The gamut
July 16, 2013

Tender to the touch describes my emotions today.  We bade farewell to oldest child last night; we had not seen him for more than three years and had a mere three days with him: wholly inadequate but I am grateful for that bit at least.

Willliston Crossings, in Williston, Florida, where we stayed is a lovely resort-type RV park, far different than most of what we’ve utilized this trip.  It has level concrete pads and patio slabs, manicured landscaping and grass, lots of trees, swimming pool, great bathrooms and showers and a feature that evidently was not available when we stayed here before: two excellent large quarry fishing lakes.  Many parks have private so-called lakes, usually smallish ponds, but these qualify as lakes even by Florida standards and because they are private, do not require a fishing license.  We three dipped a few lines there but only for a short while after a long day and before a nice Italian dinner out hosted by Darren.  When we heard there was a lake in an abandoned quarry, I did not visualize the beauty of the reality.  Lots more interesting in the area to explore next time; we seem to find more to do each time we come here.

What's a Florida day without another storm . . .

Cedar Key, auto parts, convoluted connections . . .

 

I thought about getting my hair cut at Island Hair, but Darren said I already had island hair.

The obligatory try-to-sneak-up-on-the pelican maneuver.

That is true of Cedar Key, also.  This was the third time we've gone there, and find that we’ve still missed lots of fascinating sights.  We swam, ate, walked, birded (a magnificent frigatebird - stupendous - flew low right over us! We’d only seen that once before: in San Carlos, Mexico) and were happy to find the island has an auto parts store.

As exciting as the frigatebird was, the auto parts store is a much longer story.  After a dip in the gulf, we checked out some of the shops and galleries, and met a woman whose daughter lives in Chino Valley (we seem to find these Yavapai County connections absolutely everywhere we go), a lunch at one of the fun eateries Cedar Key offers, we gathered ourselves and jumped in the truck to leave. Whir, click went the engine, then nothing but click, click click.  To make a long story only slightly shorter, a dry cell in the battery had killed it dead, never the most welcome of events and certainly not when one is on vacay far from home in an isolated tiny Gulf town.

The people parked to the left of us couldn’t give us a jump because they were catching the tour boat in five minutes and explained they didn’t have jumper cables anyway (as they were tripping on our jumper cables spread out on the grass).

The people parked to the right of us couldn’t (see above) but she wanted to know if we needed a vocalist for Goat Hill Music when she saw our sign identifying us as such.  Before they left for the boat, I heard quite a lot about their time as missionaries in Africa, the fact that their children still spend a lot of time there and in the midst of it, I somehow ended up with her email as I promised to send her some of Chris’ original choral music for her to perform at her church.

Abandoned to the right and to the left, our angel by the name of Austin suddenly appeared, asking if we wanted a jump.  About 17 years of age, he was not only willing but nearly insistent that since we were Toyota people, he could pull his pickup around onto the sidewalk and grass and help us.

Cables attached: more of that dreaded click, click, click. There was plenty of time for conversation with Austin who works at nearby Tidal Tours and his friend, an employee of kayak tours, about Cedar Key’s rather fascinating history and more.

As the menfolk switched batteries to get our engine to do something useful without that heart-dropping sound, I perched on a nearby picnic table with camera and binoculars to peruse the area.
 
The battery switch did the trick; the Toter roared to life once again; we gave Austin his battery back, got directions to Napa and off we went to buy a battery with gratitude the small place had one in stock for us.

Whew - what a relief!  On the road again, we hearkened back to an earlier-in-the-day connection.  Two women now living elsewhere but originally from Cedar Key had just happened to stop and ask us about a good place to eat.  They were on a trip down memory lane.  In the excitement of returning to their hometown, one woman explained that her great, great, great grandfather had founded the church in Elzey, a tiny burg on the road  between Cedar Key and Williston.  Fascinating, I thought, and wished I had more time to talk to her about that history.

As we returned inland from our island jaunt, we decided to stop at the old church for a look-see.  Elzey is about halfway back to Williston, pulling up to the lovely country church, my brain abruptly awoke from its reverie as I realized I had left my camera and binoculars back on the picnic table in Cedar Key.

