December 7, 2009 – Pawking de Caw, Louisiana-style

We have been blessed and plagued throughout this journey by “low season”. Empty campgrounds without need for reservations have prevailed but so have “closed for the season” signs and – have I mentioned this before – unseasonably poor weather. The Natchez, Mississippi tourist brochure spoke glowingly about civil war mansions, slave-sale markets and the jaded history of this barge-transport town, situated on the banks of the mighty Mississip’. Not surprisingly we were the sole visitors aboard the bus for the excursion.

Doris our congenial hostess/driver was 60ish, dressed in a candy-apple velour top, with crushed-velvet brown track pants and matching chapeau, white sneakers and a nappy wig. Doris bore an uncanny, almost disconcerting, resemblance to Morgan Freeman in drag.

She spoke non-stop during the 75-minute citywide tour. In that hour and fifteen minutes we understood precisely four of the words she uttered. Three times she said, “Natchez” and once she said, “barber”. I think.

The rest of the time we just nodded politely at her incomprehensible dialect, like a couple of Bulgarian émigrés.

After genuine southern bar-b-que at the aptly named “Pigs’r’us”, we arrived at the Mississippi Riverside Campground in darkness, delayed by the circuitous road around the levee. I chatted for a while with the camp host in the office, a chap originally from the New Orleans area.

“Pretty quiet tonight,” he said in his unique southern Louisiana cadence. “Where would you like to pawk de caw?”

“In the back of the van, same as every night,” I replied, uncertainly.

Across the Mississippi river from Natchez, lies Louisiana. Vidalia, LA is like Hobbema, Alberta but while oft flooded and burnt, seems to enjoy a higher rate of unemployment.

As we exited Vidalia a sign announced “Fresh Coons”. I saw no alternative. I slammed on the binders and made a quick u-turn – nearly taking out a man in the ditch as I braked. This pinstriped frontrunner was part of a contingent of inmates from the Louisiana State Department of Corrections, guarded closely by disinterested shot-gunned armed guards. I surreptitiously snapped a photo of these shackled ditch-cleaners and then turned backed toward the ‘coon joint.

We stepped inside. It was Friday afternoon at 2 pm and the owners were closing up, engaged in the revelry of a near-record $200 day of fish and road-kill mongering. We spent an engaging twenty minutes immersed in the fine art of properly cooking a ‘coon, “the secret is slow cookin’ in plenty of butter and sweet ‘tater”, before we made our apologies and continued down the road, loaded with a gratis bag of buffalo fish for supper.

The snow really set in just as we drove across the Red River causeway into Natchitoches, a small town in central Louisiana. NAK-a-tish (that’s how it is pronounced!) is the oldest settlement in the Louisiana Purchase, founded in 1819, four years before New Orleans. Unlike the counties of other states Louisiana has parishes. We stopped to acquire a bottle of pinot noir in tribute to LA’s French heritage. Locals informed us in a thrilled tone that there had not been snow in Natchitoches in nine years. We controlled our elation.

After a sleepless night at L’otel d’Wal-Mart we awoke to a rare sunny morning. Coincidentally we had arrived in Natchitoches on the auspicious occasion of the annual Christmas candle-lighted-barge parade on the Red River. Although there was frost on the ground we decided to give this town of 18,000 – which swells to 150,000 people for this one day of the year – a quick once over before heading on to Shreveport and thence on to Dallas, Texas five hours up the interstate.

We mingled with hundreds of revelers at noon down Front Street, past riverfront villas – including the 1830’s “Steel Magnolias” mansion where the movie was filmed – all hosting private parties for the Tow elite on this special occasion. We detected the sound of a live band from behind one parade-front mansion. I craned my ear – and my legs – toward the sound but was rebuffed by a uniformed sheriff hired to keep the riff-raff out of this exclusive venue.

“That’s live music. Cajun.” I said a little loudly, uncharacteristically.

“That it is” said a gruff goateed man standing inside the gate. “I’m Terry. The owner. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing” I answered apologetically, “I was just mentioning to my wife that I detected the sound a live band.”

“Where you from?” he asked.

“Alberta, Canada” I replied quietly.

Serendipity attacked.

“Well come on in!”

Twelve hours later we stumbled out of Terry Sklar’s private party in Natchitoches, Louisiana, full to bursting with filet gumbo, smoked boneless piglet stuffed with dirty rice, slow roasted beef brisket, beverages o’ plenty, new friends and a giant respect for Louisiana hospitality. I’m told I made passing grades on the Cajun ti-fer, the rub-board and the fiddle… best I can recall.

Gerry and Florence