Friday, February 28, 2014 – Vicksburg

Oh, a brand-new morning, albeit a cloudy one.  Out and about, Bloodroot drives following his iPhone directions. I point out several helpful “”Vicksburg Battlefield” signs.  The signs contradict the iPhone instructions.  “The iPhone knows all, Mom; the new generation, of which you are NOT a member, eschews signs.  We have mastered technology!” Bloodroot proclaims, a rather portentous pronouncement for this early in the morning.  I fall silent, easily defeated.  Sanctimoniously, intent upon the iPhone, Bloodroot drives up to the rear of the battlefield. We can’t enter. I only snigger a bit up my sleeve as Bear opines, “Boy, iPhones really suck.”

Irritated, Bloodroot speeds around to the side of the battlefield. Driving Pearl rapidly (50 mph), Bloodroot begins the Paul Distad tour of Vicksburg. (My OCD father would have toured Vicksburg at least 50 mph, if not 70 mph, all the while shouting, “Did you see it?  Huh?  Huh? Did you see it?”  I recall a mid-1970s flyby trip through Yellowstone at 60 mph.)  Finally, we find the Visitor Center, precisely where the signs would have led us half an hour ago, had we bothered to follow them.

Bloodroot parks Pearl.  “Stop laughing at me!” he grumbles.  Pearls winks at the three of us as we exit.  Entering the Visitor Center, we learn about the Civil War campaign for the West and the Vicksburg battle specifically. 

The battle of Vicksburg pits Confederate Lieutenant General John C. Pemberton against Union General Ulysses S. Grant. 

From the war’s start, both sides recognized the Mississippi River’s strategic importance.  Whoever controlled the Mississippi could move their troops and supplies along it.  The owner of the Mississippi would win the war.

In 1863, the Union plans to end the war by taking Vicksburg, cutting the South in half, beyond any hope of resupply.  Marching south from Illinois and north from the Gulf,  Grant handily defeats the Confederates at every turn, scattering the inland Mississippi General Johnston’s forces. 

Only Vicksburg stands between Grant and total victory in the western field of war. By this time, the Confederates claim a mere 250 miles of waterway, bounded by Vicksburg in the north and Port Hudson, LA to the south.  Vicksburg, built high on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi, uses her artillery batteries to defend the vital river.  From this vantage point, the Confederacy shells any and all Union traffic on the river. 

Having earlier disposed of various Confederate armies, Grant turns his attention to Vicksburg.  He attempts conquest by digging a canal to divert the Mississippi around the city’s artillery battery.  He fails.  But now, Grant needs resupply.  On an April night in 1863, the US Navy runs the Vicksburg blockade, losing only one transport ship to heavy Confederate fire.  Grant now has fresh men, food and materiel. 

Seizing the day, Grant orders two assaults on the fortress, uphill. Both fail.  Refusing to lose more troops by storming the city, in May 1863, Grant begins a formal siege. 

Aside from breaking the South’s back and leading directly to the end of the war, the Siege of Vicksburg also marked the first time black Union soldiers defended something of vital importance. During the siege, General Grant had left behind around 1,500 troops, almost entirely black, to guard his rear at a place in Louisiana called Milliken’s Bend. These troops had no back-up or reinforcements, and many received substandard guns and equipment, but the siege suddenly depended on them in early June, 1863, when a Confederate force tried to smuggle food supplies past them. Although their rifles sometimes broke after a few shots, and although some troops, totally untrained, had only received firearms the day before, the black troops at Milliken’s Bend held the line—mostly with bayonets and earthen works, as it was all the Union had given them to work with. Their success at preventing the relief of Vicksburg convinced the (racist) leaders in the North that black troops could and would fight for their freedom; several more black regiments were created. Even the Confederate commander admitted that the troops at Milliken’s Bend had been “obstinate.”

In an eerie precedent to World War I, Grant’s troops build zigzag tunnels, slowly crawling to the fortress. At maximum, the tunnels creep to within ten feet of the fortress, primed to undermine the walls.

The Confederates hope against hope for another army (Johnston’s) to relieve and resupply them.  They pray for Johnston to surround Grant and lift his siege. In the Confederate dream world, Johnston would attack Grant from the rear while Pemberton charged from the front, turning the Union siege into deadly Confederate pincers.  Unfortunately for the South, Grant previously chased Johnston’s Army out of Jackson, Mississippi, dispersing Johnston’s men across the South. Johnston eventually regroups, but far past too late.

