#04 / 2003 Peace Tour: Louisianna: Looking for a Poboy, The Big Easy

FROM SWAMPS TO NEW ORLEANS: LOOKING FOR A POBOY

#04

Am I nuts? Joe and I get a big laugh at ourselves, knowing so few other people would tolerate what we do in the spirit of peace and adventure. We have been on the road close to six weeks now and have had less than four days of sunshine. To date the temperatures have averaged in the forties but things are looking up today.

We are in Grand Isle LA getting ready to go to a campground way down at the end of the continental US for this area, not as far down as Key West, though. And this is our last chance for electricity and maybe even fresh water. This is going to be some really primitive camping. Usually when we pull into a state park we will hook up to electricity to run the computer. 

This week we knocked out a newsletter in three days while camping in Zwolle, LA. When we pass a public library, as we did this one in Lafourche. We wonÕt come out of here until our gig in New Orleans on Sunday. We skirted around NO and the Mardi Gras but passed many smaller celebrations in little towns on the bayous. So far the one in Houmas looks like it would be the best for this area. 

We picked up some cash in Dallas when they passed the hat. We also got generous amounts of food and some money in Austin. The two towns were so different. I think Dallas might be a little more militant than Austin. 

I sensed a lack of empathy for my peace efforts there, but we were only there for one night's performance and then we booked. Fifty bucks for about 15 minutes at the Clearview Club hosted by Clebo Rainey was more than a fair wage. 

Last night we stayed in a WalMart parking lot for the first time. It was a foggy night, and a lot of fun, sort of surreal. We tried sleeping one on our bench and one on the floor just so we wouldn't have to break everything down to go to bed. That gets back to my laugh at our tolerance. 

I guess most people with a sound mind wouldn't even try to sleep under those conditions. I could almost stretch all the way out on the floor, lying catty-cornered. But poor Joe trying to squish his knees up around him to sleep on the bench, didnÕt work out to well for him. About 2 am we swapped positions. Well, it was a failed experiment but my mind is whirling trying to think of something I can design to fold out over the top of the bench and everything, where we could through a roll up there and stretch out for the night. So, we are off to the swamps.

Heading to the southernmost point in Louisiana we parallel a wide canal. Dozens of tiny drawbridges cross the canal and allow the large Crayola-color ships docked alongside the modest homes to be sailed out to sea. I suppo’se most of them are trawlers and shrimpers. Most of my experience with the American oceans, and it is limited, has been in Florida. We are struck by the difference between the Floridian shores and all these sea communities in Louisiana and Texas. 

Florida’s coastline has been obliterated by huge condos, expensive hotels and such,that block the view for all the modest homeowners who stuck it out before hurricane insurance came into play. But in Florida and Texas a vast majority of the homes along the sea canals and beaches are modest, they seem approachable and homey. Of course, the biggest difference is that Florida’s horizon isn’t gut-punched with all these oil rigs, of course. I guess you pay more for that.

It is Tuesday, Mardi Gras, but we have kept a large distance from the Crescent City. New Orleans would be too crowded to be driving the van. I’m just too paranoid for that. But we follow Highway 1, due south, through tiny little towns out here on these bayous that are having their own mini Mardi Gras. It is quite po’ssible to lose track of your time frame in some of these little historic districts. Louisiana was settle by the French so long before other American towns sprung up, and there is so much depth and character in these old city structures, still in use.

And what is it with these people in Louisiana? They just won’t tear down anything. New stylish homes are built right alongside the gentle old mansion great grandparents must have lived in. Surely it has taken generations to amass some of the debris in these yards. We’re heading to Grand Isle, another campsite, similar to Padre Island, that extends along the beach. Beatlick Joe saw this place on a map over 20 years ago and has been fascinated by it ever since.

As we follow the canal, I spy a library in a little town with a French name I couldn’t pronounce. Small stores line the right side of the street and ships line the canal on the left.

Now that we are in Louisiana, I am greatly concerned about acquiring a po’ boy oyster sandwich. I ask a petite, young women in the library if there are many opportunities to eat oysters on the way toward Grand Isle. She didn’t even know where to find an oyster, said she never eaten anyone’s cooking but her own mother’s. This town is already so remote and off the beaten path, I am stupefied to learn she has ventured so little. Even the assistant had to scratch his head to think what might be to eat just a few miles down the road. This all added to the surrealistic air I felt along this canal as we headed deeper south.

Of course it is off season, so a lot of my time is spent talking about and working up a big head of steam over what I am going to do when I get somewhere and the reality of what I find when I get there, and how much I am willing to spend on an experience that is going to be less than what I had hoped for. No oyster sandwiches at 3pm on a week day here. But I know New Orleans still lay ahead. So I can wait.

We pull into Grand Isle on a dull day, as most have been, and pull up beside about eight RVs. We pull onto the grass, not too spongy, but I take note. A sign across the parking lot indicates you can indeed drive on the beach. But currently, Louisiana State Parks is dredging the beach, almost 24 hours a day, trying to reclaim some of the sand which is being washed out to sea.

