Least Heat Moon said that the wanderer’s danger is to find comfort, and I had found it in Louisiana’s Lake Fausse Pointe State Park. That wasn’t really a problem, because the area held enough interests (and good food!) to keep me occupied for some time—and it was, in fact, where I found my first of Heat Moon’s restaurants. But it was a reminder not to get too comfortable.

Moreover, the camper’s curse is rain, so I was in double trouble. I now realized why Fausse Pointe had laundry facilities: When the heavens cry on Louisiana, it’s impossible to stay dry. It began raining as I worked on last week’s update, and at first I was nonchalant. I’ve always prided myself (pride goeth before a fall, says the Bible) on being an unflappable camper, and my tent is quite waterproof, so I wasn’t going to let a little deluge bother me. And I had been in Louisiana rain before, too, so thought I knew what I was dealing with. But when it poured on Monday and I woke up on Tuesday with the rain still coming down, water pooling beneath the tent floor, and the very air inside thick with moisture, I began to wonder if I would just float away down the bayou. (It would be a perfectly Huck Finn-ish ending, wouldn’t it?!) I resolved to drive until the sun shone. (In the end I stayed for another night, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.) view photo

 :: Desperately Seeking Crawfish ::

On Monday morning, though, the rain stopped for awhile and I went in search of Pat’s Restaurant in Henderson, some distance up the Levee Road. I came upon a young alligator sunning itself in the middle of the road and followed egrets as they browsed in the grasses betwixt road, bayou, and levee. Entire stretches of the gravel road were like a washboard, and I took it mostly in first and second gear. That was fine; I was in no hurry.

I did get to Henderson, and I did find Pat’s (and Pat Huval himself). But there was no giant plastic crawfish on the roof and it looked awfully tidy and new to have been Heat Moon’s restaurant. Once inside, the mystery was solved: Heat Moon’s Pat’s—itself not the first one—had burned a number of years ago, so this newer, larger one had been built across the bayou from the original site. (During Pat’s long stint as mayor he renamed the bayou—originally Peyronnet, after the long-ago first priest in nearby Cecilia—in honor of a leading local businessman, Monsieur Amy. One wag told me that was probably why he was mayor for so long.) And Pat had been building up his empire since Heat Moon passed through: A large nightclub adjoined the restaurant and at least a half dozen other businesses were strung together near them.

Pat is justly proud of the fact that all of his children are with him in business. I met his daughter Cynthia, and wife Jeanne (the third), and ex-wife Agnes (the first), all of whom work in the restaurant. Apparently the ex-wife’s husband (“I call him my husband-in-law,” laughed the Cajun mogul) comes by for lunch most days. Pat is a happy man with more improvements underway and new plans on the drawing board, so he can afford to be generous. He’s larger than life and getting bigger by the day.

My lunch—turtle soup and crawfish done every way imaginable—was superb. (It should have been, for it came at something approaching a Washington, DC price. Tourists have built Pat’s empire.) My waitress didn’t say anything as poetic as Heat Moon’s had (“Did they eat lovely like mortal sin?”), but she was warm and attentive and took very good care of me. In fact, they all took very good care of me and were generous with their time and information; considering that I took half of my lunch home with me and had it for dinner, I guess I got a bargain. And Cynthia gifted me with some of their products—hot pepper chow chow, ready-made roux, and the like—and shared a local professor’s book about the history of the Atchafalaya’s small towns, so the afternoon was a smashing success. (I wonder if, in the grand old tradition of Louisiana politics, Heat Moon expects kickbacks. Maybe I should send him the chow chow.) view photo

 :: More Blue Highways Redux ::

In St. Martinville I went so far as to check the phone book to see if Barbara Pierre—the smart, angry, black militant he ran into who declared she was staying, despite everything she railed against—was still around. The name wasn’t listed; perhaps she had remarried as she said she would. She would be about 61 today, so perhaps she’s still trying to shake things up: Perhaps she had been a moving force behind the small-but-professional African-American Museum that opened last year in the town. I may still try to find her; I may leave her a Perhaps.

In Abbeville I was delighted to discover Black’s Oyster Bar—another of Heat Moon’s finds—right across from the Church of St. Mary Magdalene. This Black’s wasn’t Heat Moon’s restaurant either, but a much larger one, two doors down from the original. Bryan Bourque took over from his parents, “Black” and Rena Bourque, after the 1989 move to the renovated 1890s dry-goods/buggy store.