Alarm bells began clanging around in my cranium: time to beat myself up for such carelessness, sadness to lose all my pictures from our time with Darren and all the photos yet to come, guilt at such wastefulness: you name a negative emotion - it was running around up there.  Nothing for it but to turn around and hope to retrieve the abandoned equipment that I use daily almost constantly.  That was a really long drive and at the end, we pulled up in the exact same parking space in front of an empty table - heart sink - oh, woe is me - no equipment in sight.

Not one to admit defeat easily, I walked over to the kayak rental place where Austin’s friend works.  Yes indeedy, he explained that a man (thank you - whoever you are!) brought the camera and binoculars to him.  He still had the spy glasses which he handed over (my first and only ever good pair of binoculars!); his boss was off somewhere with the camera, intending to take it to the police department’s lost & found.  A quick phone call diverted the drop-off and 15 minutes later, both items were back in my very grateful hands.

In the meantime, the clement weather succumbed to a frightful rain squall that we watched barreling toward us across the water accompanied by ample lightning and thunder.  While we waited for my camera to return, Darren and Chris were able to help the young man get his shop’s umbrellas down in the strong gusts and I got to hear about him as he worked and I waited.

Traversing the Cedar Key to Elzey stretch of road for the fourth time in a day, we again stopped at the church, Methodist, founded in 1850, this time in a more peaceful frame of mind.  It was as nice an old church as I’ve ever seen, still in use and meticulously maintained.  The attendance board for the service the previous day counted 28 present; they are a prayerful bunch, though: the bulletin listed a slew of folks on the prayer list. 

In the sanctuary, there was a shelf unit stocked with various foodstuffs and a sign that invited anyone in need to help themselves.  I was so touched by the energy of the place that I left an offering while Chris happily played away with great abandon on the nicely tuned piano.

I signed the guest book and saw that the woman I had spoken to earlier on Cedar Key, the founder's descendant, had signed just ahead of me.  I love thinking about the interwoven energies of all the folks we encountered during the day.  The church would have been an interesting historical place but when I saw the portrait on the wall of the founder and his wife, I could put a face to his descendant who enjoyed that I was fascinated with her story.

In extending his helping hand to us, Austin missed the boat tour he was supposed to be working on (he texted to let them know) but felt good about being of service and liked that I was interested in the local history he shared with me.  The other young man was very helpful in waylaying the camera and getting it returned to us.  Austin’s boss was happy he was able to return the camera to its distraught owner.  Even the fellow who turned it in to them surely felt good about doing so.  All wonderful connections: I wonder where each thread will lead.  For me, I intend to contact them all for another “thank you”.

Sinks, hammocks, tortoises . . .

We managed to stay on the run throughout the visit and managed to get drenched when we could not resist a hike into marshy land with a climb up to a lookout tower despite clearly impending rain.

Devil's Millhopper, San Felipe hammock, pileated woodpecker . . .

We climbed down into the so-called Devil’s Millhopper sinkhole via the provided wooden steps, and hiked the trail up top, a planned stop. 

Next was a spontaneous “Let’s see what’s here” at a sign for San Felipe hammock, primarily because I was still questioning just what a hammock is.

The answer finally discerned is a dense stand of hardwood trees on a slight rise of a few inches, just about the highest anything rises in these parts (to find a change in elevation, one must go down into one of the many sinks). 

To call this area “dense” does not begin to convey the dim dank direction-confusing tropical jungle atmosphere.  It is so damp in these backwoods that plants grow upon plants upon plants upon other plants.  Roots dangle in the air, having no need to be buried to receive moisture.  Insects are a mass of movement at every glance.  Standing water, bogs, ponds and sloughs are as common as land and none of the ground is dry  What surface that is not water consists of a mat of fallen soggy leaves.  Almost no light filters down through the mass of gargantuan trees, all reaching far, far up to the sun that never touches the ground.

How easy it would be to become lost in these tropical jungles!

Vines as large as tree trunks drape themselves around, across up and down.  It is in the midst of this where we feel dwarfed that we hear what Darren says is the pecking and call of a pileated woodpecker, a bird we had never seen, but certainly wanted to.  The incentive was enough to abandon the trail trying to get a a look at the large bird that continued to flap away when we approached even though we were far below it.  Finally, we did get enough of a look to identify it, although I still hope for a clearer view.  That was a most exciting bird event.

The most disappointing aspect of exploring that tropical morass is that I cannot produce a photograph that even hints at the atmosphere.  My lack of expertise and my limited broken camera do not daunt the quantity of pictures I snap, but none are sufficient to indicate the marvels in that depth.  I am fascinated by the astonishing variety of fungus that thrives therein, though, and find it and other flora and fauna photograph more easily than trying to record the overall.