We take a long stroll. Of course, back in Padre Island, we could have walked for 60 miles, but here just a short distance before we bump into the modest homes along the coastline. Apparently the passengers of the renovated UPS truck parked in the lot have moved back into the shrubs and dunes to set up a few tents and tarps. By the looks of them, they have already been out here quite a few days.

It’s important to me to have these breaks in between cities. The hardest part for me about performing our poetry and speaking out for the importance of peace is having to market ourselves. People like us, and there are many, who are out on a well-traveled but obscure poetry circuit have to have some semblance of a product.

So, you have to mention your chapbook, CD, video or tape. I still can’t outright ask someone to pass the hat for us, but most have offered. It feels so uncomfortable. One night in Austin, a beautiful young girl offered to fill up our tank at the gas pump. She didn’t have money. But I already knew that she had been homeless just a few weeks before. And I just couldn’t let her do it. I refused the gas. And I guess that is a bit stupid on my part. Thom the World Poet advises me to accept the value that others place on what we are doing.

Another night a young man who just announced he was going to become a father for the first time, came over and laid seven dollars on our table. I know that was everything he had in his pockets. These offerings humble me because I know in a similar situation I would never empty out my pockets to a stranger. I am required to reflect in this kind of situation. We are a reflection of others and in these travels we are encountering so many individuals. I need time between towns, getting out in front of all these people day after day takes a toll on me. But only me, Joe thrives on the stages, grows gigantic. I feel like I’m out here with my heart flapping outside of my body.

So, we finish our stroll, take showers in the bathhouse that night and plan our lunch. But overnight it rained, and for the first time in a while, the sun came out high and bright. And just as I had imagined, that little plot of ground became a breeding ground for gnats. I woke up, took one stroll to the bathhouse, and made the announcement, “We’re out of here.”

Here is a poem about travel by Dale Harris of Albuquerque, NM.

Penelope

Husband,

I cry you to me,

call and conjure,

use this moon,

this silvered saucer of a moon,

to bring you home.

You are away too long!

Husband,

I call you to me

in the speech of young birds;

their cry mine, their need for air,

for soaring flight, mine.

Their vision mine,

to cry you safe.

There are wonders afoot,

I tell you, marvels!

Good triumphs finally.

The time of war and terror

over, gone.

It is impossible to say more,

only come!

You who are fluent

in the language of rivers, of sky.

You, born to champion the earth,

heal all small and damaged things,

I beg you here.

The garden grieves,

misses your tending.

The horses, yard animals

look through me as I am a ghost,

watch for your return.

Their joy tells me you are close.

See these nets I have knit,

these garments sewn?

My work is done.

Celebrate again with me,

our wedding day.

We are hand-fasted,

bound and sworn.

Spirit’s reign eternal,

the time of flesh, brief and sweet.

Therefore let us marry, you said.

And so we did.

Ancestors known and unknown,

stand with us as witness,

urge us to each other, bless our bond.

Through the seven webs of existence,

our tangled, troubled lives are joined.

The weft of our love winds,

treadles move, shuttles fly, patterns form.

We contemplate complexity.

They will say one day

my life was an accommodation to yours.

Sometimes it does seem so;

small truths often difficult to discern.

What we endure for each other

goes with saying.

What we want from each other

not always clear.

What I want from you

is what I give, nothing more.

And if this life is apocryhpha,

foretold, foreordained,

no possibility of change?

Still it must be lived.

The Weaver deems it so.

But I am done with undoing,

now only crave simplicity.

Husband, stay long

before you leave again.

Allow good reports of you

to go out to the surrounding towns,

our children learn to know you.

Let strong loyalties be forged.

Stay long enough

for fields to be planted,

for harvests and holy days,

the next weavings begun.

Leave again when I forget

my vows to you.

Travel far,

do great deeds upon the land.

There is only this in life:

to exercise one’s will,

claim what you belong to,

rule what belongs to you.

Then return when I cry you here again.

We roll into New Orleans two days after Mardi Gras. The pace is just right, trash is still being collected by prisoners let out for the day. The New Orleans mayor has said he no longer wants Mardi Gras’s success to be measure by the amount of trash in the street. In the media, he was still being praised for a safe Mardi Gras and a slight trash reduction for the first time.  I parked by the French Market, set up my boudoir and Joe set out to check out the Poetry Den at Mythique. They hold an open mic every Thursday at 9 p.m. on 1135 Decatur, upstairs. This is an informal assemblage of French Quarter types.

