from the back quarter of the crab and is “the best” eating. The sample he offered me confirmed his testament.

The processed crab containers eventually go into a cooler to preserve the freshness. At day’s end, the containers go out for delivery or shipment. Some of the product will stock the coolers at The Crab Station. Dennis says, “The plant supports the restaurant” and that is just where we ended our tour. We returned to the restaurant where Dennis treated Ed and I to Special #5 – select male crabs, jumbo shrimp, crawfish, king crab legs, potatoes, corn, sausage, and dip - a seafood feast!

April 15 & 16, 2007

When the Sun Comes Up Over Louisiana, It's Time to Check the Catfish Nets

Joe likes to go out alone to check his nets, a routine he performs every two to three days. “My son use to come out with me sometimes. He’s away at college now. I told him don’t be a fisherman. Find something else to do with your life.” This is the life Joe knows. At age 43, he sticks to commercial fishing. He is paying at least $4 a gallon to fuel his boat and facing the rising cost of bait. Ed and I would be Joe’s guests on the boat he says has no name when he pulls catfish from his nets set in Delta Farms Lake.

I can understand why Joe comes out alone. On this quiet Wednesday morning, other boats remained tied to the dock bobbing gently in the shallows. The sun lifted up over the new sprouts of the sugarcane field. Big and round on the horizon, the brightness hurt my eyes as the sun changed from red-orange like a fire’s glow to softer yellow sending white rays of light through breaks in the shadowed clouds.

Joe picked us up in his white Dodge Ram at 6:20 AM just as he promised when we were introduced to him the previous evening. Tuesday evening, we had wandered into Crab Junction in Larose, Louisiana after a long drive from Breaux Bridge. Folks at this restaurant counter sucked crawfish and dipped boiled red potatoes in a seasoned mayonnaise mix. Ed engaged Dennis, the restaurant owner, in a conversation about the seafood season and fishing in the bayou region. Dennis pointed a finger at Joe Autin seated at the end of the counter. Speaking to Ed he said, “That man over there is the best fisherman in the area. He can tell you all about fishing.” Then speaking to Joe, he suggested, “Joe, how about taking these people out with you next time you check your nets?” Joe asked, “Do you have rubber boots?” Both Ed and I have rubber boots.

Joe himself wore rubber boots and a full neck-to-ankle yellow rubber apron when we motored away from the dock in his 19-foot fiberglass skip. Joe said that he had about 20 hoop nets already set. He expressed concern that the recent cold spell might hurt his usual catch sometimes as much as 500 pounds of catfish. The cold morning temperature and the rush of air as the boat accelerated across the lake sent a chill through my thick yellow ski jacket. I reached into my jacket pockets for a pair of gloves. It was as Joe said…“cold.”

Ed and I sat in the boat – I at the stern and Ed at the bow. Joe stood confident at the wheel crowded by the blue and silver plastic bins empty and ready to hold the catch of catfish. Five cardboard boxes brimmed full of fresh bait to use in resetting the hoop nets. Joe educated us. The current market price for Pogies, a kind of baitfish catfish like to eat, sells at $16 for each 50-pound box. The boat carried two boxes of Pogies. The three boxes of cheese/soybean blocks, another odorous favorite catfish delicacy, run $23.50 a box. Joe would use all the bait before he finished his rounds this morning.

We couldn’t talk over the roar of the boat motor; but when Joe slowed down to an idle; he pointed out some of the remnants of the days when lake basin was actually farmland. As evidence, tips of wooden supports from an old barn protrude from surface of the water in a nearly rectangular shape. Power lines still span the lake and hang low across the water. An abandoned hunting camp sets on a high point of land. Joe estimates it was back around 1965 when the levy burst and the land sunk to create the lake that’s anywhere from six-feet to ten-feet deep today. An old wooded duck blind stands on solitary stilts. Some wooden bridges and cattle fences lay beneath the water. “You have to know where to go,” Joe commented in reference to the underwater debris. What’s below the water surface can damage a boat navigated by someone who doesn’t know the waters. Joe clearly knew the lake as he idled up to his floats and bamboo cane poles that mark the location of his nets in various places around the lake.