On July 4, 1863, forty-seven days after the siege began, Pemberton assesses his situation.  Viewing his exhausted food and medicine supplies, Pemberton surrenders. Vicksburg is the battle that ends the Confederacy, not Gettysburg.  The loss of Vicksburg opens the Mississippi to Northern shipping as Pemberton surrenders his army of 29,500 men, 60,000 small arms, 200 canon and tons of ammunition, all irreplaceable by the agricultural South.

120,000 people fought here, each side losing 10,000 troops.  Following Pemberton’s surrender, Grant takes the Confederate soldiers’ weapons and sends them home, most heading to states west of the Mississippi.

Leaving the Visitor Center, we return to Pearl, waking her up to begin touring the battlefield.  We begin with the Union side.  The tour takes us through many stops, showing us the back-and-forth of the siege.  The boys find this far more interesting than I do, but I am patient and have reading material. Our tour continues on the Confederate side, the boys jumping out of Pearl at every designated stop.

 As we drive about, we find ourselves following an ROTC group of college students.  We ask which college they attend. They reply in strongly accented black rural speech, “Northwestern” with some unintelligible word appended to it.  “Northwestern in Chicago?” we think, puzzled.  Listening more closely, we hear Northwestern State University (NSU), a college indeed located in Louisiana, near Shreveport.

At each stop, a different NSU student gives a report, augmented by their ROTC sergeant.  The sergeant speaks of the importance of “unity of command”, meaning that a command issued top side would be obeyed down to the very last private. We take this as inherently obvious now.  But 150 years ago… Strongly eschewing advice, relishing slavery, independence and states’ rights, the Confederate side sorely lacked unity of command.  We learn that Jefferson Davis, not on site, issued battle commands from his porch, only to find his incompetent orders routinely ignored. The ROTC sergeant speaks of lieutenants ignoring generals, and everyone doing their own thing.  Lincoln had the sense to stay out of Grant’s way.

The clouds portentously grow darker, building as we observe a battlefield littered with monuments to each group of people who fought. The Illinois monument has a long formal staircase leading up to a large rotunda (in reality a scaled-down Pantheon) with an eagle standing guard over the monument’s entrance.

The two states where brother fought brother (Missouri and Kentucky) have the most poignant monuments. Located where two Missouri regiments clashed in battle, Missouri’s monument, dedicated to both Union and Confederate soldiers, features a huge monolith fronted by an art deco angel (the Spirit of the Republic), who dares anyone to refute the courage of the combatants.

Situated between the Union and Confederate lines, Kentucky’s memorial contains life-size bronze statues of Lincoln and Davis, both Kentucky natives. Behind the two men we find quotes from each supporting the Union.

Both Barkley and Bear, Pennsylvania natives, solemnly pose for photos at their state monument. The Union side has many monuments to Ohio regiments, but no Ohio Monument overall. As a person born in Ohio, I feel we disrespect our fighters, probably for budgetary reasons.  I am embarrassed.

The clouds, having gathered sufficient strength, begin dropping rain.  Fortuitously we finish touring the outdoor battlefield. Pearl motors up to the USS Cairo museum (pronounced like Karo, the corn syrup).

By January 1862, the Union, flexing its industrial muscle, constructs seven ironclad ships for the war effort, naming each ship for a northern city, including one for Cairo, Illinois.    Later that year, the Cairo, while working on clearing the Yazoo River of mines, hit two of the “infernal machines” and sank in the resultant explosion, becoming the first ship ever sunk by electric torpedoes.  One hundred years later, people raised the sunken ship, giving it to the National Park Service as a museum piece.

The ship itself indeed rests outside, covered by a large tent-type structure that resembles the multi-peaked tent roof at DIA (Denver airport).  Remaining dry, we explore the ship, impressed by the technology.  I often think of the Civil War being so far removed from today.  But even 150 years ago, we built a steam-powered, armored watercraft bristling with cannons.  The boys closely examine the boilers and engines as we wander about the craft. 

We walk into the indoor museum adjacent to the ship.  The Cairo sank quickly and lay undisturbed for 100 years, creating a time capsule.  From various displays, we learn about life aboard the ship.  We see lanterns, cooking equipment and “irons”—hand and leg cuffs used on recalcitrant crew members.  Medical equipment includes scary surgical items as well as myriad bottles of medications. Hastily abandoning ship, people left behind their personal goods.  The museum houses the forsaken shoes, shaving gear, and most movingly, photos of loved ones.