I am reminded of the mushroom that walked into the bar to order a drink but the bartender wouldn't serve him.  "Why not?" inquired the mushroom; "I'm a fun-gi".

In the midst of the hammock hike, we encountered another sink: this one had standing duckweed-covered water in the bottom with mossy logs fallen across it.  Of course Darren must challenge his balance by crossing on them.  There was a time when I would have joined him but this was not it; some things do change with age.

Nearing the end of that hike, Chris spotted a deer running through the underbrush while I practically tripped over a gopher tortoise.  My find was far easier to photograph, so we fiddled around with that for a spell until he got sick of us and hightailed (if it could be so called) it down the road.  On previous visits to Darren, we three had searched high and low (well, only low actually) for a gopher tortoise to no avail after he had shown us various dens and we had researched them, so stumbling over one was an exciting happening.

Even more astounding were the two others our shelled friend led us to as he departed our company.  None of the creatures overly relished our company, however, and I got to watch one of them run (really!) for his home and leap/slide (I kid you not!) into his entrance foyer. 

The Williston stop gave us additional birds for the trip besides the pileated woodpecker and magnificent frigatebird: tufted titmouse, pied-billed grebe, yellow-crowned night heron, ruby-throated hummingbird and Carolina wren.
 The road out to Cedar Key passes the site of Rosewood, a town with a tragic past revolving around a racially-instigated allegation and the ensuing attacks and murders after which the place was abandoned.

 

Chris finally foiled this guy by oiling the pole - pretty funny watching him try to climb it!

A juvenile yellow-crowned night heron.

When palm meets pine.

The sunshineless state
July 12, 2013

As I am often reminded, there is a reason some places are green, green, green and it has to do with rain; however, Florida touts itself as “The sunshine state”, so I must take exception to being rained out of my beach day.  Staying at Pelican Palms (never again, more later), we hied ourselves down to Pensacola Beach on Santa Rosa Island.  The ranger inquired as to whether we had brought the rain with us.  Shucks, if we had that much precipitation in Arizona, we would keep it to ourselves.  Oddly enough, the ranger had lived in Chino Valley while she was working at Grand Canyon; a line of cars behind us precluded any further conversation.

This was our second Santa Rosa Island; we’ve also been to the one that is a channel island in California.  Very different, Florida’s version is very long and narrow with beautiful white sand beaches the entire length, beaches on which we did not recline, I might add, because it never stopped raining the whole time we were there.

Fort Pickens, out at the end, looked like a fascinating place to explore, another activity on which we did not embark.  We ate our lunch in the truck while watching rivulets of water run down the windshield, and braved the elements enough to dash into the museum.  It was only semi-interesting, being geared more toward children with things to slide and open in order to have questions answered.

It was a bit amusing to watch the video tour made to accommodate sightless folks: a woman’s voice described each and every scene and activity as the ranger explained various aspects of the fort, for example, "he walks up a flight of stairs; an American flag billows in the breeze".  A group of teenagers found it hilarious.  It was even more fun watching them watching it.

Meanwhile, back outside, in relative desperation, we birded through a rain-streaked windshield and shot occasional photos as we quickly lowered and raised windows.  On the tops of mostly dead stick trees, we saw several osprey nests and two great blue heron juveniles perched atop their erstwhile home.


When we saw a passel of birds on a side road, we drove o bgggggggggggggg (Rowdy typed this) onto the rain-flooded pavement and observed some pretty odd bird behavior.  The area had attracted a lot of sea and shore birds, all of which were happily bathing and ducking in the fresh water.  We saw laughing gulls, least terns, willets and black skimmers (the last two were new trip birds): all were splashing happily away like desert kids during monsoon.  We shot black skimmers off to the side after their dunking - I love the way they line up like soldiers at attention.

Gulf Island . . .

Luckily, we stopped at the Gulf Island National Seashore before the trek over to Pensacola Beach; it allowed us to have a great hike before the rain commenced once again.  There we did some beach combing and observed an osprey perched near its two babies that were jumping up and down and flexing their wings on their nest.  They surely were set to soar off of it that morning.  That was another new bird for the trip as were the fish crows and downy woodpecker.

