French-Accented Spanish Moss - Epilogue

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I had never heard of Joseph Jefferson before I came to Vermilion Parish. Chances are it would have remained that way. But the renowned 19th-century American actor grew so fond of Southern Louisiana that he poured much of his earnings into a twenty-five acre, subtropical retreat in Delcambre. Jefferson’s New York fame for playing the Washington Irving character on stage over four thousand times explains the literary allusion to the property’s name, the Rip Van Winkle Gardens. Otherwise, how could anyone connect one of the greatest performers of his time to the soft, moist shores of shallow Lake Peigneur? As a Northerner during Reconstruction, Jefferson was well-received by the Cajuns; people of the time considered him one of their own. Even in my brief stint in Vermilion do I realize how difficult it is to be fully accepted in these lowlands where kin and tradition are paramount.
Now a tourist attraction of leafy flora, cool paths and pecking peacocks, Bocelli arias flow through the manicured fenced gardens, fountains, and blooming shrubs in late December. The floppy leaves of ripening banana trees are a reminder of how seldom frigid weather comes to the American Gulf Coast. Jefferson’s modest yet respectful two-story columned porch home still makes a statement. Perfect grounds keeping and the rocking chairs on the front porch provide the perfect trimming. However, his home would pass for a very meager effort among Newport’s ostentatious and flashy mansions of the East Coast’s most wealthy. The trunks of massive oaks with dripping wisps of opaque green Spanish moss from their branches shade gravel lanes in front of the home and its fairway-quality lawn. My shoes crunch into the fine yellow stones as I walk alone. Birds chirp capriciously. The air does not smell of spring, but of its impending arrival, a false sense of satisfaction knowing I have three full months of a harsh New England winter ahead of me. In Vermilion, winter is something read about in the newspapers or seen in thirty-second reports on the evening news. There is a musty, yet crisp feel to the day, refreshingly absent of the aggressive mosquitoes that hover along the coast. The oaks, like the Palmetto Estate near Pecan Island, produce a sensation of a movie set of a Southern plantation. It almost looks too perfect. As I sit on a bench in full view of the Jefferson home and the live oaks, I think the only thing missing is a pre-pubescent teen girl yelling to her friend of about the same age as his braces collapse off his legs, “Run Forrest! Run!”

The pretty thing behind the bar at Black’s with whom I speak to every night had been putting in a mighty effort for me to try the oysters, this time broiled instead of raw. It is a busy night, and sadly my last in Vermilion. I finally relent and had the kitchen prepare a dozen of the squirmy pieces of Play-Doh, but this time dunked in oil and heavily doused in garlic. The pungent odor, lack of ice, and sharp sizzle of the oil provide me enough motivation to try them. Very steadily, I put them down one by one. They remind me of the mussels I used to eat in paella when I lived in Spain. Only roasted oysters do not have the color and are saltier.
Football reigns supreme this time of year. Other men at the bar crane their necks between the individual college bowl games on each screen. I do the same, but have to often peer around members of the same wedding party that have stopped in for drinks after the reception. The Guidry clan has stopped in, as no one is terribly interested in winding down the festivities. Guidry is an extremely common name. One has just been married to a Broussard. The family names are so widespread it may as well have been a Willams-Johnson wedding. Guests seem to care very little about how overdressed they look compared to the rest of us commoners. The stream of beautiful young women in formal burgundy bridesmaid dresses look as if they have rehearsed for a scene out of Gone With the Wind. Jerry Guidry, a Shell Oil executive now working for the firm in Alberta, has introduced me to his daughter, a junior at Louisiana State in Baton Rouge. Tall, slender, and lovely, she takes the time to exchange pleasantries with me and pay me some attention even though her interest is with her hometown friends and where the next stop will be on the evening’s social agenda. For Vermilion Parish, her looks are average. In Connecticut, she’d be a knockout.
“Linda here”, Jerry explains, “studies French at L.S.U.”
The college co-ed smirks and shies away from the revelation knowing her father wants her to show off some of her linguistic skills. “Daddy, stop it!” she retorts as she slaps him on the shoulder in admonishment.
“I actually minor in French”, Linda declared. I was under the impression it was to cushion any inferiority she felt with trying to converse in a language where she was not at par with others. Her hesitation to speak French could very well have been because of that, but it also underscores the younger generation’s reluctance, in spite of their family name to use it. That alone will lead to the demise of French in Louisiana. Without a new generation of speakers to keep the language going, French will assume the same relevance in this state as Latin or Sanskrit within forty years. Cajun culture and identity will have suffered a lethal blow.
I kept the conversation in English and commented on how well-spoken and polite she was, a compliment that was far more pleasing to her father’s ears than to hers. Next in the reception line to visit my bar stool was Jerry mother, Elisa, the matriarchal figure of the family and grandmother of the bride. Proudly yet reservedly attired, she fit the role of the mother hen who keeps all the others safely within her reach and in her control. Her rings and necklace accentuated her polished appearance without coming off as a septuagenarian resembling a high school teen. She scolded me when she learned I had been in the area since the twenty-fourth, but did not pay her home a visit so I could learn more about Abbeville. She was genuinely annoyed.
“Well, young man! You should have known better!” We would have made you stay and eat-” She went through about a dozen dishes before she stopped. I was lucky to have been at E.J.’s for dinner the next day, but wished I could have tapped into Elisa’s charm and anecdotal stories of the parish. As I listened to her tongue-lashing on the impossibility to figure out that her door was open to me Christmas Eve, it occurred to me that she wasn’t at all joking. Elisa meant it. This was not small talk to consume a few minutes before moving on to the next couple with champagne glasses between their fingertips. If I had made the common-sense argument about not knowing anyone here, arriving late, and having no logical way to know she existed, Elisa would have become even more irritated with me. As far as she was concerned, I should have known better and that was that. There was no arguing with the woman.
I never got off my stool. I never had to, as every cousin, uncle, sister-in-law, or family friend made their way to me as a point of courtesy. No one ever asked, “Who is he?” or remarked that I am not part of the party, so I should not be included. To these people, such thoughts just don’t cross their minds. By the time the rest of the Guidry clan made their way out the door in search of some live entertainment, Jerry motioned for me to join them. He did not mind my soccer shirt and jeans mingling further with men decked out in rented formalwear. He wasn’t the one that felt uncomfortable; it was me.
Jerry did that evening what many others in Abbeville would have done: he trusted me. Alison had trusted me enough to spend the day with me driving the back roads of the parish. Warren Perrin trusted me to listen, learn, keep the appointment he made for me In Abbeville, and construct an accurate portrayal of the region. Abbeville is about trust granted and maintained, as long as it is not abused or violated. If anyone ever reneges on his or her words, it would be better not to waste time making inroads here. Common courtesy and polite conversation make it easy to overlook Vermilion’s imperfections. Drugs scourge the parts of the parish’s youth. