The saga continues....



I awoke the next day at 11 AM. This was far longer than I had intended to sleep when I originally planned this trip; but since my late arrival made me dead beyond belief, I decided to continue sleeping until I had gained a reasonable amount of rest. Having g accomplished this, I mulled over the possible events of the day. I knew that I was going to Dupré Library on the campus of the University of Southwestern Louisiana, in order to pick up some research materials, but that should only take an afternoon. I w wondered if I should try and explore the parish of Lafayette itself. It was a Wednesday, and there were classes in session -- perhaps something was afoot downtown.

At any rate, I dressed in my North Carolina Teaching Fellows t-shirt (to distinguish me from all the other red-haired, lost-looking females on campus, I suppose) and headed out for the library. I chuckled at the thought of going all the way to Louisiana t o study in the library. Unlike at Carolina, I didn't balk at the idea of parking in a pay lot, and soon I was strolling down the live oak-laden aisles of USL. "Home of the Ragin' Cajuns", I read on someone's bumper sticker. I wondered if Cajuns had an obje objection to being stereotyped like that, like Native Americans and Blacks. Perhaps it was just a cute nickname, like "the Braves" or "Whisky-Drinkin' Irishmen". Who knew. I strode into the library.

Most of what I came to Louisiana for I accomplished in a sum total of about an hour and a half. I made copies of dissertations. The librarian was extremely helpful (and very pregnant). I listened to people in the halls talking; their accents were very, very heavy. I even heard some French Cajun spoken. But the highlight of my trip, and the reason I am most glad I went down there, was yet to come.

"Hey, la la...
I'm gonna sing my song
Hey, la la
I'm gonna sing it loud and gonna sing it strong..."

I had heard tales of the vast archives of spoken and written literature at USL on the Cajuns and Cajun culture & language, and I travelled to Lafayette in particular so I could exploit this resource. I had done my background reading, which included books by the likes of Dr. Barry Jean Ancelet, who is also a professor and interim head of the foreign language department there. When I asked the pregnant librarian if I could have access to the spoken-word tape archives, she shrugged and said I would have to c all Dr. Ancelet. My mouth twitched. "Ah, yes," I said calmly, not belying the excitement I felt. It would be like a race-car fan getting to shake Richard Petty's hand, or a geek to talk about co-processors with Bill Gates. So, I called him up, and asked i f I would have permission to access the recordings of sub-New Orleans dialects.

"Well, what do you need them for?" he asked. Abruptly.

"I am doing a research paper on phonetics and phonological systems of Cajun dialect," I said shakily.

"Oh, well you know I have the perfect thing for you," he stated like a ticker tape machine. "ComeonovertomyofficeandI'llmakeatapeforyou." I thanked him and then hung up, eager to meet this person who wrote so eloquently and was so knowledgeable in this field of dialect. I hurried over to his office, not wanting to make him wait for me (for me! a mere undergrad!). I was flustered. I was even more flustered by the time I got to the fourth floor, where his office was, considering the steps in the stairwell w ere as big as the Himalayas and as hard to climb. I made a mental note to lose some weight, and filed it away under "[C]hocolate", because I would be sure to look.

As I approached the foreign languages office, I became apprehensive about meeting Dr. Ancelet. After all, he had only been conducting research since I was born and what if he disapproved of me personally or had changed his mind about my project since speaking king to me? Well, I had been very successful so far already, and if I committed a major faux pas between the time I hung up with him and the time I made it to his office, that would be impossible for him to detect. I steeled my reserve and went into the office. ticker tape machine. "ComeonovertomyofficeandI'llmakeatapeforyou." I thanked him and then hung up, eager to meet this person who wrote so eloquently and was so knowledgeable in this field of dialect. I hurried over to his office, not wanting to make him wait for me (for me! a mere undergrad!). I was flustered. I was even more flustered by the time I got to the fourth floor, where his office was, considering the steps in the stairwell w ere as big as the Himalayas and as hard to climb. I made a mental note to lose some weight, and filed it away under "[C]hocolate", because I would be sure to look.