An older waitress with gentle eyes and a sweet smile—who has worked at Black’s for 30 years—told me that after Blue Highways was published, tourists were always coming in with their copy. She took mine to Bryan to be “autographed,” and he stopped by and chatted for awhile. I met a little girl who was impressed that I was from Washington, DC (she wanted to know if I know the president), and the restaurant’s resident oyster shucker. Warren Turner is a friendly, thoughtful guy originally from Virginia’s Tidewater region; he told me that his native shucking style (opening from the front) sets him apart from Gulf shuckers (opening from the hinge). I didn’t care how he opened them, I was just glad he did. They were huge, and divine. The longtime waitress sent me on my way with a Black’s bumper sticker that reads: “Home of topless, salty oysters. Eat LA oysters and love longer.” view photo

 :: Welcome To Texas ::

Having no particular reason—as Heat Moon did—to go to Shreveport, I hugged the Gulf Coast all the way to Texas and got into Port Arthur after nightfall. I drove directly through the vast array of brightly lit oil facilities and was dwarfed by the massive tanks. There was nothing pretty about the industrial sprawl: This was raw, naked power. You need me, it said; I’m here to stay.

The next day, in Cleveland, Texas, I got my cheapest gas of the trip: premium for $1.35. (It didn’t stay that low, unfortunately.) On the west side of Cleveland, I spied a picnic-table pull-off, something I hadn’t seen since a few states back. The three tables were empty and it seemed like the perfect place to eat my take-away boiled crawfish from Black’s, so I happily settled in at the middle table. A lone guy pulled in, parked closer to my car than to either of the other two tables, and asked if he could eat his lunch. I said he was welcome to find his own table, and moved to the other side of mine so as to be closer to Uli. Another guy pulled in and rested for five minutes, then yet another checked his oil with one eye on the dipstick and another on me. The first guy left, only to return and sit, watching, while lone males four, five, and six appeared in succession and rather elaborately did nothing. Either they had never seen a Yankee eating crawfish or they needed a date; I wasn’t interested in entertaining them any further either way. It’s a sad day indeed when you’re glad to see the bottom of a pile of mudbugs. view photo

 :: Travels With Trigger ::

I spent the day touring the back roads, and was surprised at how thickly populated East Texas was and how heavily traveled—by blue-highway standards—the roads were. I was heading for Dime Box, a tiny town that Heat Moon had visited, when I stumbled upon a state park and decided to take a chance on the weather (it had continued raining on into Texas) and camp for the night. Coincidentally, the park happened to be right on Lake Somerville, the Army Corps of Engineers flood-control project that Heat Moon’s ancient barber in Dime Box had groused about. I found Nails Creek State Park quite serviceable but unremarkable. It probably would have turned me on more if I had been traveling with Trigger: The park had equestrian campsites that included sturdy metal mini corrals. These park rangers were armed, too; I should have known that Texans would never allow Cajuns to outdo them in the law-and-order department.

The night remained dry, but the next morning I raced thunderclouds to get the car packed. Just as I had finished readying the tent to be rolled up, the rain started—no delicate little pitter patter, but such a heavy downpour that, even under the trees, the towels on the line were soaked by the time I had wadded the tent into the trunk. I rolled into Dime Box feeling resentful, but the tiny town clinging tenaciously to life shamed me into counting my blessings.
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 :: Long Live Dime Box ::

I stopped at Schumann’s Farm and Ranch, ‘cause you can always get the local lowdown at the feed store. Keith Schumann was low-key, well spoken, and obliging. Ovcarik’s Café was gone, as were Claude Tyler and his barbershop. The oil that people had counted on to restore the town had gone as quickly as it came. Keith told me that there were families on the south side of town—the oil field ran mostly south toward Giddings—who had grown cotton and never had two nickels to rub together but had become wealthy overnight when the oil checks started flowing. With one check people could buy a new house and new car, and pay off their bills. But the folks who hadn’t had two nickels to rub together had never had to pay taxes, and it didn’t occur to them to do so once they had money; plenty of them lost it all due to tax troubles.

In fact, although there were a few tidy, well-maintained houses in Dime Box, the whole town seemed to hover on the edge of poverty. But there was no drug problem to speak of—“Of course, around here, nobody thinks of alcohol and tobacco as drugs,” said Keith—and only a little minor vandalism. Everybody knew each other, and if you did something wrong they knew where to find your mother. And not only did people there still plant by the signs (i.e., according to the stages of the moon), they fished by the signs, too. He and his wife had lived in the big city, but came home to raise a family, and he seemed quite content with the choice. He said that after 9/11 he had seen considerably more U.S. flags and other patriotic symbols.

Because he had caged birds out front for sale, I showed him my photos of Key West. He was amused by the Great Chicken War of 2001, and said that he and his wife would like to take the kids to the keys one day—the couple had gone there years ago and really enjoyed it. I was amused by the thought of worlds colliding when Dime Box and Key West met, but felt confident that both sides could handle it. Only in America.

So despite being a bit soggy I’m still feeling sunny.

Stay tuned for next week’s installment. . . .
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