Wednesday, February 26, 2014 – Baton Rouge

Keith enforces an early start today. Forbidden to dawdle over our breakfast of grapefruit from the Laura Plantation, we head out to Pearl.  We find the weather cold, 52°.  Shivering, Keith retrieves our winter coats from Pearl’s hat. We had fantasized about not needing our winter gear again before returning to Colorado. Complaining and moaning, we enter our chariot. How did we become so wussy so fast? 

Heading for Baton Rouge, we continue the Huey Long audiobook, listening to his political melodramas.  We learn that Long’s impeachment arose from his attempts to tax Standard Oil. (Not that he was innocent of the impeachment accusations—he replaced corrupt government people with his own set of different corrupt people, loyal to him, of course.)

We drive up I-10 from New Orleans to Baton Rouge, keeping the Mississippi on our left and Lake Pontchartrain to our right.  Lake Pontchartrain, 600 square miles of water, scares us, shimmering portentously as we drive beside it. What if the dikes fail?  The lake, perched ominously above the city, overshadows New Orleans, the proverbial sitting duck.

After cruising for half an hour, with a sigh of relief, Pearl leaves Lake Pontchartrain behind.  Collectively we ponder.  Does Louisiana intend to write off New Orleans and the incredibly drunken violent people and the desperately poor homeless populating it?  (New Orleans’ murder rate remains legendary, close to the rates in drug-torn South America.)  But really, a sinister master plan? That sounds like way too much effort, but think:  just move up the river as needed, making Baton Rouge the new industrial New Orleans. Let the ocean drown all of the Crescent City’s problems. 

Approaching Baton Rouge, we again smell petrochemicals.  Looking out Pearl’s windows, we see tankers, barges and container ships lining the river.

After only a bit of misdirection, Pearl delivers us to the Louisiana Rural Life Museum. The museum’s only visitors, we meander slowly, enjoying having the place to ourselves.  The museum elucidates how the other half, the common people, lived.  We visit some of the 32 buildings spread over 25 acres. We see tiny slave cabins, a sugar house, various dilapidated outbuildings and a well. A reconstructed church prompts Barkley to commandeer the pulpit and begin preaching. Perhaps half of the outbuildings have placards explaining their purpose.  After a bit, somewhat confused, we enter the main buildings, deciding to devote most of our time to wandering through the massive barn and visitor center. 

Barkley preaching

Random buildings

I have never seen so much stuff accumulated in one location. Is the entire government of Louisiana secretly run by massive packrats? This place makes my hoarder aunt’s house look positively sparsely furnished, goat paths and all.  We first discover numerous antique wheelchairs.  Sven puffs with pardonable pride, as none of the old chairs looks the slightest bit comfortable and all lack batteries for self-propulsion.  “You’re lucky you have me, Beaver!” Sven proclaims.  Carriages share pride of place with the wheelchairs.  Amongst the clutter we find an old horse-drawn hearse. The hearse has curtained windows.  The windows confuse me. I understand taboos about viewing the dead, so why the windows? And curtains?  Do the curtains prevent mourners seeing the dead rise, vampire-like, and look out at them? Better mind your Ps and Qs!

Venturing on, we discover sugar mill equipment, as well as other areas stuffed with sewing machines, dairying paraphernalia, or cooking gear.  One area holds stacks of quilts complete with the frames needed to create them.  Another boasts a working demo of old tractors. In the farming room we notice a boll weevil catcher, definitely the most entertaining and whimsical thing we encounter. 

The museum disappoints us with its sole half-empty space dedicated to slavery. The only bright spot is a prominently-displayed, first-edition signed copy of Solomon Northrup’s Twelve Years a Slave.

Moseying along, we encounter cotton seeping out of a displayed bail standing in a corner. We touch it, marveling at the incredible softness. Cotton brings us comfort.  Look at your clothes—even now we drape ourselves in it.  Imagine the wonder of cotton having lived your life dressed only in stiff, scratchy, ever-wrinkled linen.  Yet cotton fueled the vile plantation economy.  Today the plant’s cultivation consumes massive amounts of water and pesticides.  The plant generates amazing profits, fostering numerous sweatshops throughout the third world.  When we closely examine our universe, we discover that everything exists in a state of gray, both good and bad. Could just one thing be completely good for once? Like cotton?