As much as I enjoy exploring daily lives of people born long before me, by late afternoon hunger ambushes me.  Hoping for some sustenance, I enter the museum restaurant.  Disgusted by the smells of horrendous Sysco-truck quasi-food substances, I begin to melt down.  The boys, alarmed by my predicament, appease me by cooking real food in the parking lot in the rain.  I am fortunate to have such caring animals in my life.

Finished with the Cairo and Vicksburg National Military Park, we return to our hotel.  I find my feet swelling and begin legs-up-the-wall exercises.  Exhausted, I fall into a dreamless sleep.  Tomorrow, we explore a wee bit more of Mississippi.

Thursday, February 27, 2014 – Southern Pride & Northern Prejudice

We face even colder weather this morning.  Brrr!  Although certain that the mercury has fallen to 20°, I must admit that Pearl’s thermometer reads in the mid-40s. Today’s wan sunshine probably brings a dearly desired coolness to the area in summer, unwelcome now during the waning days of winter.

Bear, ever the morning commandant, rounds us up and chases us out of the door by 9 AM.  We leave our Airbnb nest reluctantly, worried about a week of inhabiting kitchen-less hotels and the bad restaurant food we will be forced to consume in desperation. But the boys soldier on, stuffing Pearl and her hat with our worldly belongings. We haven’t quite succumbed to refugee status.  Katrina descended upon the Gulf in 2005, not 2014.  But as we approach a month on the road, have we not become gypsies?

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Bear, our wonderful morning chauffeur, steers Pearl up toward Baton Rouge once again.  Passing Baton Rouge, we turn north on state route sixty-one, heading for the scariest place in the United States:  Mississippi. Where were the civil rights workers slain? Mississippi. Where was teenaged Emmett Till tortured and murdered? Mississippi. Where was Medgar Evans assassinated? Mississippi. What’s the locale for every scary movie about the Klan? Mississippi. Does driving a new car in the land of conservatives scream liberal? This place scares the bejeebers out of me.

Ten miles inside the state, my fears spring to life.  The Mississippi Highway Patrol, a police force whose cruelty knows no bounds (per the 1960s and Hollywood), stops all motorists. Pearl trembles as my heart rises to my throat, beating so loudly as to be heard a mile away. Ominously, to the right, on the road’s shoulder, we see a white boy cuffed standing behind his car. “Oh my gosh,” I think, shaking in panic, “we have Colorado plates. These boys will have a good old time looking for marijuana, ripping Pearl, her hat, and Sven asunder.”  Our inanimate partners quiver with barely suppressed terror.  We picture ourselves on the side of the road in Mississippi, our belongings strewn everywhere.  Sven, conflated with Pearl’s transmission, both in a million pieces, blow about in the wind.  We cry helplessly seeing our lives scattered all over the roadway, while the police laugh heartlessly.

The patrolman approaches.  “Good morning, sir,” he drawls, “license and registration please.” Keith hands over the requested documents quickly, the only sign of nervousness he displays.  The officer scans Keith’s driver’s license and examines Pearl’s registration.  Looking at the front license plate, he begins to guffaw. “Colorado, eh? Ha Ha Ha.  Cold out there, huh?  Enjoy your travels in Mississippi. Have a good day.”

Keith explains that “stop ‘em all” provides much needed money to rural police departments, now a standard revenue source in the South.  Ask every driver passing by to produce a valid driver’s license and registration while searching for unpaid traffic tickets and outstanding warrants, and no one can complain about discrimination.  People failing the checks face jail, requiring them to shell out more moolah to escape authority’s clutches.  Living in poverty, people allocating scarce economic resources between electric bills and traffic tickets will often leave the latter unpaid.   The rich, who would squawk and quash the practice, will sail through these tests; the Republicans will be glad to see the boys working at keeping the riff-raff in line.

A mere forty-five minutes later, my adrenaline level finally subsides as Pearl drives into Melrose Plantation of Natchez National Park. We find, wonder of wonders, a picnic table!  Exiting Pearl, we sit amidst blooming chickweed, enjoying the sunny, open space.  The boys heat our lovely lunch, prepared last night by the ever industrious Keith. We enjoy our chicken, zucchini and pasta. Unfortunately we couldn’t convince Bear to prepare meals for an entire week, no matter how much assistance we proffered.  “We don’t have a refrigerator Beaver, much less a freezer. You’re being ridiculous, worrying far too much about the Sysco truck.”  “But we have a cooler and ice,” I feebly responded.  And I hadn’t said a word about that darn truck!