Joe didn’t ask for our help pulling the heavy, long nets out of the water and over the edge into the boat. He was use to doing this himself. First, he’d snag the net by dragging a weighted grappling hook on a rope through the water. With a bit of the hoop net hooked and breaking the surface, Joe took hold; then hand-over-hand he rolled the cylindrical net into the boat. Water splashed. Bits of wet lake grass and mud splattered. Joe gave me an apologetic look, “This is kind of a dirty job.” I assure him I wasn’t a prissy girl. I could take a little water and gunk. With that said Joe hoisted the net and shook the writhing catfish through an opening in the net.

The catfish fell flopping into the blue holding bin. Some seagulls hovered eyeing the catfish and frozen Pogies on board. These scavengers didn’t dare swoop for either fish. While the birds circled above, Joe measured some of the smaller catfish using a wooden device sized just right. The ones Joe rejected could be the seagull’s game once he tossed them back into the water. The birds would have to work for their breakfast.

Joe motored from spot to spot on the lake lugging three or four nets from each location. As he checked the nets, the bins were filling up, but Joe lamented, “The water is still a little cold. In the cold, catfish don’t eat or move. This is a bad time of year to fish.” He predicts that in two-to-three weeks, his total daily catch will be 300 – 500 pounds. He didn’t expect that size catch this morning.

Before rolling each net back into the water, Joe inspects it, cleans off the debris and adds bait. “Crabs will eat a hole in nets,” he explains. Joe built most of the nets himself with fiberglass rings and string. We watched him mend only one of the 20 or more nets he pulled out of the water. The rest were in good shape. Next, he’d shake the lake grass off the netting. Sometimes he’d dunk the nets in the water several times to loosen the mucky stuff. “If the net fills up with mud, the fish won’t go in,” Joe tells us. “Bait staying in the net makes a mess too,” he adds removing some mushy residue of the uneaten cheese/soybean block. “All you can do is clean it and bait it,” he adds. Finally, preparing to set the net, Joe would add the bait. Sometimes he would use the Pogies simply tossing the frozen bait fish inside a mesh like bait bag within the bigger net. Sometimes he’d break off a hunk of the pungent cheese/soybean block and tie it in the center of the bait bag. “The more the bait stinks, the better,” Joe smiled.

Joe has a lease from the land manager to commercially fish this lake. There’s no recreation boating or sport fishing allowed here. Occasionally, lake creatures other than catfish get trapped in the nets. Turtles, redfish, carp, stingrays and crabs can get in the mix. Joe’s cautious about only keeping the catfish because commercial fisherman can be fined for bringing in a sport fish. Joe calls this a “serious offence” carrying fines as high as $500 a fish. Anything but legal-size catfish go back into the lake.

“You can tell I work of the left side of my boat,” Joe comments as he hoists yet another of his nets over the side. This one is nearly empty as are several more in this part of the lake. He blames the cold front again, “Should be better than this.”

It did get better. In one of the last groupings of nets, Joe hoisted a net up then rocked back and forth. I thought he’d fall forward into the lake but he held his footing. Catfish of assorted sizes fell through the opening of the net into the silver bins. One stayed trapped inside.

“Wow!” I shouted. Joe dumped this one in a bin all its own. The catfish was huge compared to all the rest. “Oh my God!” I was excited. “We need a picture of this one! Can you hold it up?” Joe strained to hold this catfish for the photo. He guessed it weighed 40 pounds. Later, when Joe put the catfish on a scale, it registered a whopping 47.8 pounds! Big as it was, its size didn’t beat Joe’s record catch. He said the largest catfish he even netted weighed 63 pounds. This day’s “big one” may not have been the biggest but if sure dwarfed all the other ones hauled from the nets that day.

When Joe took us back to his house, it was still morning, around the time most people were heading to the office. We watched Joe and his Mom skin the all the catfish turning his catch, some 250 pounds of fish into 80-90 edible fillets. His wife Claudia vacuum packed the fish in five-pound packs. Each pack carried the label J&B Seafood, Joe’s retail business.

