Archive for September, 2010

A lot of readers seemed to enjoy my Memories entry and asked me to do more on that subject.  I’m assuming they were talking about Louisiana, but I bet they never expected this turn…about the ghosts we have down here, flying around, peering through windows, often just doing their thing while we only watch…or listen.  Sometimes, I wonder what they are trying to tell us, but I don’t wonder if they really exist any more. I’ve heard them…my lady, too…at least, it sure felt like it.  I’m easy, a writer with flights of imagination, but she’s a hard-bitten, scrupulously objective…and lovely…ICU nurse. You just gotta love nurses!
I’m a Christian and I know God doesn’t make mistakes and all that…but I still haven’t figured out what ghosts are all about.  I know, I know…about now a lot of you are saying, “This yo-yo says he saw a UFO (actually two), and now, he’s telling us he’s seen ghosts (actually, I only heard them).  He’s got a screw loose, for sure”…and you have every right.  Sometimes I wonder a little about it myself.  I mean, UFO’s and now, ghosts?  It sounds kind of way out, but you guys don’t live down here.  There’s just something about a failed, would-be country, all those oaks and shadows, antebellum homes, incredible injustice, a horrible war, and the residue of defeat.  It seems to breed ghosts…whatever they are.
I told you this post would be a surprise.  Let’s see…where to begin?  Well, for one thing, when I was growing up, the house across the street held a lot of terror for me.  In the early eighteen hundreds it had been the site of a ghastly murder, actually TWO murders.  The way I heard it, a young couple had been married in that house and spent their wedding night up in the attic, which had been transformed into a honeymoon bower.  Somehow, and for reasons that are never explained, an escaped slave had chosen that spot to hide in.  I mean…didn’t he notice the festivities going on downstairs, the fresh paint on the walls, the froufrou decorations?  Anyway, as the story goes, when they entered the room, he hacked them to pieces with a cane knife.  It seems he was kind of pissed and had anger management problems…BIG anger management problems!
I guess all ghost stories have a couple of inconsistencies here and there, but in this one, they caught the guy…and hanged him from beams on the front porch.  The couple had been so mutilated they gathered up the pieces and buried them in one lonely coffin, and horrified with what had happened, the owner of the house decided to wall off the death room…out of sight, out of mind.  And he did a nice job, tastefully painted, wallpapered and all, with a couple of pictures…I’ve seen it, but the problem was there was a WINDOW into that room…and soon after, people started seeing images in it…blood spattering…and the couple screaming as they were being slaughtered.

Bienvenue House, now a B&B, the house I tried not to see at night

I can remember going home on my bike in the evening.  If it was late and already dark, I pedaled like mad, always trying hard not to look up at that window.  I was scared then.  I didn’t want to see ANYTHING looking back at me.  Today, I’d probably stop and wait…with my camera in hand.  I mean, it would be big news…don’t you think?  Anyway, when I was about sixteen, the owners decided to tear down the partition, and people in town whispered that they found exactly what the legend said, a wedding bower, ripped and decaying…with dark stains everywhere…blood stains.  At least, that part seemed to be true, but you never know.  Cajuns LOVE a good story, even if they have to embroider it a little.
Lafitte, Louisiana is supposed to be haunted, too, but you couldn’t prove it by me.  Way down the road below New Orleans, the little town is covered with twisted and tangled oaks right next to Barataria Bay.  As a matter of fact, you can smell salt breezes right in the middle of town, but that’s not the interesting part.  It seems a lot of Jean Lafitte’s crew were buried there in an old cemetery south of town…right next to the restless waters of the bay…even Dominique You…Lafitte’s adjutant and an officer in Napoleon’s army…and believe me, it’s one hell of a spooky place.  I know. I’ve been there…at night, but I didn’t stay long.
The legend is…on All-Saints night Jean Lafitte, the pirate (and saviour of New Orleans), walks among the graves of his comrades talking to them.  You gotta understand; it’s completely other-worldly there, what with those oaks, the waters of the bay constantly lapping, and worst of all, graves decorated with glowing candles on that particular night.  I know of a bunch of guys, drunk as lords, who decided to call Lafitte’s bluff. I understand it was getting stormy that night, with clouds gathering, thunder rumbling, lightning flashing, and candles sputtering.   By midnight, when he was said to appear, the guys had vanished and headed for the nearest tavern.  I don’t blame them; it’s unbelievably scary at night.