Not having a clue as to what we were embarking on, we set off on a trail that took us into some fabulous thickly forested country, unfortunately populated with a sprinkling of mosquitoes, but nothing overwhelming.  Every turn of the trail revealed an even more breathtaking scene in the dim interior.  Disappointingly, the low light and rainy conditions did not allow any good photo ops, but the experience was magical.

I was reminded in a rather dramatic way about my rule of thumb for hiking in such environs, and that is to always, always, always have a person with nerves of steel walk in front of you; if that is not possible, one should always, always, always carry a stick and wave it constantly in the air in front of one if one knows what is good for one.

The reason for this is elemental: spiders, large creepy crawly arachnids that have a penchant for building their snares in that convenient space across a trail or between any two trees through which I am walking.

In this case, I ceased my forward motion to take a picture at which point Chris pointed out the golden silk orb spider (it was wearing a name tag) directly in front of me at face level and approximately half the size of my face into which I would have walked if it were not for wanting that photo.  Note to self: move aforementioned rule of thumb to foremost in mind at all times.  I’m still shuddering.

On a far less disgusting note, we spotted a six-lined racerunner skink that we had never seen before but were able to identify.  He was far too quick to get a photo.

Pelican Palms . . .

The RV park to which I shall not return: very attractive, it is a former KOA, usually very nice and this is no exception: nice pool, great bathrooms & showers.  All good except that all the pads are grass, not a gravel or concrete parking place to be seen, all of which might be fine in Arizona, but slogging through several inches of water every time we stepped out of the trailer somehow lost its luster after (actually before) the first step.

More waterloggedness, this not the fault of Pelican Pete, the window at the head of the bed leaked - again! - after Chris just recaulked it when it leaked - again! - at Luling.  Even that wouldn’t be too bad; it always before wetted Chris’ side of the bed but he evidently booby-trapped it - it got my side this time.  And I decided to leave the hair dryer at home this trip . . .

 Grocery? . . .

We were somewhat bemused when we asked directions to the nearest grocery store from the ladies who seem to have nothing more to do than sit at picnic tables under the ramada and smoke cigarettes.  With much advice and conflicting directions, they directed us to the local dollar store and assured us they have groceries there.  Makes me wonder if these women dine only on deviled ham and Vienna sausages.

Live Oak, Bagdad . . .

As we have driven the back roads of the United States, we have seen thousands of lovely small towns, each with its own personality, and so many with the most wonderful historic older homes.  Some, like Bagdad near Pelican whats-it, have dynamic large residential areas of preserved and revered older homes, others smaller sections or ones that are encroached upon by commercial.  Bagdad may have the most beautiful currently used historic residential neighborhoods we’ve seen yet, but in many, many others, the sight sets in motion a yearning for that quieter simpler life we remember.

I love that they almost all are the “capitol” of something: watermelon, goober peas, spring diving, corn husking, orchid propagation or dragonfly habitat.  You name it: there's a capitol of it.

Roadways . . .

Back here, it is the norm to name streets, bridges and any other structures after people.  I love seeing names like Kensara Road, Felicia Campbell Boulevard and Herkimer Soggybottom Avenue and wonder about the people who are so honored.

The sole nice photo of the day.

Levee land . . .
July 10, 2013

Out in Mississippi delta country, everything depends on levees to keep back the river’s water.  Extensive populations and development reside below usual water level and are completely vulnerable to seasonal floods.   Except for bluffs along the river and an occasional hill, all is table-top flat with levees lining floodways.

In the Catahoula Parish section of northern Louisiana, every road is elevated from the surrounding ground; otherwise they would be impassable much of the time.  The water table is very high and much of the land is wetlands to one degree or another.

Hills . . .

I am writing as we traverse the interior jungles of Mississippi on a two-lane road that winds this way and that way over verdant hills, a relief after mostly flat.  To say this is thickly forested does not begin to convey the seeming impenetrable forest through which we are wandering.  Mixed timber rises high on each side of the road: tall pines are interspersed with deciduous giants of various species, most of which I don’t recognize.

When we pass isolated houses perched on their grassy mowed acreages, I spot some magnolia, crepe myrtle, bottlebrush  and others as landscape trees.  I’m actually a little surprised anyone would plant trees in their yard when they are surrounded by such forest, but I suppose some shade in this climate is always welcome.

It was 90 degrees this morning when we departed at 9 a.m.  Does that mean it will be 120 at noon? With the sky-high humidity, it already felt like that.