While it was still early in the day, Joe would clean-up, put the fillet packs on ice and deliver the fresh catfish to retailers around town all before heading to his day job. He’s a Louisiana bridge operator but one of “the best” fishermen in the area just like Dennis said!

April 16, 2008

You Can't Predict All That You'll See On a Cajun Swamp Tour

Ed and I arrived early for our scheduled Swamp Tour excited that we’d actually get out on the lake we had visited a day earlier. This morning we’d get more than a roadside view. Bryan Champagne’s boat would take us and seven other people beneath the canopy of trees, near a sanctuary for waterfowl, and into the shallow waters populated by alligators.

Bryan is intimate with the plant and animal life in Lake Martin Swamp. Though Bryan will tell you that you can never predict what you’ll see on a swamp tour, he clearly knew his way around the channels. He could spot wildlife that I would have easily missed had he not cut his engine and called attention to the creatures. Bryan runs several tours each day for folks visiting this part of Cajun Country in Louisiana. In many ways, he exceeded our expectations.

Bryan greeted us with a laugh on this crisp cool morning. He and I both were entertained by Ed who struggled to pull a green fleece jacket over his head while walking from the car to the boat. Ed seemed trapped by the tight fit and puzzled by the sleeves riding up midway to his elbows. He had grabbed my LL Bean fleece from the coach closet, not his own.

Gradually, others with reservations for the Monday 10 AM tour began to arrive. Ed and I shared tales of our road trip with a couple of admitted RV enthusiasts. Bryan gave a robust greeting to the husband and wife from Quebec, “Bonjour, comment c’est va?” Then, he turned his attention to the woman whose elderly Mom and Dad waited on the level gravel lot above the shoreline. Her Dad sat on a motorized cart. With confidence and strength, Bryan helped guide

the cart down the slope to the water’s edge. While Ed and another man steadied the boat and stabilized the chair, Bryan hoisted the man gently into a prime viewing seat aboard the boat. Now, the rest of us could board.

Unlike the others on the tour, Ed and I had previously met our guide. He had just finished his last Sunday afternoon tour when we came along. We were drawn to his pick-up truck parked in the lot of Lake Martin. An alligator was painted on the tailgate with the phone number of Champagne’s Authentic Cajun Swamp Tours. I had a pen and paper in hand ready to copy the number when Bryan offered a handshake.

Bryan runs his swamp tours as a full time job. He started over 10-years ago when the oil and gas business in Louisiana slumped and he was scratching for a living. He told us he was “born and raised on the water.” And, even if he hadn’t told us “I love the water”, we would have figured it out just by talking to Bryan and taking his tour.

He showed us his flat-bottom boat, a 24-foot aluminum Crawfish Skiff with 12 seats. It’s designed to run in the shallow swamp waters. It’s stable and safe. Bryan prefers this design over the popular air boats which he says are loud and scare the wildlife.

According to Bryan, there’s seven miles of water at Lake Martin, some 275 acres, stocked with largemouth bass. Perch and blue gill live in this rain-fed lake too. Bryan worries that because the lake is full of water all year long, no new trees can grow. He explained that for new growth to begin there needs to be dry spells. “One storm of hurricane force winds could wipe out all these huge cypress trees,” Bryan frets. “There are no new trees coming up to replace ones we see today.” Some of the towering trees he estimated could be a hundreds of years old. These tall trees create a perfect habitat for nesting birds high above the reach of natural predators and with easy access to the water. Bryan will skirt this Nature Conservancy when giving a tour of the swamp.

As Bryan maneuvered the boat onto the lake, he joined his passengers’ conversation about Cajun food. “Now, here’s how you make etouffe. Mix crawfish with a bell pepper, onion, oil and flour, then add a can of cream of mushroom soup,” Bryan encouraged us to forget the cookbook recipes and opt for his simple mixture with a Campbell’s favorite.