In 1990, the National Park Service (NPS) acquired Melrose Plantation, including the Greek Revival mansion and surrounding buildings that once created the plantation’s wealth.  The NPS has busily restored the property.  Sven and I motor about on paved trails.  We see slave cabins and various outbuildings, entering the accessible ones.  Displays teach us more about slavery. 

We learn that the overseer, not the aristocratic planter families, determined a slave’s quality of life.  The planter would contract with the overseer for a projected profit. If the overseer failed to produce adequately, the agreement generally permitted the planter to dock the overseer’s pay.

Cotton plantations ran on debt, generally 70% of their value.  Planters borrowed heavily to buy slaves, land and seed.  A slave cost $500 and was expected to generate $100 to $200 each year.  With patience and luck, a plantation would eventually turn a profit. 

Success or failure depended upon the slaves’ survival and continued ability to work. People, both planter and slaves, would die in cholera and yellow fever epidemics.  Every plantation had a slave infirmary, where the mistress of the house’s duties included nursing people back to health.

The South welcomed many planters who had exhausted their Virginia land growing tobacco.  Selling their depleted northern land, they would move farther south to new land.  Borrowing heavily, they established cotton plantations, bound by both their new and old obligations.

For the enslaved, tobacco farming required the least amount of labor, cotton more, and sugar the most.  Sugar plantations subjected exhausted people to horrendously dangerous processes, often proving lethal. Succumbing to accidents and overwork, people on sugar plantations seldom saw forty.

Leaving the Melrose Plantation, Pearl cruises a few miles west to deliver us to the Longwood Octagonal house.  Jumping out of the car, we sign up for the tour. 

Sven comments, “Like we ever jump, Beaver.”

“Poetic license, Sven, poetic license.”

“Who gave you a license, Beaver?  You don’t even drive anymore.”

“Why the State of Colorado did!”

“Poetic license or a driver’s license?”

“Ok, you win, now hush.”

Sven subsides as the tour begins, focusing all attention on our guide.

In the 1850s, a planter named Haller Nutt developed an important strain of cotton.  Flush and arrogant, Nutt began contemplating Longwood in the late 1850s.  He planned a 33,000-square-foot, six-story octagonal masterpiece, larger than Thomas Jefferson’s mammoth plantation at Monticello.  Designed by northern architects, the house eschewed the currently fashionable Greek Revival style so often adopted elsewhere.  Nutt’s architects incorporated the then-current ideas of health into Longwood, specifying windows and a coal fireplace for every room.  Work began in 1860 but the outbreak of the Civil War quickly interrupted construction, as Nutt’s craftsmen fled north.  Hiring local workers, Nutt only managed to complete the 10,000 square-foot basement before dying of pneumonia in 1864, leaving his house unfinished and his affairs a mess.  His neighbors long ago renamed the uncompleted mansion Nutt’s Folly.

The Civil War brought economic collapse in its wake.  Nutt lost nearly all his wealth as both armies ravaged his plantations.  Julia, his widow, sold off land to satisfy debt and moved into the basement with her eight children, raising them there.

Being from Colorado, we are the seven-day wonder here.  Our guide, a large, fiftyish, balding, potbellied man notices our Colorado license plates. “Well,” he says “I sure wish that Mississippi would legalize pot. But we will be the last state to do so. Marijuana is a lot better for you than alcohol. What would somebody smoking pot do? Rob a grocery store for a Twinkie? I’ve smoked it before, and I would smoke some now, if I had it.”

Taken aback, we respond, “Well, we don’t have any marijuana with us.  But people and money are pouring into Colorado.  We want the taxes to fund our schools. We’re embarrassed to admit that we’re fortieth or so in spending on education.”

“I’m sure Mississippi is worse,” the big man opines.  (Correct: Mississippi consistently ranks 48^th.)  “Years ago, when the government told us we had to integrate, the people in power chose to send all the white kids to private schools and not spend a cent on public schools. That’s what generated the mess we’re in now. Maybe marijuana would be a way out,” he muses.

Leaving our guide to his fancies, Pearl drives off to nearby small-town Southern America: Natchez, MS. Though comprising only a few city blocks of handsome old brick buildings, Natchez has its own National Park downtown: the William Johnson house.