By the river, kinfolk . . .

We parked the past two nights on the west bank of the Mississippi River in Vidalia, Louisiana, just across that mighty waterway from Natchez, Mississippi.  We have previously stayed at that RV park, primarily because it is relatively near to my kinfolk in Harrisonburg.

This jaunt up north, relatively speaking, was to visit them.  Although it appeared we might not be successful in matching schedules, all worked out.  Although they didn’t know us from Adam the first time we appeared in their tiny town a decade or so ago after we located them while tracing my ancestral Kelley lines, they welcome us so cordially that we truly feel our kinship with them.  James and Renae are simply two of the nicest people I have ever known.

Their son and his boys are fifth and sixth generation Kelleys (they use the Kelly spelling) to live in Catahoula Parish.  James’ g.g. grandfather, John Kelley, and my g.g. grandfather, James Kelley, were brothers.  Other ancestral names there for me are Wallace and Means.  James lives near the small community of Wallace Ridge on Wallace Lake across the river from Means Lake.  Both those lakes are former oxbows of the Ouachita, an awesome river in its own right, and obviously both are named for my ancestors.

When we first found James, we were very excited, genealogically speaking: because of his residence in proximity to our forebears, we were sure he could tell us all kinds of family history.  As it turns out, we knew more about the family lineage than he did, a situation we have often found when other lines of the family have remained in the same place.

What we did gain, though, was so much more valuable - wonderful Kelley cousins and now we’ve met their son, another James, who was on leave from his station at Fort Bragg.  He expressed interest in our mutual family history, so I will send him my information.

Are my Wallace, Means & Kelley ancestors buried here? That seems to be unanswerable.

Wallace Lake, named for my ancestors.

Natchez, , Resting, Hot Shots . . .

When we have been here in the past, we did pretty extensive exploring in and around Natchez, a town of great historical significance; this stop was too short and I was too tired to pursue any additional exploration.  I used my partially free day to clean and relax. 

The Mississippi River from our campground

The great river from the Mississippi bank

Speaking of cleaning reminds me to note that we finally washed our trailer back in Luling, the first campground we came to that would allow it.  After six months of Mid-dusty-land and its grackle droppings, it was in frightful condition, so I was relieved to restore it to something resembling decency.

There is no doubt that the Vidalia/Natchez area has much more to offer us, it will have to wait for another time.  We would love to return to fish, kayak, bird and explore.  We did pop across the river for a look-see and drove down to Natchez-under-the-hill, a small section of riverfront that was once a lawless, violent river landing.

In more recent years, one saloon was the site of Jerry Lee Lewis’ first paid public performance; he was 13 at the time.  Lewis was born just across the Mississippi in Ferriday.

The Blue Cat Club where Jerry Lee Lewis first performed at age 13

Historic Natchez-under-the-hill

A goodly number of impressive antebellum mansions have survived in the region and many are available for tours, which we have previously taken and found fascinating.

The Natchez Trace is another of the local sites we have done in the past.  It is a historical trail that extends nearly 150 miles from Natchez to Nashville, Tennessee, linking the Cumberland, Tennessee and Mississippi rivers.  The route was first developed by Native Americans and later followed by European settlers coming into the region.  We hiked a section of it that use and nature have eroded down to about 15 feet below ground level - an awesome experience.

Our midafternoon was consumed by watching the live stream of the Granite Mountain Hotshot’s memorial service.  I am grateful that it was available to us; it helped me to feel not so alone in my sadness and Chris obviously felt the same.  A very well-done ceremony that I hope brings some comfort to the bereaved.

Homeward yearnings, different/alike, woodpecker . . .

I am feeling a strong yen to be back at home in Prescott, but at the same time wishing this particular journey could be prolonged.  It has been a while since we have embarked on the kind of trip we really enjoy - a true wander that lets us stay or go as we please, although I have to admit we have scarcely been anywhere that did not entice us to tarry longer.

At any rate, this day will take us from Louisiana, across Mississippi, across Alabama (at least a corner of it) and into Florida.  As always, I love seeing how the countryside changes from flat to hilly and back again, from forest to cleared plantations, from swamp to sand dunes, and hearing the accents vary from one parish/county to the next and noting how the food preferences differ from one region to the next.