With that settled, Bryan eased into his true area of expertise – the swamp tour. He showed us a rectangular house perched on poles above the water. He referred to this unlikely house accessible only by boat as “the dog house” where a man can go when his wife gets angry or he simply want to be on the water fishing. Overhead, he pointed to the Spanish moss, an “air plant”, used today by florists to create interesting arrangements and once used for stuffing chairs. Bryan claims the latter use resulted in the “first recall”. Apparently, bugs at home in the moss were unwelcome in people’s homes. Eventually, horsehair replaced the moss. Before we entered the channels between the bald cypress trees and tupelo gum trees, Bryan pointed out a nearby boat. The sportsmen on board had no rods with bobbers; they relied on eyesight as they aimed a bow and arrow hunting for fish.

Dragon fly wings shimmered rainbow colors in the sunlight
breaking through the cypress trees. The boat gently bumped against a tree in the narrow passage of cypress growing out of the shallows where the water measured only two feet deep. Plants – duckweed and water hyacinths -covered the water surface and parted as the boat drifted slowly. Bryan warned us to keep our hands inside the boat so as not to get pinched between the boat and trees. He had us lean in when we passed the picky marsh grass.

Though we could see through the clear water during most of our tour, we passed through one area where charcoal black water churned thick like boiling pudding. Bryan navigated a 2 -3 inch deep ditch to take us to a place where the surface plants sheltered four little baby alligators. “They’re about two years old. They grow very slowly in length.” Bryan believes that temperature affects the gender of the alligators’ eggs. The hotter the weather, the more males; cooler weather produces more females. A six foot long female holding her snout above the water floated nearby. Bryan suggested that she might be 20 – 30 years old. She has many years to go. Some alligators will live to be 100 years old.

Folks in the bayou hunt alligator cutting some of them short of a long life span. According to Bryan, hunters are rationed to one alligator from a given 168 acres of property. The meat is eaten and the hide can bring a good price paid by the foot to be used for purses and other fashionable goods.

On our tour, we learned that alligators move slowly on land but can swim up to 35 mph in the water. They can be lured simply with a piece of chicken tied to a rope and dropped in the water over the side of a boat. Males are likely to eat the baby alligators so Bryan said “the females run the babies away.”

A bayou, Bryan explained, is a flooded forest with fresh water flowing through. Unlike a swamp, the bayou does not dry out. At Lake Martin, the Army Corp of Engineers manages the environment, water, and wildlife.

We saw plenty of wildlife flying or perched watchfully over nests: white egrets, great blue herons, and rosette spoonbills. We could hear the bellow of bullfrogs. Bryan bragged that one night he caught 76 bullfrogs, some he grabbed with his bare hands. We watched an otter sun himself on a log. And, in a grand finale, we followed the bubbles to see a giant alligator rise then shyly duck under the floating mat of vegetation. Bryan looked like a satisfied man as he captained his boat back to shore. In a two-hour tour, he had shown us what we’d come to see even though, you never know what you’ll see on a swamp tour.

April 13 & 14, 2008

Champagne’s Swamp Tours are available by reservation. Call: 337-230-4068.

www.champagneswamptours.com

Lake Martin is located south of Breaux Bridge, Louisiana

Hey, Do You Want to See an Alligator?

I heard a sound like the jet of steam pushing through the holes of a hot steam iron forcing the wrinkles out of a linen dress. “Ed, what was that sound?” I asked in a hushed voice. I heard the sound again. “Do you think it’s an alligator?”

“Could be,” Ed casually replied as he continued to snack on his half of a shared Texas grapefruit.

I knew alligators move slowly on land, but I jumped to my feet anyway.

“Ready to go?” I asked checking for movement on the grassy levy of Lake Martin. Ed rolled the rind in a paper towel and stashed it on his bike. I did want to see more alligators, but not from my bike.

Earlier, as we explored Lake Martin in our car, we stopped to watch black shelled turtles sun themselves on a floating log. We saw blue herons fly low over the water. And, a cluster of snakes slithered in the grass around the supports of a short fishing pier.

We expected to see alligators because signs cautioned lake visitors that these dangerous reptiles inhabited the area. I hung my head out the open car window as Ed slowly drove the road around the lake perimeter.