Johnson, a freed slave (presumably his white father manumitted him), founded the town’s barber shop. Over the years, guided by sound investments and his own good business sense, he became quite rich. As owning other human beings marked one as a person of importance, Johnson eventually bought several slaves; once, he even sold a frequent runaway down the river, an action that he records in his diary as keeping him from sleep one night.

Although rich, Johnson died at forty-two when he was gunned down in a property dispute. His assailant, another free black, claimed some 1/16^th white ancestry and got off scot-free – black people couldn’t testify against white people in criminal cases. (Later research showed the assailant to be part American Indian, not white, but the court ruled that evidence inadmissible.) William Johnson had straddled both worlds of the racial divide, rising to wealth in the antebellum South, but in the end his skin color still determined his fate.

Departing, we at long last reach the Natchez Trace, today’s goal.  Evolving from an ancient Indian highway, the Trace spans 440 miles from Natchez, Mississippi to Nashville, Tennessee.  In the early 1800s, people in the Ohio river valley would load all sorts of trade items (cash crops, animals, anything they could sell) on a flatboat and float down the Mississippi. Reaching New Orleans, the self-made merchants would sell all, including their raft for lumber. Goods-free and cash rich, they would then walk back up the Natchez Trace to their homes.  The boys ruminate about the manhood-building potential induced by hiking the entire Natchez Trace, deciding right there upon a future vacation adventure.  Sven rolls his eyes.

The federal government began building the Natchez Trace Parkway in 1936.  Finally completed in 2005, the Trace greatly reminds us of the Blue Ridge Parkway. Did the Park Service employ the same engineers or just repeat success?  Ten miles into the Trace, Bloodroot stops Pearl near a huge earthen mound named the Emerald Mound.   Constructed by Mississippian Indians in 1200 CE, the second largest mound in the Americas (after Cahokia) looms over us, dwarfing us.  We climb to the top of the mound to watch the sunset.  Descending, we notice that the darkness has also descended.  Pearl insists upon leaving the park. “There’s nothing but bends and shadows, kids,” says Pearl.  “I vote for safety and expediency.” 

 Exiting the park, Pearl returns to Highway 61 for our last amazingly painful half hour’s drive of the day.  Ultimately arriving in Vicksburg, we find ourselves weary, sore and hungry. First stop, Fairfield Inn, where we reserved an accessible room.  At the front desk, we learn that we’ve arrived too late for a handicapped room. “We’ve rented them all.  It’s a good night,” says the desk clerk.  “Yeah, good for you, not me,” I think. 

Resigned to failure, we check into our room and I head to the bathroom. Ugh!  The room lacks bars around the toilet. Can’t we just put bars around all toilets? We’re all getting old!  From Sven, I must standup without support, turn around and sit on the pot. Scary!  We decide to use Tinky instead. I can spin him around, only banging in the walls a wee bit, and sit. Tinky also helps me stand when the time comes.

Enough about toilets and cripples already!

While I flounder in the bathroom, Bloodroot and Barkley busy themselves finding a restaurant. Consulting Urban Spoon and Yelp, the boys recommend a place called Roca’s.

Bloodroot drives, easily following directions downloaded onto his iPhone. (The more I age, the more I’m surrounded by technology I don’t understand, like iPhones.)  Venturing a bit out of town, up a winding road, we stumble upon what appears to be a country club.

We enter the restaurant and sit down for dinner amongst all the movers and shakers of Vicksburg, Mississippi.  The Springfield Grill in Youngstown, Ohio, comes to mind, home of the selfsame people and mediocre food.  Full of trepidation, I begin with a green tomato and crab cake appetizer, something I’ve never had before—and it’s good!  Appearances can be deceiving, yes?  The boys get an A+.

A table across the room erupts repeatedly into unrestrained cheering as some basketball team beats another. We think it might be Arkansas versus Kentucky.  Giving the server our dinner order, we struggle to be heard over the mayhem.  Concentrating on the appealing food, we attempt to ignore the increasingly enthusiastic shouting, the kind you’d recoil from in an outdoor football stadium. The table’s occupants appear to be somewhat trashed.

Fortunately, the game ends while we dine.  The loud people rise to leave. One of the gentlemen stops by our table to apologize for the noise — very Southern. He explains that he and his friends, all lawyers, went to the University of Arkansas, which has just very handily beaten Kentucky. Asked which team we support, we mumble that we’re from Colorado.