Keystone Locks Dam

South Louisiana’s like that.  Last week we went to Keystone Locks, west of St. Martinville, to watch a canoe race from the origin of Bayou Teche to its outlet into the gulf.  I expected to see exhausted paddlers inching along, but when we got there, the bayou was quiet and empty.  I was getting a few pictures when the custodian drove up to lock the gate, and he told us all about the midnight portage around the dam. The mosquitos alone would have kept me away, not to mention West Nile Virus…or the slithery things that come up out of the water when the sun goes down.  A seafood meal at McGee’s Landing (Henderson) was beginning to sound pretty good, but while we were walking back to the car, my tough-as-nails lady suddenly said, “RUN!”
I thought she had spotted a cottonmouth or gator along the path, but when I asked her what was going on, she only continued to yell, “RUN, dammit…RUN!”   When she was safely encased in my Jeep, I asked her what all the drama had been about, and she told me, “I saw a woman looking at us through the door of the lock-keeper’s home!”  Now, that was interesting.  The house was falling apart, unoccupied for at least thirty years…and she had seen something there…a woman?  I clicked open my camera and got out of the car while she begged me not to tempt fate.
I mean, what was she going to do, that woman?  Personally, I think the best she could hope for was to scare the crap out of me like she had my lady.  Of course, when I went back, there was nothing…not even a good shot.  My lady…I gotta keep calling her that, she doesn’t want me to tell you her name…told me the ghost was wearing a mantilla…and that made sense. This part of Louisiana was under Spanish control for a long time…the next town you come to is called New Iberia, for God’s sake, but what the hell was she doing in the lock-keeper’s house? I walked all over the crumbling structure, but she never showed. Maybe she was afraid of digital cameras. It must be hard for ghosts to stay current with technology.

The fearsome attic window at Bienvenue House

That’s almost as good a story as the Lafitte thing. I’m sorry I didn’t see her; I’d have loved to, but I guess the best I can offer is the time I heard ghosts, even though I’m not entirely convinced. We spent a weekend at The Myrtles in St. Francisville, considered one of the most haunted houses on the planet. You know, for a long time, I’ve noticed ghosts only seem to appear in spooky places, and this one’s spookier than anybody could possibly imagine. Sheltered under droopy oaks, quitely sitting next the the Mississippi, gingerbread as hell and kinda dark, it’s where I would stay if I were a ghost. When I made reservations, I asked them which room was the MOST haunted, and they quickly said, “The Bridal Suite.” “Book it,” I answered. “THAT’S where I want to stay.”
When we got there, we were given a tour of the house, but I gotta say something about the Cofederate Bedroom before I say anything more. It kind of grew out of the rest of the house, with bedrooms built all around it, and none of the walls are square; it’s almost kaleidoscopic, with angles everywhere, dark corners…and the walls are RED, not a friendly, mellow red…BLOOD RED!  It was cold outside, but the house was well heated…except in that room.  It was FREEZING in there, not uncomfortable, but freezing down to the bone!  I hate to disappoint you; I consider myself reasonable, intelligent, curious, and mostly analytical, but I wouldn’t sleep in THAT room for love or money!
We found the Bridal Suite beautiful and the bed unbelievably comfortable, particularly on a cold November night under downy comforters, but we didn’t see…or hear…anything, not so much as a whisper or a creaking door.  Other people staying at The Myrtles that night said they saw a lot, but we just slept the night away, warm and snug.  I was disappointed; I considered it a bust…until we were getting ready to leave.  We were packing, and I should describe the layout.  The Bridal Suite is on two levels, the bedchamber above, with a dressing area and bathroom down a couple of stairs, roughly following the slope of the staircase on the other side of the wall.
 While we were packing, getting ready to go see Rosedown, we heard two little girls racing up the staircase, running around the landing at the top, then laughing before they scurried down again.  After a few choice words about bratty kids and their parents, my lady pointed out that the stairs were unusually steep…it would be incredibly easy for them to trip and fall.  “They’re going to break their necks,” she said, but it didn’t stop them in the least…and it wasn’t just the sounds.  I could actually FEEL the percussion of their steps on the stairs, coming through the solid oak floors.
When we were leaving, the manager came bubbling up, thanking us for visiting.  ”You know,” I said, “we heard some little girls running up and down the stairs.  You should put a stop to it…otherwise you could wind up with a lawsuit.”  She smiled and nodded knowingly.  ”Those little girls have been running on those stairs for TWO HUNDRED YEARS, and I’m glad.  They’re happy doing that…in the nursery, they’re crying.”  I was thunderstruck.  Instantly, I began to question my own senses.  Did we REALLY hear them?  But there was no denying it…we had!  I began to regret I hadn’t flung the door open when they were on the landing.
It seems they had been poisoned with oleander leaves baked into a cake two hundred years ago.  For a long time I kept wondering how they had FAKED that at The Myrtles.  Maybe they did, but I can’t figure it out.  Maybe it REALLY was those little dead girls…I have no idea which…but you gotta admit.  It was exciting…whatever it was!  That’s south Louisiana in a capsule.  Peculiar? Yes.  Unexplainable? Definitely.  Pretty? Georgeous.  Spooky? In places.  Worthwhile? You better believe it…but mostly FUN AS HELL!  If you don’t think so, give it a shot; visit us and decide for yourself.  I know you won’t regret it…unless you’re afraid of ghosts.