“Stop! There’s one! Back up! Over there…Do you see it?” We saw our first ‘gator. Its long snout and eyes broke the surface of the water. We watched until it submerged under the floating carpet of vegetation.

Ahead, we could see a car stopped on the side of the road, a sure sign of an alligator sighting. This time I got out of the car.

“You want to see a ‘gator?” the young fellow asked me. “Just look over there. See him?” I did as Ed zoomed in with his camera for a shot. “There’s a bigger one down the road. You might still see him sunning himself.”

We did see him. This alligator looked to be 15 feet long. Now, it was my turn to say to the car moving slow with the windows down, “Hey, you want to see a ‘gator?”

April 13, 2008

St. Martinville, LA

We took a lazy stroll through St. Martinville, Louisiana on a Saturday afternoon. Whenever we had inquired about where we should go for the history of Cajun Country, this town was recommended every time. In just the few city blocks of St. Martinville’s Town Square, we found the sampling we been hoping to find.

Ed and I wandered into the park along the Bayou Teche where we paused under the Evangeline Oak. One travel brochure claims this to be “the most photographed tree in the world.” Legend suggests that the tree marked the meeting place of two the ill-fated lovers, Evangeline and Gabriel, separated when the British forced the Acadians from Nova Scotia. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 1847 epic poem “Evangeline” portrays this love story. A truer story of the deportation of the Acadians to Louisiana is revealed in the Acadian Memorial where we spent most of our time.

There’s a commemorative marker in the park not far from the Oak. As a Canadian, Ed filled with pride. The Canadian government dedicated the site “to commemorate the 1996 twinning of East Oak Park and Grand-Pré National Historic Site of Canada.” The occasion marked the 250 year anniversary of the Diaspora of the Acadians from Canada – 1755 to 2005. The British have never given apology or offered a similar tribute to the refuges that came to Louisiana.

We found shimmering Mardi Gras costumes and paintings by regional artists in the Duchamp Opera House on Main Street. One of the local artists was manning the store. She showed us her painting of children walking into the local church – St. Martin De Tours Catholic Church – dressed for the celebration their First Holy Communion. She told us she priced the painting high because she really didn’t want to sell it.

We visited that church in the painting as parishioners began arriving for Saturday Mass. The church was established in 1765, building circa is 1844. Inside, pews have wooden gates with a spot for family names. Years ago parishioners could reserve the row exclusively for their family. We learned the tradition is ignored today. Outside the church is the Evangeline Monument, a statue of this Acadian heroine.

Our visit to Martinsville ended in Dana’s Bakery with a cup of fresh brewed coffee and an assortment of cookies – macaroons and peanut butter ones to be exact. While we recharged on caffeine and sugar, we talked with a man and his son who had come to help close up the bakery for the day. From this man, we learned about the economic struggles of the community – plant closures, cost of diesel for farmers, worries over the war, and concerns about the presidential
election. From the boy, we saw the hope for a good tomorrow. It was here that the Acadian
past, Louisiana present, and the future all came together.

April 12, 2008

"Here they found a new home, and left a legacy that lives on in thier descendants, the Cajuns." - Acadian Memorial

I could feel the tears welling in my eyes as I listened to the character narration of Acadian Elizabeth Thibodeau veuve Cosme Brasseur. This widow’s story tells how she lost her husband in the deportation from Canada, struggled to care for her children, and eventually begged for passage out of Maryland to Louisiana. With five daughters and two sons, she settled on Bayou Manchac in 1767. Hers is just one of the many the stories of the men, women, and children who began arriving in Louisiana in the mid-1760s after begin exiled from Nova Scotia by the British occupation.

The Acadian Memorial in St. Martinville, Louisiana pays tribute to these refugees. Of the more than 10,000 Acadians forced to leave Canada, some 3,000 settled in Louisiana. “The Queen of England apologized to the people of Canada, but she never offered an apology to the people of Louisiana for her country’s actions,” Memorial Hostess Betty Laviolette offered in a sad, low whisper.