 

Putting our four heads together, we decipher the purpose of about half of what we see.  This museum contains everything our grandparents attempted to carefully describe to us when we never understood what in the world they were talking about. I ruminate about my mother-in-law Bernadine and the knowledge that died with her and her generation. She would have told us each implement’s purpose, scoffing while laughing at our ignorance. Walking through the museum, I hear her laugh and miss her lots.

We visit the gift shop on our way out the door. Unfortunately, they don’t sell the unique and iconic boll weevil catchers.  We depart empty-handed.

Leaving the museum, Pearl cruises ten miles over to the state capitol building. The infamous Huey Long, governor of Louisiana in the late 20s and early 30s, strove to create a modern masterpiece to show the world that Louisiana, under his leadership, had finally escaped the dark ages. Rejecting the traditional dome and rotunda look, Long erected a thirty-four-story Art Deco masterwork, still the tallest state capitol building in the States.

We enter the building, a fantasy world of marble, murals and high gold-leaf ceilings.  Two bronze chandeliers, weighing two tons each, hang from the ceiling.  Flags from every country that held dominion over Louisiana line one side of the high walls. The opposite wall contains large multi-paned windows that don’t really admit a lot of light, but it is a rather dim day.

Finding the capitol surprisingly accessible for 1930, Sven and I investigate the building.  We roll over to the legislative chambers. A kindly guard shows us the site of Huey’s assassination, right outside of the chambers, near the Governor’s Office. Huey died from gunshot wounds; five bullet holes scar the capitol building walls. Over the years, a series of administrators has filled in every bullet hole, save one. The guard shows us the secret remaining bullet hole, hidden behind a column. Huey inaugurated the tradition of walking about surrounded by heavily armed, machine-gun toting bodyguards. Reflecting history’s delight in irony, many believe Long to have been shot by his own men as they defended him. 

We take a rickety elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor observation deck. Looking out, we see formal gardens, Baton Rouge, and the Mississippi with a lone barge floating by.  Flowing below us for once, holding only one ship, the river here resembles the Mississippi we’ve pictured in our heads for so long, as opposed to the massive commercial jumble we found down south. 

Descending, Sven leads as we motor out to the capitol building grounds.  We tour the garden graced with low circular hedges and a huge statue of Huey Long, of course. Long’s statue and his body face the capitol building, guarding Louisiana for all eternity. 

Long remains controversial to this day. He holds a sainted status amongst many of the common people. People aren’t fools, they know he was a sleaze ball, but Huey brought Louisiana schools, textbooks, and roads, things the prior planter-class rulers never had bothered to do. Others, including our Lafayette Airbnb host, hate Long with a passion for both his arrogance and his venality.

Driving back to Baton Rouge, we complete our Huey Long CD, his assassination on the audiobook paralleling perfectly with today’s tour of the statehouse. 

We arrive home ready to launch into dinner, only to discover, horror of horrors, we have run out of both butter and olive oil.  Bear grumbles, “I don’t want to drive all the way over to Whole Foods. I’m sure I can find butter at the local grocery store.”  He walks out the door, list in hand, intent upon a wee bit of shopping in the ‘hood.  He returns shortly. “The local bodega is full of horrid petroleum-based quasi-food!  They don’t even sell butter!” he roars, brandishing his list and a small bottle of what he believes may be olive oil.  “And!” he shouts, stomping his feet and working himself into a full-fledged Bear rant, “some kid tried to sell me edible marijuana claiming that it was legal in New Orleans the same as Colorado!” Discretion being the better part of valor, I remain silent, but begin to think.  Hmmm, I recall, we learned on our Laura Plantation tour that Creoles only obey the laws they agree with. So perhaps edible marijuana is legal in New Orleans, at least in people’s minds. I wonder if Cole Porter composed Anything Goes after staying in this city.  (Nope—Paris)

“Ah!”  Bloodroot exclaims, ignoring the pot question, “we’re in a food desert.” Ensconced in my middle-class world, I must embarrassingly admit that previously I actually doubted the existence of food deserts, considering the noise a marketing ploy.  Darn!  Reality once again cruelly quashes my eternal optimistic belief in American equality and opportunity.