The Old Castillo Hotel in St. Martinville

I went to St. Martinville this week, “The Little Paris of the Americas,” as nobles fleeing the reign of terror in France nicknamed it in the late seventeen hundreds, but that description hasn’t ever really been accurate. The little town is more like the United Nations, growing out of an unlikely mixture of Native Americans, African slaves, Cajuns, and those poor, long-suffering but RICH French cavaliers, the “de” people. Deblanc is aristocratic. Leblanc is Cajun.
Blog respondents had been ragging me about not having pictures in my Firelight entry and I knew just where I could find them…in St. Martinville…but the charm of the hamlet quickly overcame my photographic enthusiasm. I went to the Acadian Memorial, a twenty minute show using figures in a gigantic painting of the first Acadian settlers, many patterned from their living descendants.
Of course, I knew about the Grand Derangement, the euphamism used to describe the forced removal of French-speaking Acadians from English-speaking Canada, mostly because they were different. Okay, maybe they were a little bull-headed, too, but all they really wanted to do was live their quiet lives in peace…growing crops, hunting and fishing…while speaking their native language and practicing their own devoutly cherished religion.
And what happened was horrible, with families separated, children rippped from their parents and scattered all over the place, and it didn’t end there. Many were refused entry into American ports when they staggered in. At that time in the early eighteenth century, Spain owned Louisiana and was very interested in populating it, even with people who didn’t speak Spanish. Catholic Iberia wanted bodies even more than souls, and welcomed the hapless Acadians into south Louisiana, where they settled, thrived, and have enriched our lives for centuries as Cajuns.
It took a while for the Acadians to adjust…coming from a cold climate to all this heat and humidity. At first they stuck to what they knew, building the homes they always had, wooden saltboxes with steep roofs, and only a few tiny windows, but when displaced Acadians who had been living in the Caribbean began arriving, all that changed. Walls got thicker…made of bousillage, a mixture of clay and Spanish moss, and windows and doors became larger…always placed opposite each other to encourage ventilation, inviting even the most timid breezes.
They weren’t big and contained little more than tables, chairs and beds, mostly constructed on site. Acadians had few possessions; all they had been allowed to take from Nova Scotia was what they could carry, but they were an ingenious lot. They always built the kitchen in a separate building away from the house. That way, if it burned down…and there was a lot of that going on in those days…the house wouldn’t go with it. The two leading causes of mortality for women in early Louisiana were childbirth and burning to death in the kitchen.
As families grew, most homes included a Garconierre, sleeping quarters set apart, a place where obstreparous, slightly intoxicated young men could steal quietly to their beds without awakening la mere and le pere. No doubt their parents disapproved in Catholic south Louisiana, but they knew. Better to go with the flow than fight the current…and pray like hell they come to their senses…and most of them eventually did.

