Fishing

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We went on the bayou one more time, to catch fish. Most everybody had to get fishing licenses except me since I knew I would be sketching. It was a long drive to a spot down near Houma Louisiana, a town on the bayou leading into the Gulf. A friend of Clare Brown‘s brought his kayak which we tied down inside the Sea Ark. As we got close to the destination, our two car loads of people piled into a 7-11 for a bathroom break and lunch supplies.

It was a cloudy and cold day. The boat launched without a hitch. We motored to a spot where two tributaries converged. The thought was that the swirling currents would be a good feeding ground for the fish. Terry cast out and quickly her fishing pole bent. She reeled in and the pole kept bending down. She must have caught a whale! What came on board was a twisted tangle of ropes from a fishing net. Her hook also kept catching on the bottom. After several hours, Clare’s instructor actually caught a fish. It was too small to keep however. Clare’s classmate in his kayak also didn’t catch anything.

The lunch food was in the other boat, and they threw some food over when we pulled side by side in the middle of the bayou. There was cheese and crackers and some fruit. The bottom line is that no one caught any fish. Joseph Brown, being an experienced fisherman is used to the disappointment. What is important to me is that is did catch the sketch.

The Range

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Clare Brown took her parents, Terry and I for a tour of where she does her research and work on the Louisiana State University. We started in the basement where she showed us huge freezers that house thousands of tiny test tubes full of bird muscle samples. These samples are used to find the birds DNA sequencing. Another basement room was full of formaldehyde filled jars with birds inside. That room would have made a good sketch.

Upstairs, Clare showed us her office which was a tiny cubicle. About four other researchers shared the same room. On the walls of the cubicle were hints of the exotic places the researchers travel to. On the same floor were the schools art class studios and stepping into those made me feel quite at home. The hallways were full of nude figure studies. Since it was a student break, I suspect only the worst paintings were left behind.

We then went inside the LSU Natural History Museum on campus.  Large dioramas with stuffed animals inside recreated environments from natural settings. The display for birds of the word was a tight hall where stuffed birds in flight were enclosed in glass cases. Only a stuffed owl had escaped the glass enclosure and he flew up towards the ceiling. The star attraction of the museum was a stuffed tiger. The school athletics mascot is named Mike the Tiger.

Mike I was born in 1935, he was purchased from the Little Rock Zoo
with money raised by collecting 25 cents from each LSU student for a
total of $750. Originally named Sheik, the new mascot was renamed in
honor of Mike Chambers, LSU’s athletic trainer at the time, who was the
person most responsible for bringing him to the school. Mike assumed his
duties as the living symbol of LSU only three days after arriving on
campus in 1936. Mike was kidnapped by four Tulane students. He
was not abandoned, the cage was not painted Tulane green, but decorated
with green and white crepe paper. A return
was negotiated, and escorted by police, Mike was returned shortly before
the game. Mike I lived for 20 years before dying of kidney disease in 1956.When you press a button next to the display, Mike I roars.

A huge room next to the museum is known as “The Range”. The room is filled with row after row of metal lockers. Inside metal drawers can be pulled out to inspect stuffed birds from every continent. Rachel is an avid birder so this was a birder’s paradise. Terry refused to go in the range. She had been here once before and Clare showed her the stuffed Cockatoos. They reminded Terry of our pet cockatoo, Zorro, and thus saddened her. She likes to argue with her sister that cockatoos have feelings just like humans. That debate raged for our whole visit. Rachel and Joseph inspected drawer after drawer of birds. Rachel got to hold and inspects birds she had never seen before. The birds plumage remains vibrant and bright and if kept as they are they will last hundreds of years. Some specimens are already that old. They say the eyes are mirrors to the soul. These birds eyes were missing. Cotton hinted at what filled their inner void.

Whiskey River

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Terry and I had been to Angelle’s Whiskey River once before. When we returned to Louisiana this is the one place Terry wanted to share with her niece Claire Brown. This Cajun dive bar can only be found by driving over a dirt road over the levee. Terry’s iPhone apple maps sent us in a round about way through trailer park suburbs. Finding the dirt road was tricky because it forked back making it impossible to see the sign from behind. There was a five dollar cover but the band played tirelessly hour after hour.

Whiskey River is a ramshackle place built on stilts right next to the river.  The floor is just plywood planks and the place shutters when everyone is dancing. The band ironically was the same group Terry and I danced to last time we were there, called “Gene Delafose and French Rockin’ Boogie.” This weekly Cajun dance hall was once again packed. The dance floor was always full for every dance number. Older gentlemen in cowboy hats knew every Cajun dance move and the whisked a new woman around the dance floor for every number. Terry danced with several men who spun her ceaselessly as I did this quick sketch. For some dances, everyone knew to dance in sweeping circles clockwise.

Men lined up to dance with Claire and one asked her for her number, but she has a boyfriend. When the sketch was done, I joined Terry on the dance floor until we were both exhausted. Huge fans cross ventilated the dance floor but with so many heated bodies the place was hot despite the cold temperature outside. The dance floor would always empty the second the band stopped playing. Terry was the one person who wanted to remain on the dance floor waiting for the next song to begin. She loves Cajun music. We even had a Cajun band perform at our wedding. My family seemed confused by all the dancing but Terry’s family danced the whole time.

By the time we left we smelled like cheap beer and cigarette smoke. The fans kept the air breathable but the smoke seeped it’s way deep into our jackets. Claire offered to wash our winter jackets at her place and the next day we smelled squeaky clean.