The Memorial’s audio tour brought Brasseur and other Acadian refugees to life who were portrayed on “The Arrival of the Acadians in Louisiana” – the 12’ by 30’ wall mural by Robert Dafford. The Wall of Names lists 3,000 persons identified as Acadian refugees in Louisiana. The Coats-of-Arms for 31 families of Acadian descent lay in mosaic tile in the Memorial Garden under The Deportation Cross and around The Eternal Flame. The Cross is a replica of one that stands at Grand-Pré National Historic Site, Nova Scotia – a commemorative site from which Acadians embarked into exile. The Flame symbolizes the Acadians ability to rekindle their culture despite hardship. Their descendants are the Cajuns - new faces for a new day – “Joie de Vivre” joy of living - perhaps a new mural of the people we see in Louisiana’s Cajun Country.

Fee Collection the Cajun Way

There are many different ways to collect fees. On the Pennsylvania Turnpike, there are still a few live workers to collect a toll and make change if you don’t have an Easy Pass. In Houston, you can toss the correct change in a conical basket as you drive slowly off the expressway ramp. On Avery Island, you drive up to a small hut and are greeted by a smiling, elderly gentleman.

When Ed stopped the car, I first noted that the gate was on the passenger side of the car – unusual but makes sense since I’m always reaching for cash at these drive-up windows, not the driver. Then, I noticed his delightfully innovative toll collection device.

“Now this is Cajun ingenuity,” he laughed with self mockery as I angled to take photos of his long-armed clip. “The clothes pin holds the paper money. The hole is cut for people who pay with quarters.” His device held my dollar firmly in place, secure from the gently moving breeze.

After this jovial man took our money, he passed the long-arm clip back through the car window without a strained reach. On this second pass, he handed us the windshield display Entrance Pass secured by the clothes pin…very clever, so entertaining.

“The entry fee of one dollar supports conservation and security on Avery Island. Thank you and have a pleasant visit.”

Spice & Nobody Nice

Ed dribbles pepper sauce on nearly any food that’s not a fruit or desert. It reddens his morning scrambles eggs, spices up my already hot chili, and soaks into the fixings of my tuna noodle casserole. Heinz ketchup is all you’ll find me using sparingly to add a bit of flavor to food, but never in chili or tuna noodle. Because of this ever present bottle of Tobasco and our household loyalty to pepper sauce goes to McIlhenny Company, I was keen on touring the factory on Avery Island while we visited the state of Louisiana.

I guess I set my expectations too high as I smiled and posed outside the entrance to the factory tour. My smile weakened soon. Ed and I waited in a line that snaked around to a small movie theater. The sign when we entered this Reception Area promised the next tour would begin at 10:25 AM. No one bothered to update chalkboard sign as we continued to wait in a line that inched along for nearly an hour. While in line, I memorized the narration of the videos playing on the televisions mounted overhead in the Historical Gallery. When we were finally greeted by a representative of the factory, she mumbled her rehearsed speech, handed us some tiny product samples and told us to exit the Theater at the end of two videos. The eight-minute long video did give some history and information on production. The second video was strong on marketing. I’d classify the latter as a commercial for prime time TV. In the Viewing Gallery, we didn’t see extensive the factory production, just more displays and artifacts.

I didn’t feel any sense of welcome or pleasure from the four “hostesses” in the Country Store. They mechanically filled taste cups with pepper sauce flavored soft ice cream and chili. They replenished the pretzels for dipping into the chipotle, green pepper, and more sample flavors of pepper sauce. I nibbled and chatted with other visitors about their reactions to the tastes. I didn’t see our hostesses chatting or engaging visitors.