Typical Eighteenth Century Cajun Dining Area

Like I said, these people were POOR…dirt poor, but it didn’t stop them from creating lives for themselves…and finding happiness. You can see it in their music. A lot of it is sad…they had a lot of sadness to contend with, but when the musicians break into a lively Cajun two-step, you know they were happy, too. Along the way, with a lot of help from their African neighbors, they also created an enviable cuisine.
I went to the state commerative area to get a good shot of Olivier House for the blog, but that wasn’t the real treasure. There’s a WORKING eighteenth century farm on site, and a lovely young woman from Catahoula enthusiastically guided me through it. Turns out, I wasn’t as prepared as I should have been. I was wearing Crocs…over bare feet…I hadn’t expected a hike into the seventeen hundreds, in grassy fields, along dirt roads and gravel pathways, and my twenty-first century feet didn’t fare as well as feet aparrently did two hundred fifty years ago.
I owe a lot to that young lady, but two things still puzzled me…why Cajuns were so close to the Africans, and why they always clung so tenaciously to family and friends. At last, I think I understand. The Africans were their first friends, the ONLY people who ever accepted them unconditionally, and after experiencing so much separation and disruption, Cajuns came to treasure any connection to those they loved, even those lost in the confusing sweep of history. If want to get a feel for it, read Longfellow’s poem, Evangeline.
She sat there, you know, not Evangaline…she’s made up…Emmeline LaBiche, who the story is really about, under that oak, waiting for her lover who never came. God knows whatever happened to him, but Longfellow gave him a tragic…and heroic death…in his beloved’s arms. Of course, we all know it didn’t happen that way. Unless she was willing to compromise…and she doesn’t sound like the type…I think Emmeline probably died an unhappy spinster, angry and bitter, but it’s one hell of a story either way.

Evangeline...and possibly Dolores Del Rio

There’s a statue of her right next to the church in the middle of town, Emmeline…forever to be known as Evangeline. Actually, and it might be heresy to say so, I think Evangline is a prettier name. Anyway, the statue was given to the town by Dolores Del Rio, a silent film star who made a movie about her…sloshing around in swamps outside Catahoula just a few miles away. Funny, though…the statue looks more like Dolores than any Cajun woman I’ve ever seen…so I’ve decided it probably IS Dolores…and why not? She paid for it, and it’s a nice statue. The town has been thrilled about it ever since.
When we were growning up, I felt like an outsider. My parents always assured us we weren’t Cajun…French, yes, but not Cajun French; our forebears came down the Mississippi from up north, but mom and dad were wrong. Jacques Corne, my ancestor, was a Cajun who lived in Acadie…part of windswept Nova Scotia…Grand Pre, actually. To me, he sounds pretty interesting…one of the FIRST to be kicked out of the country. It seems he wouldn’t give an inch…or I guess in his case, a centimeter. Cornes are like that…we don’t herd well.
I often think about my father’s great aunts in New Orleans, our great, great aunts. It was always a problem, talking to them…they only spoke French, which we children hadn’t learned yet. Of course dad went on and on, but we only knew oui and non…that was about it. Still, despite the liguistic problems, we knew one thing…they loved us, and we loved them right back.
It seemed strange at the time, but now I know why we all knitted together so neatly. They were Cajun…like us, and history doesn’t trump adversity, or the loneliness of separation…or years…or love…especially love. Bonsoir, Tante Mai, the tante I remember best. I can say it now, but not to her. She’s long gone…like Jacques, and my other tantes, and Emmeline, and Longfellow, and dad…and even Dolores, God bless her.