“Colorado!” The man exclaims. “I’ve been skiing in Colorado.” He then launches into a very long story telling us each and every slope he has skied down.  He begins demonstrating his schuss skiing techniques by jumping about at our table. We sit spellbound, watching this very drunken man regale us with skiing stories while flapping both his arms and legs all over the place.

“Once going downhill, at Vail, I crashed into a rock, losing my goggles, skis and helmet. I looked up to see people on the lift worried about me. I waved to show them I was alive…”  At this moment, his friends walk by and collect him.  Our storyteller’s friends presumably usher him to a waiting car, so we never get to hear the end of the story. How did he get off the rock?  I’m totally sucked into the magic of the captivating tale, told the way only a Southern boy can tell it, and poof, he’s gone. Shoot!  An eternal mystery!

We finish our dinner, enjoying a sumptuous dessert, and head back to the Fairfield Inn for the night.  The boys dream of the Civil War, planning tomorrow’s exploration of the Vicksburg battlefield while they sleep.

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. 

Monday, February 24, 2014 - Laura Plantation

The only one up, I make myself a cup of tea without falling over or destroying the kitchen, a minor miracle.  Is Catholic New Orleans saving even me, the eternal heathen? Tinky, my walker, helps me navigate. He’s a bit worse for wear but still serviceable.  Poor Tinky, last week’s dip in the bayou didn’t do him any good.

Yesterday’s rain brought incredible humidity to New Orleans or simply restored the status quo. I could wring the air like a sponge and water would pour out. My mother would call this weather close, as in the humidity is closing in on you, stealing your breath. I do feel somewhat suffocated.  Despite the soggy atmosphere, I have escaped Denver’s winter and rejoice in parachuting into summer.

Jumping into Pearl, we drive out of the Big Easy heading toward the Laura Plantation.

Riding along, I think back upon my American History classes, sadly mainly comprised of an ad nauseum repetition of the glories of the thirteen English colonies.  I recall feeling immense pride in the pioneers, my ancestors, who marched west across the continent with a flourish, embracing their manifest destiny. Neat, tidy and beautiful, isn’t that America’s history?

Perhaps not, eh?  As an adult, I’ve accepted my ignorance, realizing that my education completely disregarded the contributions of Spanish, Indian, African and French people in founding and constructing the States.  Today, we hope to cure a bit of our missing education by learning about African slaves and Creoles – specifically the rich, slave-owning planter class who ruled Louisiana before the Anglos arrived.

Arriving at the plantation, we buy our tickets and meet our guide, Susan. Susan, a Creole herself, spent six years in France, attending the same college that Bloodroot attended for his study abroad.  Could the world be any smaller?  Susan tells us that all Creoles are related and/or know each other. Her mother informed her that her grandparents knew the plantation owners, bringing an interesting irony to her current employment. 

Our history class begins.  The Louisiana country Creole arose from a blending of three very different cultures: Western European (French & Spanish), Western African (primarily Senegal & Gambia) and American Indian. Wealth overruled color in Louisiana, creating a place where social class mattered far more than race.  As such, most Creoles possessed mixed blood.  One of the Laura matriarchs was half Micmac Indian.  Created by mixing French, Choctaw, Wolof and other African languages, Creole speech bears little resemblance to French, even Quebecois French. (Our history’s been whitewashed again!)

  

Our tour commences with a walk through the alley of hundred-year-old trees up to the front of the big house.  People planted rows of trees in front of plantation houses.  The trees served an important public health role, funneling the breeze from the Mississippi into draughts that would blow through the wide open front windows keeping everyone cool. With the white-hot humidity pressing in around me, I thank the Goddess for air conditioning.  Accepting environmental guilt, I acknowledge that today’s world would benefit from people planting tree alleys and opening their windows instead of living in tightly sealed electricity-sucking boxes.  Ah well, back to the 1800s.

Tree alley - not the Laura Plantation

Entering the basement of the big house we’re greeted by the Duparcs, full-size cardboard cutouts of the original owners. As Louisiana became American with the Purchase, Guillaume Duparc received most of his land as a reward for his service in the Revolutionary War. In 1804, his wife Nanette began construction of the big house.