As we left the Pepper Sauce Factory, my loyalty to the brand remained but I felt disappointed in the tour and the lack of hospitality. So on a scale of best (4 stars) to worst (1 star) factory tours, let me comment:

Anheuser Busch Brewery in St. Louis, MO is outstanding with friendly, informative guides, photo opportunities, much to see, and generous samples – 4 stars

Zippo/Case Visitor Center in Bradford, PA is fabulous; watch repairs on this warranty backed lighters and see one that saved a soldier’s life by deflecting a combat bullet – 4 stars

Crayola Crayons in Easton, PA is good for kids, fun for adults, bright and interactive – 3 stars

Dr. Pepper Museum in Waco, TX is interesting if you’re a chemist or student of commercials and ads; don’t expect a taste of this classic beverage – 2 stars

Tabasco Pepper Sauce on Avery Island, LA is disappointing, skip the tour and just keep the product on the table – 1 star.

If you have visited any of these places, let me know how you’d rate them.

More Unexpected Surprises at Parc Hardy: This is How to Celebrate a Birthday!

Saturday morning, I watch Reginald, Leo, and Milford unhitch a humongous size barbecue grill from a pick-up truck and begin unloading cases of chicken, pork chops, and sausage at the Parc Hardy pavilion. They’d noticed our coach just as I had noticed them. So when I waved hello and commented on the food and grill, I heard compliments about our coach. Leo knew coaches, in fact, he and his wife Oraline live as ‘full-time RVers’ too – three years he calculated. They’d come to Breaux Bridge for a family party celebrating Oraline’s sister’s 69^th birthday. He invited us to join them when we finished our sightseeing in St. Martinville.

In the early evening, when Ed and I returned from our tour, we were immediately welcomed to the birthday party. A woman handed us each a plate mounded with dirty rice, mac n’ cheese, yams, peas, sausage, chops and chicken. I thought my styrofoam plate would break! I lighted the load by chowing down and quaffing an icy cold beer. This was a Creole feast! My plate couldn’t be emptied. Even when I tried to put the remains in the coach refrigerator, Milford insisted Ed’s and my plates be refilled with food and wrapped in tin foil for the next day. Oraline packaged up six pieces of birthday cake for us too.

The birthday lady sat proud in the shaded pavilion with stacks of cash pinned to her blouse – birthday gifts from friends and family. The music blared. Everyone danced. Leo and Oraline coxed Ed and I to dance too. We did what might have been a sorry version of old time twist. Town councilmen came by to pay their respect and visit with their constituency. Toddlers squirmed from Momma’s lap to Grandma’s then back. Women mixed up more dirty rice in restaurant sized metal bowls. Groups of men erupted with loud laughter. Food, smiles, dancing and fun…they sure know how to throw a party! Thank you for inviting us!

Boondocking Where We Can & The Surprises That Come With It

Unexpected experiences come our way when we boondock. By boondock, I mean finding a place to park the coach for a short time, usually overnight, that is not a KOA campground or state park facility. Now, that we have begun our 10,000 Mile Grand Tour, we boondock using the water stored on board and a generator or bank of batteries to enjoy our house-on-wheels conveniences.

Late on Tuesday afternoon, the Assistant Chief of Police in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana directed us to Parc Hardy, with multiple ball fields, picnic grounds, pavilions, walking paths, and a solid gravel lot. “It’s perfect. Enjoy your stay in town. No one will bother your coach there. This is a friendly place,” he said.

We found the park, enjoyed a dinner of leftovers Anasazi beans. Ed retired to the bedroom to watch the TV news. I checked email. As I sat at the table typing, I noticed the sound of cars surrounding us filling the gravel lot. When I finally lifted the window blind, I realized that the ball fields were skirted with Moms, Dads, Grandparents, and siblings of all ages. Four teams of little ones age 4 to 6 were warming up on the field for T-Ball.

I slipped back to the back of the coach. “Ed, you better look out the window,” I suggested. The last time I made such a suggestion while boondocking we had a window to two bucks fighting antler to antler over a doe in a nearby field.

“Where’d all these kids come from!” laughed Ed. We grabbed some lawn chairs from the coach bay and took front row seats near third base. Parents urged their child “pay attention,” “watch the ball,” “RUN to Home!” We cheered when bases were loaded and clapped when a little guy dusted himself off after a tearful tumble. We even raised our arms to create the team spirit bridge at the end of the game. We were unexpectedly delighted to cheer for the Bays.