Joe later related to me, “I spoke with a poet named Blake who lived in a converted school bus with a wood stove. There was a petite lady in hot pants with most of her legs covered with colorful tattoos. There was a graduate student from Tulane University who used his time at the mic to speak about a certain commercial concern (Brown and Root) that contributed to Lyndon Johnson’s campaign in the 1930’s. This same company he said stands to make money from the invasion of Iraq. The Mythique is a cozy venue with a laid back following. One poet relaxed on the floor and speed read a Stephen King novel, his finger moving back and forth like a windshield wiper in a downpour, but still snapped after each poet. Every Sunday at 3 p.m. check out the Maple Leaf Bar on Oak Street. The readings were started in 1979 by Everette Maddox. When he died in 1989, Nancy Harris took over. There is a memorial marker for Everette in the back courtyard. On the stone it is written: “He was a mess.”  The reading is collecting poems for a 25 year anniversary anthology. There is a Poet’s Calendar." 

For info or to be included in the calendar contact:

poetscalendar@hotmail.com 

New Orleans is our last major stop before heading back north, I have been very conservative with the money, and we have maintained our modest budget. But this is New Orleans and the money starts flying out of my pocket. Raw oysters and poor boys at Cooter Brown’s on South Carrollton. Food shopping at Central Grocery Store, souvenir shopping on Magazine Street.  I lived here for a short while back in the 80s. I have felt a familiarity with the Crescent City ever since the first time I came here. Whether it’s a pull towards my decadence or just my love for the old French charm, it has called to me, spoken to me in an intimate way. The lais sez faire attitude makes me feel comfortable. Texas was such a police state. But maybe I got a little too comfortable. 

We headed out to the Garden District and Autobon Park. A few years ago, we pulled up in this neighborhood and passed a few nights nestled between the homes and the park with no trouble. Of course last time we were alongside an empty house in a state of renovation. This time we parked in a block where all the homes were occupied. Somebody called the park cops on us and we were invited to leave the next morning. So off we go looking for a new home, as we call it.

Joe and I are taking a lot of risks, many would say. But we see ourselves as risk takers, and you have to be innovative if you are trying to travel on as little money as possible. We head out of downtown on Canal and take a right toward City Park. We have had good luck here as well. We passed the night nestled between trees and a school, no hassles from anyone. Folks are shocked when we admit we spent the night in City Park, they call it dangerous. But, we really believe in our hearts that perfect love will protect us. As long as we are happy with each other, we fear nothing.  And we had a fine night.

Most of the time I will pull down our bed and just turn on my little black-and-white TV. Joe sits up front reading, writing post cards, or listening to music on headphones. We have a gig at The Maple Leaf Bar on Sunday, so we want to get a little closer into town. We head down South Carrollton and find a shady library. It’s the perfect spot. We stayed in the lot for two nights. The library served for our base of operations. We go in to work on the website, fire off emails. Coffee shops, Popeye’s chicken, and numerous restaurants surround us and the trolley stops right out front.

It was here that I had one of my strongest dreams. When I have let down the bed, closed my little chili pepper curtains, and set in for the night, I am absolutely ecstatic. All I have wanted to do for years was travel in a van and be free to roam. Now I am.  You know how it is when you are waking up early in the morning, hear ambient sounds through your slumber, and incorporate them into an early morning dream? Something was going on outside in the neighborhood, a dog barking or something, and I dreamed I was back in my own bed back on Kipling Drive. I thought Angel, the dog next door, was dragging her empty water bucket around. It was so real. When I opened my eyes I couldn’t figure out why the ceiling was so low. It took a few moments to realize I wasn’t looking at the ceiling of my old bedroom, I was looking at the ceiling of my van, just a few inches away from my nose. A wave of remorse unlike any others I have had rolled through me as the truth sunk in. It was all gone. That home is gone, Mama is gone, forever. There is just this new world out here, this great unknown. Every day is different, every face is different, there is no temple of my familiar for me. All gone forever.

Taking care of mother for ten years was my job. I did it to the best of my ability. And I took care of her always knowing my day would come, and it has. So a great part of this year long peace journey of mine is to work through the first year of mourning.  Death has been kind to me. After Daddy died when I was ten, my life has been relatively unscathed by the tragedy of death. I didn’t even lose a relative in Vietnam. But I have had this innate dread of my mother’s death my entire life. Now it has come. And I did all I could, to the best of my limited ability. I made plenty of mistakes, but I did do my best.

So, this trip is a bit of my own experiment on myself. I did my job and I have earned my reward. The task at hand now is to enjoy it and not let sadness or regret spoil it for me. And in my heart I really think that is the way it will play out. But then I will have one of these dreams. And I believe it means I am still very much in touch with the sadness of my mother’s death. But again, I have had vivid dreams of her happy in heaven.

The hardest part for my mother as she aged, was feeling relevant. I begged her to let us take care of her, let my sister and I serve her. But she never could. She only knew how to give, she never learned to take. And so she went. But I firmly believe my mother is a big shot in heaven.

She died a woman who had lived a good life, a Christian life, and I’m sure she will find her just rewards in heaven. I find great peace in that thought. So, the trip continues. We leave New Orleans and head back to my son’s home. All the mistakes we made along the way, all the things we forgot to bring, we must make note of and aright before we head to New York. We are changing the pace for the Big Apple.