Nanette bought the services of a local construction expert, a master Senegalese boat builder enslaved by a neighbor.  This brilliant man, name lost to history, created a house sitting atop brick columns.  Underground, the columns expand into pyramids. (The whole column, viewed from the side, has the silhouette of a key: a pyramidal underground base supporting a shaft.) The underground pyramids spread the weight of the house over a huge area – without them, the columns would act like spears, puncturing the soft silty sand beneath, causing the entire structure to sink into the Mississippi river-mud.  

Laura was a sugarcane plantation on the banks of the Mississippi. Around 600 feet distant, we see the levees holding the rebellious river to her course.  Anticipating recurrent spring floods, the construction crew built a water tight first floor using tongue and groove and peg construction methods – nary a nail.  Most surviving plantation houses in Louisiana used this house-boat design.

After supervising the creation of this engineering marvel, Nanette outlived her husband by over fifty years, becoming sole ruler of the plantation. She spent most of her days screaming at her children and slaves and generally being very nasty; her sons and daughters were all terrified of her. Finally, a rebellion claimed her life – though not a (well-deserved) slave rebellion. Nanette refused to leave when the Civil War came to her front porch. Ignoring the pleas of her children who fled for their lives, she dared a Civil War Yankee gunboat cruising up the river to shell her. They obliged.

I tour the plantation, riding in my manual chair and, needless to say, the plantation lacks an elevator.  No matter! The boys hoist me up 15 steps to the first floor.  Our tour guide Susan and the current plantation owners cheer us on, applauding the boys’ accomplishment. 

People used the downstairs for storage and lived upstairs, where they caught the delightful breeze funneled in from the alley (allée) of pecan trees. Now we see the cooling windows, all of them really more like open doors, facing the Mississippi. Insect screening did not yet exist, so a slave posted near the doors wielded a broom to bat out anything that came in besides the welcome breeze.

We learn more about the family: apparently, Creole men didn’t last too long. Wasting their bodies on drinking, whoring and gambling, they tended to die in their 40s.  The stronger, sturdier women (perhaps just less afflicted by cirrhosis and syphilis) lived into their 80s or perhaps their 100s, even back then. When her time neared, the matron would evaluate her entire extended family.  She would choose her most intelligent relative as the next president of the family enterprise – generally another woman.  Family allegiance formed the basis of the Creole world. The entire family was expected to work under the motto “the family is a business and the business is the family.”  If you didn’t work, you weren’t family and were shown the door.

Before being completely ostracized, though, the family gave relatives one last chance by sending lazy men, difficult children, and awkward relatives to France as the cure for any vice. If you were a duelist, a murderer, a philanderer - off to France with you!  The family expected you to wise-up before returning.

The antebellum Creoles struggled to preserve their world as the Louisiana Purchase brought the Anglos and Anglo ways.  The new arrivals painted their houses white, which the Creoles found ludicrous, knowing that all Louisiana structures quickly succumb to mold.  The Creoles preferred their sturdy, logical green, but slowly began to paint their houses white too, fearing any difference would invite criticism and attack.  Creole women, all astute business people, had always held the purse strings and conducted business in their bedrooms – a double whammy of horror to the Anglos.  When the newcomers in self-righteous indignation refused to treat with them, the Creole matrons responded by setting up men as dupes in the living room. The men always lacked real power, serving only as faces to comfort the Anglos.

We leave the big house, descend the stairs (me again carried), and head out to the slave quarters.  We tour the small extant slave cabins. Two families lived in each one.

Growing sugarcane in Louisiana, an annual weather dependent gamble, could pay off handsomely or result in financial difficulty.  Many plantations piled on debt to purchase slaves, becoming quite highly leveraged.  A plantation could survive one bad year but several years’ losses could bankrupt the owners. 

Sugarcane, a tropical crop, died immediately in the lights frosts of subtropical Louisiana.  Every autumn, the enslaved workers toiled ceaselessly to bring in all cane before the first tendrils of winter appeared. They cut down the long, tall stems in the fields, then crushed the sugarcane in a mill as the foreman stood by with a machete ready to chop off in any limb that became entangled in machinery. Using open fires, the workers converted the crushed cane into sugar syrup – often burning themselves, at times badly or even fatally.  Enslaved people didn’t live long on cane plantations; the grueling dangerous work reduced the average life expectancy to around 40 years of age. Masters in the rest of the South would threaten their slaves with sale and deportation to Louisiana, a very effective fear tactic.