Throughout the places we were in Louisiana this trip, doughnuts were ubiquitous.  Everywhere we turned, there were doughnut shops, doughnut drive-throughs, donut holes-(pardon the expression)-in-the-wall.

This morning when we stopped for a coffee fix at a convenience market, the munchies hit me, which led to a perusal of the offered snacks - very few familiar treats were on display.  Instead, most everything was flavored with something hot and spicy, but then there were dill pickle flavored potato chips, Uncle Bud’s deep fried peanuts (“so good you can it shell and all”) and peach soda pop, to name a few.  I opted for my first cracker Jacks in many a moon, although I have to say I miss the days when they included a real prize instead of a goofy little piece of paper.

When all is said and done though, we speak the same language (sort of), earn a living, grow gardens, raise families and work toward bettering ourselves and our families.  As I see us across the U.S. becoming more homogeneous with the advent of leveling personal technology and improved transportation, I continue to celebrate the fascinating differences.  Let’s hear it for deep-fried peanuts and pickled rope bologna (no, not really on that last one: I’ve tried to erase that from my consciousness, obviously without success).

One new trip bird for this short stop: beautiful red-headed woodpeckers.

We get wet . . .

Whee-doggie!  As we came into Mobile, Alabama, we began to get rain, which slowed our travel a bit.  Once we were on the bridge across Mobile Bay, a span of more than 7 miles, there was an accident, which slowed our travel greatly.  And then . . . and then . . . and then began the storm, a granddaddy of storms with visibility down to next to nothing, lightning, thunder and wind.  It was the kind of weather event that we like to say how glad we aren’t pulling the trailer through this.  Unfortunately, we were pulling the trailer through it.  Later, the news said we might have had in the neighborhood of four inches of rain; it was positively sheeting.

Nevertheless, we are safe and sound after pulling into our space at the Pelican Palms RV park or Pelican Pedro or Pelican something-or-other and slogging through ankle-deep water to get the trailer set up and into our thankfully (almost completely) dry Totee.

With this "RV", these folks are ready for the river to rise.

Farewell, Acadiana

July 8, 2013

We are back-roading it as we jog north and eastward for a couple of nights in Vidalia.  We have in mind to meet up with some kin near there; however, their schedule may not allow it within our time frame.  I do hope we can see them; these are folks we met because of going to their town doing genealogy research and have had the pleasure to visit them several times.  We shall see.

It seems that we miscalculated where would be the best area in which to land in Acadiana to do the things we had in mind.  It looked right on the map; however, the reality was more marshy than swampy, so I think next time, we will settle a bit more towards Lafayette where we have stayed previously just because I love the swamp country.
  
Swamp tour . . .

And speaking of swamp country, we drove over that way to go on a swamp tour - a beautiful but relatively disappointing excursion.  We managed to pick a tour operator who was a crabby curmudgeon; he spent nearly the entire two hours grousing about mismanagement of the swamps.  It is a known fact that the wetlands are being destroyed, as much by so-called management as anything, and although I can grouse right along with the best of them, I didn’t necessarily want to pay to hear it.  I’m much more interested in hearing about the exploits of alligators.

A morning excursion seemed just right to avoid rain showers, but in our case did not help: the last part of our time on the water was also in the rain.  We got pretty drenched but managed to save the camera under the poncho.  What is it about us, boats and rain???

Marcus, our boatman, was accompanied by his two Catahoula hounds and one tiny puppy.  Besides being astute about alligator danger, these are also hog dogs; the older one, Jesse, has the scars to prove it.  Fortunately, as a senior citizen, he is retired.

It is fun hearing the lilly pads in a breeze.  Their edges flop up and back down and sound like a herd of elephant ears softly flapping back & forth (not that I have much experience with elephant ears, but I am pretty sure that's what they sound like.)

It was surprising how few birds we saw out there, but later viewing a nearby rookery was another matter, and when we walked through the Cypress Island Preserve, we got an even better look at them.  It was fun to see black-bellied whistling ducks high up on a tree limb.  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen ducks doing that.  They, and others, nest in the trees, obviously a trait that prevents them from being alligator supper.  Besides that, other new birds are little blue heron, boat-tailed grackle and wood stork.

Tricolored heron

Two wet bedraggled passengers and one crabby curmudgeon.

Black-crowned night heron

Snowy egret

The three domestic ducks that reside at our Hidden Ponds have no problem with their chosen haven; no gators there.

