Guest Spotlight: Creative Fiction by Art Lieberman

Bayou river Soft paddle kayak, Easy and slow Moss robed trees look at you. Wonder why you are there. Ease on by As far as you want. Frogs play bass, Crickets violin, Birds melodize, Cars, asphalt, stress . . . sink away. With each dip of the paddle, Catfish dodge, Turtles sunbathe, Cottonmouths, and alligators, dangerous but they leave you alone. The young woman remembered the first time she ever heard of a roux, the prime ingredient in every Cajun recipe. Born in Louisiana, yes, but she had been gone for 25 years, raised in another country called California. Her own mother quit creole cooking before her daughter could learn it. Some say there’s no such thing as real creole cooking in California anyway. How can one cook without a bayou, Louisiana’s pantry?

She remembered her grandfather. She recalled he wouldn’t eat out. He didn’t care what was on the table as long as someone caught it. He allowed trips to the store but grudged and fussed under his breath. She remembered frogging with the old man when she could barely stand. Her mom protested the adventures, but the old man took her anyway. They speared those hoppers. He taught her how to find ‘em, gig ‘em, clean ‘em, and cook ‘em. Nothin’ was better, ever. No one really lived in the old house anymore, but family would come down to Lafayette to get away from the USA race. Every year, they would converge at the same time. Loud. Fun. Musical. That’s how I remember Cruisin Cajuns. The rally would fill with Acadiana kitchen smells. English would give way to more French. 

More people in the conversation meant more French. Neighbors would come by and argue about who made the best roux. No two gumbos, bread puddings, or etouffees are alike. This is the difference between Lake Charles and its Boudin Trail. She called it a garage, but it was more of a boat house or fishing shack. I don’t think it ever had a car parked inside. But there were kayaks, canoes, fishing tackle, poles, and line. When she came with just her dad and her family, they never touched the fishing stuff. Her dad didn’t like to fish. When people asked him about it, his eyes just sort of shaded over, like he was pushing a memory deep into a pit. But he loved the water. He liked kayaking the most. The family house wasn’t right on the bayou. It was a mile away. All the kids had grown up figuring out all kinds of schemes for getting boats out of the garage and down to the dock.

Girls and boys both had been known to carry them with a partner, careless in their hurry. Often someone rigged up a trailer. A wagon was never safe for long around the old house. Someone would chop shop it for parts to get more canoes, boats, and kayaks down to the river easily. These were the times she loved being with her dad the most. On the river, thoughts came. Not noisy worries, but fruit. The kind of thoughts that you bite down deep into and feel the juice just run down your cheeks. They would paddle for just 45 minutes sometimes to get the cobwebs out, to find enough peace to be able to love each other rightly. Other times, they spent the whole day. Even though she grew up in California, she had been to Louisiana enough; she felt at home in all that water, even by herself.

And through the years she had heard every kind of music imaginable. Preservation Hall, Rock n’ Bowl, The Howlin’ Wolf, but mostly Blue Moon Saloon. Lafayette had a rich musical culture. And not just regional, but orchestral too. Her parents loved all kinds of music. The soundscape drifted from classical to blues to jazz and of course Zydeco. Her people weren’t great musicians, though most of them made you feel something the radio never offered. She never learned to speak French but loved hearing the music it made in the neighborhoods around her father’s house. All together this made South Louisiana feel like not-America. In but one destination, she could hop in her motorhome to Lake Charles and then to Kemper Williams Park. The food was exotic. The transportation was unique.

Where else can you paddle 66,000 miles of water? The music lively. The words weren’t even English. One day, her friend from Los Angeles was coming to meet her in Lafayette. The young woman had been at the old house for a couple of days. Her friend had never been to Louisiana. Her flight arrived early in Houston. She picked her up and drove to the house. Her friend put her stuff down and the young woman made sweet potato and pecan waffles with pure cane sugar. When you borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor, they break you off a cane. After breakfast, they trailered the metal boat over to the dock. The young woman started up the small outboard. They were on the bayou for one reason. To find lunch. The night before she had set out a few trot lines, strung from one cypress tree to another, dot to dot baited hooks a few feet underwater, and marked the trees with pink happy face duct tape. Messing with someone else’s line in these waters is frowned upon. 

She had never seen someone take theirs but she had heard her dad speak of it. They motored through the bayou while the young woman told her visiting friend one family story after another. After about 30 minutes they found the first line. They pulled up two big catfish and a soft-shelled turtle. Her guest looked at her sideways over the turtle but helped anyway. They pulled the other line, bait gone. Some critter had stolen it. No matter, they had enough. They motored home, cleaned the turtle and the fish, cooked it up and tossed it in the Jambalaya. They ate it with cornbread and rice. The friend from Los Angeles enjoyed the river so much that they went back, but this time in a kayak. Now, all was quiet, no boat motor. Just the soft splish of the paddle in the water. Three birds showed off. When the young woman saw gator eyes, she tried to point them out, but they submerged before she could see them. They did see a snake draped in the branches above. It never noticed them.

They returned to the old house after hours of slow peaceful paddling. That night they dressed up, went to a five-star restaurant, Cafe Vermilionville. The music and the food were both world class as far as they were concerned. Then, they went to a hysterical improv show at the Acadiana Center for Performing Arts. Finally, dessert at Indulge, a dessert restaurant that only makes one wish for more. The young woman smiled and laughed, and spent more carefree money on that evening and consumed more calories than any in her life, ever. South Louisiana will always have a hold on me, she thought. I will ever come back to slow down my mind and make sense of my thoughts giving me what I need so that I can take care of business in the country where I live. ★