Following the abortive shopping trip, Keith starts dinner, creating yet another culinary wonder work. We eat slowly, enjoying every morsel, every sip of wine.  Is this our last supper? Do we fear an impending execution?  We’ve enjoyed six nights of healthy, delicious food, but tomorrow we leave our Airbnb nest for five nights in hotels. Ugh! I solemnly promise to attempt not to complain overmuch.  I swear off ranting about the Sysco truck, the truck delivering heavily-salted, corn-syrup laden foodstuffs to all restaurants, responsible for creating that signature restaurant flavor:  GROSS!  Ugh, an impending week of lousy food, heavy on salt and sugar.

Following our relaxing dinner, Barkley and Bloodroot decide to venture out into New Orleans. They desire to visit someone Bloodroot met in Paris. We charge them with discovering all the dirt on this person—where he works, sexual preference, who he’s dating, etc. The boys roll their eyes at me, disgusted by their assigned mission.

The boys consider themselves nerds, tending to carry their laptops with them.  Off they go, exploring this brave new world, post-Katrina New Orleans. They return a bit later, sans gossip, excitedly reporting that they had been approached and offered both drugs and sex! Charitably, I wonder if this actually represents a desperate nadir in the sex workers’ and drug pushers’ lives. Has working the Mardi Gras tourist trade become unprofitable? Are the other tourists just too trashed? Or does everyone come to New Orleans to act irresponsibly, even nerds?  Perhaps the entrepreneurs sense a golden opportunity here.

Grateful that boys resisted the dual temptations of both sex and drugs, we turn in for the night.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014–Chalmette Battlefield–Yet Another Jean Lafitte National Park

Today, Pearl escorts us to the Chalmette battlefield, about five miles downriver, to the southeast of New Orleans.  Bear begins to worry about directions.  “Calm down, Bear,” Pearl says a bit huffily. Keith relinquishes control, giving Pearl the helm and placing our fate into her hands.  “I’m well aware that Louisiana has six Jean Lafitte National Parks. I’m also smart enough and quite capable of taking you to correct one.”  After a harrowing drive along the silty riverside road, she triumphantly delivers us to the Chalmette battlefield, the site of Andrew Jackson’s stunning victory over British forces on January 8, 1815.  “Hmmph! Told you so!” Pearl mutters, settling down to sleep while we visit the park.

Turning our eyes to the sky, we warily scan the damp gray clouds, harbingers of rather iffy weather.  Entering the National Park Visitor Center, we turn back the clock.  We travel to the last engagement of the war of 1812, (beginning December 1814.) The British Empire, the most powerful political force the world has yet seen, has defeated Napoleon just this past spring.  (The Napoleonic wars sputter on for another year, but the European Theatre no longer requires much British attention.)  Ironically, the wars push Great Britain to develop the most feared army in the world, while with her navy, Britannia rules the waves.

Before Napoleon’s defeat, many in the U.S. had thought declaring a new war on Britain an excellent idea—maybe we could swipe some of Canada while the French distracted the Brits! Many former war hawks, though, can’t shake a nervous feeling by 1814.  We’ve gained nothing in Canada, and with Napoleon’s defeat imminent, the Brits have now turned their attention to their upstart former colonies—miserable ingrates who dare to reject their rule and monarchy, then challenge them from behind Napoleon’s skirts. Dusting herself off from her European campaigns, Britain sends thousands of battle-tested troops to the US.

Intent upon re-conquering the rebels, the British plan a three-pronged campaign. The first leg, a full-scale invasion from Montréal, fizzles with the loss of the battle of Lake Champlain. In the second attack, the Brits manage to capture and burn Washington DC, but Fort McHenry in Baltimore stands firm, preventing the British navy from landing.  Finally, smarting from multiple defeats, the Empire turns its focus to New Orleans, a brilliant strategic move.  As most US commerce uses the Mississippi river, taking New Orleans will cripple the US economically and halt westward expansion, basically nullifying the Louisiana Purchase.

On December 23^rd, British ships land 10,000 battle-hardened troops nine miles downriver from New Orleans. Gloating over his immense army and navy, the imperious, aristocratic General Parkenham writes glowing letters home, predicting a battle easily won and the American impudence quashed by Christmas.

Andrew Jackson stands between the British and America’s most valuable city. Jackson musters 5,000 troops, including his army regulars, French Louisianans, Cajuns, free blacks, creoles, Choctaw and Jean Lafitte’s Baratarian pirates. To motivate his impromptu polyglot militia, his motley band of misfits and the underprivileged, Jackson pardons the pirates of numerous federal crimes, pays everybody handsomely, and crafts a rallying cry guaranteed to appeal to every American, regardless of race or wealth: Wouldn’t we be better off under our own rule than subject to the whims of some distant European power?  In this hour, as the fate of the Republic trembles in the wind, the past is known; the future open. 