Cajun food, humidity, dillos . . .

We dined out once and had some mighty fine vittles at The Boiling Point, touted as “Cajun food at it’s (sic) best”.  Truthfully, it was a top quality feed.  Chris enjoyed their gumbo, fried okra, and something we had not heard of - a pistolette.  I was sated by my dinner of catfish, hush puppies, sweet potato and cole slaw.  To top the sweet potato, they served a cinnamon honey butter - yuck.  Why can’t people just learn to enjoy a sweet potato?  They are delicious all by themselves, but we seem inclined to bury them in things that disguise their true nature.  Needless to say, my beverage was sweet tea, the standard throughout the South, and my favorite.

Our first couple of days there were relatively low humidity, but when those storms moved in - look out - it’s kind of like swimming on land, not terribly unpleasant, just vastly different than what we are accustomed to.  One just sweats all the time . . .

I checked the Cajun dictionary thoroughly: nowhere within it is the word “crisp”.  That is a concept that does not exist in Acadiana as far as I can tell.  Crackers are not crisp, chips are not crisp; even paper just kind of hangs there soggily. 

Not once in our six months in Midland nor anywhere else in Texas did we see an armadillo, although they have been common there in the past, but in Louisiana, we are seeing occasional road-killed dillos,.  I hope we are not the only people who try to identify road kill; surely our oddness is shared by someone else.

That low country is filled with crepe myrtle in full bloom - very showy.  I planted my crepe myrtle at home after a trip to the South; the flowers are stunning.  We also saw lots of sugar cane and rice fields.  It felt like visiting an old friend to see Bayou Teche again, so named for its serpentine nature.  It’s interesting that the historic houses along it all face the water with their backs to the road because
when they were constructed, the bayou provided the only access.


Rip Van Winkle, Grover Cleveland, disaster . . .

Nope, can’t be passing up a sign for something called Rip Van Winkle gardens lest we be forever wondering just what that might be about; a quick turnaround led us up a long, very long, entrance drive lined by oaks.  And before I go futher, I have to mention some about oaks and trees in general.  Texas has some of the most impressive stately oak trees I have ever admired, but I do believe Louisiana’s take the cake - awesome gargantuan trees that spread so far they cannot hold themselves up; their gigantic trunk-size branches come to rest on the ground with their huge weight and then just keep on reaching.

Okay, so the R. V. W. gardens is the landscaped grounds of the 1870 Joseph Jefferson house.  We toured the house and hiked the grounds up and down and all around.  The residence is constructed on the bank of Lake Peigneur atop a salt dome.

Mr. Jefferson was an actor and playwright who almost exclusively portrayed Rip Van Winkle, as odd as that sounds.  Seems the play was so popular that he just wrote a new version and performed it every year for 40 years.  Wherever he got his fortune from, it must have been substantial judging by this property.  It is the kind of place where I exclaim over and over at the beauty of it.  What an architectural feat to design that acreage - phenomenal!  And the house isn’t half bad either: Jefferson designed that himself.

President Grover Cleveland was his good friend who visited often.  I had to laugh about the plaque that showed his favorite oak tree under which to nap.  I’m thinking if he had spent less time napping and more time trooping up and down that 70-foot high salt dome, he could have trimmed off a few
pounds.

The pirate Jean Lafitte hid and left booty here to be found later.

In recent years, a really astounding event occurred there.  Oil drillers in the lake hit a connection to the salt mine under the house.  The result was like a Paul Bunyan-size drain opening up.  In short order, it swallowed the entire lake, two oil drill rigs, 11 barges, a tug boat, a large house, 65 acres of Jefferson’s property, gigantic forest and all.  Amazingly, no one was killed: all got to shore in the nick of time and the 55 salt miners managed to escape before their caverns were inundated,.  There are videos online of the catastrophe.


Cardinals are the bird of choice in those parts.  Ma & Pa were often at our feeders, the only birds to show up there except for house sparrows that came to clean up the spill; nary a single hummingbird did we see the entire week.

A planned afternoon of swimming at the Lake Charles beach was rained out, so we hightailed it to the Isle of Capris casino instead.  Interesting: we hadn't been in a casino for years.  Sticking to 1-cent and quarter slot machines, we doubled our money; my $10 grubstake became $20 and Chris turned his $1 into $2.

Evidently love does not improve a gator's disposition.

I find duct tape to be far superior for window repairs.