In the French colonial world, a Code Noir established by Louis XIV, governed the treatment of slaves.  The Code required slaves to have the same holidays as all other Catholics.   Slavery followed the status of the mother, as a free mother bore free children no matter who sired them, but an enslaved mother always produced enslaved children. The Code required masters to provide suitable housing, reasonable provisions, and prohibited breaking up families with prepubescent children. The Code legitimized corporal punishment but not torture or mutilation. 

The meanest and most successful owner of the Laura Plantation, Elisabeth Duparc, ran the place with an iron fist. She hired other slaves to catch runaways, then branded them “VDP” (Veuve [widow] Duparc Prud’homme) on their faces. The Code permitted branding of runaways, but on their shoulders, not faces.  Obviously, the Code was laxly enforced.  Elizabeth also purchased 30 teenaged women and six men to sire plentiful young slaves, gloating about the numerous resultant children ten years later. Various family members assisted in paternal fertility.

The Code required masters to baptize their slaves to bring them into the Christian fold. Unfortunately, baptism provided a record for the tax collectors, making it in the family’s best interest not to baptize their slaves. Laura had 161 slaves officially but probably actually trapped closer to 350 souls. Elizabeth, nothing if not parsimonious, provided housing for 300 people.

Creoles, we learn, only obey laws they agree with. This explains today’s drive-through daiquiri stores in New Orleans as well as sporadic compliance with the Code Noir.  One man, a New Orleans resident, bore responsibility for enforcing the Code.  Although he had the authority to remove slaves from plantations, he accepted bribes.

Susan points to the Mississippi and tells us that director Steve McQueen filmed the terrifying movie 12 Years a Slave  at the Felicity Plantation, a couple miles down the river. Susan expounds, “Everything in the film is basically true.  There’s nothing good to be said about slavery.”

The movie tells the story of a freeman in New York tricked and sold into slavery in Louisiana. Without legal recourse, he lived as a slave for 12 years. (The penalty for enslaving a free person exceeded the penalty for killing a black person, so people enslaving free people would just kill them if challenged. Also, a person of color couldn’t testify in a court of law.)

In contrast to the film and to Felicity Plantation, Laura slaves had large gardens, hen houses, pig pens, and could also supplement their rations with fish, squirrel, rabbit and other small game. Even so, cultivating sugarcane resulted in a horrible, brief life.

The years passed and little changed on the plantation.  When the owners ran away during the Civil War, the slaves stayed in their homes.  Upon returning, the owners saw that their former property had cultivated large gardens, maintained the hen houses and pig pens, but let the cane go. Through the 1930s Depression, people again remained on the plantation, in many ways virtually untouched, cultivating their gardens and living off the land.

Finally, we come to the story of the would-be last owner of the plantation. Laura Duparc Lacoul, rebelled when selected by her grandmother to reign as matron when the time came. Although the family commanded her, pleaded with her, and even renamed the place after her, they could not entice her to stay. Laura had watched her grandmother Elisabeth at work; she saw the slaves with brands on their faces. From a young age, Laura refused to become her grandmother. “Running a plantation,” she thought, “will grow callouses over your heart and kill your soul.” 

She never took up the mantle her grandmother tried to pass down, and instead ran off. Eventually, when the property was bequeathed to her despite her objections, she sold it, married a Protestant, and moved to Missouri. Later in life, when she found her children reading the mythological novel Gone with the Wind, Laura felt impelled to write her own book describing the realities of chattel slavery and plantation life.  Much of the biographical information we know of the owners comes from this book.

In a bizarre twist of fate, the Laura plantation’s rebirth as a historical site resulted from Alcée Fortier of Tulane University collecting West African folktales of B’rer Rabbit (Compair Lapin) here.  As a Creole, he spoke the local language and could record the oral histories.  Susan retracts her earlier statement to say, “Well, B’rer Rabbit is the only good thing that ever arose from slavery.”  The current owners purchased Laura out of bankruptcy intent upon restoring it as a tourist attraction.  They haven’t had the best of luck, having to rebuild the big house after a major electrical fire a few years back. Next, they plan to create museum of slavery.

Without doubt, this is the best historical site I’ve ever visited in North America. Based upon Laura Lacoul’s book and 5,000 pages of documents discovered in the Archives Nationales in Paris, the tours radiate authenticity. I give the Laura Plantation the mega-nerd seal of approval.

With Creole history spinning in our heads, we drive back to New Orleans contemplating dinner, wine and both the role and cost of sugar in all of our lives.