Jackson was a competent and forbidding general as well as a good leader. At our current location, he quickly built shoulder-high mud ramparts behind his makeshift moat, the Rodriguez Canal—ramparts thick enough to absorb cannon balls and enemy fire.  He positioned his people sparingly, safely and carefully where they could do the most damage.  Then he sat down to wait. 

The Brits soon arrived. Hemmed in between a cypress swamp to the north and the Mississippi to the south, Jackson funneled the Brits toward the Rodriquez Canal.  Under General Parkenham, the Brits charged the well-fortified U.S. earthworks in waves. Firing cannons from behind the canal, the Americans tore the British troops to shreds.  The battle ended in thirty minutes, with 2,000 British dead (including Parkenham), wounded or taken prisoner and fewer than twenty US casualties.  The British fleet sailed away at the end of the month, losing many more troops to festering wounds and disease on the way home.

Of course, Jackson’s vague promises to the American Indians and African Americans would prove false.  Unfortunately, the utopian multiracial government never materialized. Jackson, America’s conquering hero, failed as President, now remembered for his role in the genocidal Trail of Tears, as well as his decimation of the economy.  Until this tour, I had always considered Jackson our worst president.  Now I’m bestowing that honor on Bush II.

Why does every battle I know about (granted, that’s only a few) involve some highly-placed idiot attacking fortified artillery positions? Pickett obeying Lee at Gettysburg, Parkenham at New Orleans, and Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden—all attacked fortified lines.  Grapeshot, the original antipersonnel weapon, comprised of small lead balls packed tightly into a canvas bag then shot out of cannon, decimated their charging infantries with shrapnel.   It killed Parkenham and demolished Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jacobites; Pickett’s men succumbed to canister shot, grapeshot’s successor.  Parkenham at least had the decency to die in the charge; the others survived after spilling the blood of so many of their followers.

The boys claim that Alexander the Great invariably used frontal assaults against a center line, sowing terror and overrunning enemy lines.  Alexander conquered before the invention of cannons and shrapnel. Has Alexander’s tactic been successful since the invention of modern weapons? The boys aren’t sure but agree that when a frontal assault fails, it fails spectacularly.

I wonder if this could have been our last just war against a foreign aggressor. And as guerrilla underdogs, we won. How odd that we’ve never learned the lessons of 1815 and continue to rely upon technology, arrogance, and very long supply lines to help us lose wars in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan.  We don’t bother winning the locals’ hearts and minds; we’ve become the British.

We take Sven for a spin around the battlefield and check out the remains of the Rodriguez Canal, finding the mud ramparts have long ago returned to the earth.  Under today’s calm but cloudy skies, we find it difficult to picture the battle or its carnage. The mighty Mississippi lies just to the south of the battlefield.  We climb the levee to view the river; a fence prevents our summiting.  Looking out, we see huge tankers and container ships, each easily the length of several football fields, but we never find the river.  Perhaps the ships float along on an invisible jet stream.

After touring the battlefield, we return to the visitor center. At each park we visit, we ask the same question, “What will be the fate of New Orleans?” The personnel here opine, “We have ten years to put the wetlands back. After that it will be too late to save New Orleans.”  I query, “Is the problem caused by habitat destruction or climate change?” “Both problems contribute to our dilemma,” the ranger replies.  “Wetlands protect us from rising seas.  They absorb floodwaters, sparing the cities near the shore.” No one we’ve met has expressed optimism about continuing the status quo in Louisiana. Unfortunately, given the monetary and emotional cost of change and the lack of political will to undertake it, Louisiana seems poised to cling to yesterday until it’s far past too late.

Rain begins to fall as we climb back into Pearl.  We start our 10-hour CD, an audiobook about the life of Huey Long. Driving back into New Orleans under a warm Southern drizzle, we hear about Long’s impeachment, absolutely amazing political theater.  Politicians brawl in the Statehouse; one of Long’s brothers bites off an opponent’s ear.  Long finally dodges the bullet by rigging the House voting machines and then, while the House fixes them, buying off the Senate.