To my surprise, Dr. Ancelet was a younger man, perhaps in his early 40s, and not the wizened old man I expected. He certainly didn't have a Southern gentility about him; more of a straightforward, crisp manner. He took me down to the language lab on the first floor of the building where he made a copy of the tape he had in mind for me. We ventured then back up to the fourth floor in the elevator. A woman got on at the second floor and began speaking to Dr. Ancelet in Cajun. Wow! I thought, my first encounter with a Cajun. This must have been what Sacajawea felt like when she met Lewis and Clark: an overwhelming curiousity coupled with embarrassment for being different. I regarded her with honour, wanting very desperately to speak with her and share my language, my thoughts, but before I could say anything (or ask to be introduced), we stepped out of the elevator and back into his office.

Back in his office, he struggled to pull up a document on his Macintosh. I resisted the urge to say, "here, let me help you". I was here to vacate, not to perform help-desk duties. Besides, it was nearly certain that he would have been offended. The office was filled with books, papers scattered about, videotapes, and posters. One row of books was devoted entirely to Anne Rice novels. I couldn't see the connection until I recalled the setting of some of those novels: New Orleans. My subconscious nodded. Dr. Ancelet completed his computing task and directed me to the secretary, who would give me information about the campus and its graduate program in Francophonic Studies. I thanked him profusely and left.

With tape in hand, I went outside into the humid, hot day. The smells in the air were sensual and heavy; they made me want to saunter down the street instead of merely walking along. Accordingly, I strutted towards the bank machine, withdrew some money, a and headed for the Graduate Studies Office, which happened to be right next to the Computing Help Desk. I couldn't resist the temptation to head over to chat some geekspeak with the natives and see about their net.connections.

The man behind the counter was a gentleman of about 30 who had rusty red hair, a furry beard and a pair of outdated glasses. I ruminated on the possibility of bearing his children when I asked if I could check my mail at another site and he said yes. We ended up chatting for a while, and I procured some documents for my own personal curiousity about their connectivity, facilities, etc. Whilst I browsed those, he took the opportunity to grab a map of New Orleans for me and point out all the good spots he liked to go to when he went there. So far on this trip, people had been very giving and very helpful. Even this guy (who happened to have been born in Morehead City, NC) with his air of superior computer knowledge gave a friendly smile and a cheerful word. I was impressed.

The sun was still maintaining its heat by the time I stepped outside. Classes were letting out, again, in what was a never-ending cycle of torture. I wanted to find the student union (to get a free bumper sticker that said, "Ragin' Cajuns" on it), but never found it. Instead, I moseyed to pick up some grad school applications. Two years still seemed far away. My nose twitched at the thought of filling out more applications, taking more tests, being intellectually prodded even more than ever to pursue an education in something I *wanted* to do. A sigh wrangled its way out of my chest. I needed sleep, again. I was beat. But, what to do? My choices were many, my motivations few. It was time to eat.

When I was standing in trepidation before Dr. Barry Jean Ancelet, I was able to control my mouth long enough to ask where a good place to eat was. "I want to eat some Cajun food," I said, "and not really where all the tourists are." Oh sure - like I was trying to be a non-tourist or something. He suggested a place called Paul's Pirogue, a little up the ways in Carencro off of some county route. My head swirled with thoughts of jambalaya and cornbread. That night, I ventured to Carencro and found the place completely by zen. My waitress spoke with the brushed tones of a Southerner but enhanced by a wispy Louisiana French accent. I was captivated. The alligator meat appealed to me, at first, but when I saw the less-exotic-but-still-nifty green gumbo I went with that instead. As I ate, the fan overhead counted the number of flies that were left in its wake.

I returned to my hotel room and flopped on the bed, lazily scratching my breast. My bed welcomed me back and asked if I were staying long. It would be awfully nice to sleep, I thought, but there is a songwriter's night going on at some café downtown... and wouldn't that be fun to go to? I struggled some more with my alertness and finally headed out again to downtown Lafayette, not really knowing what was going to happen at all.

A whiff of music hit the streets as my wagon and I pulled up next to the City Café, on Main Street in downtown Lafayette. Like most smallish Southern towns, Lafayette's downtown scene wasn't exactly a bourgeoning metropolis or anything, and even less so since the advent of The Mall(tm). The door to the place was open, and the neon lights gave off a burnished, dark glow.

Upon entering, the café looked like it was under construction. There were chairs strewn about towards the back part of the dining hall, and remains of plastic covering could be seen dangling from the ceiling. The atmosphere was friendly, however, and I noticed that besides myself, there were only two other people in the place. The other two people were two men, one playing banjo and the other a guitar. I thought I could get some letter-writings done, and so I settled back into my chair with a cup of coffee at my side. The coffee knew better than to assume I would get anything done, and so resigned itself to becoming cold.

A musical string was being tautly drawn in me. I wanted so badly to sing, to perform, to feel a bow drawn across my very soul. I went over to the two guys and asked if they needed any female harmony. The one with the guitar said, "Sure." So I straddled a chair and began to listen to the songs they were singing. "Do you know anything by the Little River Band?" the one with the guitar asked. I nodded - "Well," I hedged, "I think I have heard something of theirs before... play it one time for me, willya?" They nodded and began to play.

"If there's one thing that I've been missin'
It's the time I spend alone
Looking out across the bright clear waters...
Time for a cool change, time for a cool change...."

I tried valiantly to sing along. After the third or fourth time, I was getting the hang of it. My throat produced shaky harmonies, but my heart was in fully in them. This song was now, to me, an anthem, a missive for my travels. Spending time alone, travelling great distances by myself to get away from others - yet, still to encounter new faces, new voices. Hopefully, somewhere in there I would discover my own face among those long-gone.

The two guys smiled. They knew what I was thinking. They looked to not be any older than 35, at most, but with wisdom of the ages. Eventually, we got around to introducing ourselves: the guy with the guitar was Crosby, and the guy with the banjo was Ricky. They sipped back some beer and Crosby asked, "Well, what do you want to sing?" I was at a loss. I had no idea as to what they knew or what I was willing to attempt. Finally, after considering the question, I asked if they could learn a song that I was t aught this summer, up in the mountains. "It's an Appalachian folk tune," I said. "It's got all of three chords. Can you try it?" They nodded eagerly. I began to sing, a cappella:

"Smoke is a-risin' and it sure is a train
Sure is a train
Lawd it sure is a train
Smoke is a-risin' and it sure is a train
I'm on my long journey home..."

Ricky looked down at his banjo and began to pluck a few notes. Crosby did the same with his guitar, and by the third go-round on my part we had a full-blown orchestral arrangement for banjo and guitar with voice accompaniment. It was the most fun I had had improvising in a long, long time. The song wound its way to a halt, after three banjo solos and one dueling match between the two, and windedly I lit my cigarette. Ricky smiled at me as he too lit up a cigarette. I felt great!

The evening progressed much on the same token: the spirit of musicianship, and sharing, was prevalent throughout the night. There were country singers, blues singers, whatever-the-fuck-you-want singers, Jewish folk song singers, and the list goes on. The crowd was actually pretty good - it wasn't too long before the place filled up to capacity. I left around midnight, feeling my bed's lonely cries for me. Tomorrow held much more for me, as I wound my way to Sarasota, Florida, via the Gulf Coast. My bed wrapped its blankety arms around me and caressed me to sleep, visions of bridges and swampland in my head.


Credits.
[the first excerpt of song came from a song that was played by a guy named Eric during the Songwriter's Night.
the second excerpt is from "Cool Change" by the Little River Band, 1970s.
the third excerpt is from "Smoke is a-Risin'", folk song from the mountains of Appalachia, 1920s.]
kelly_garner@unc.edu

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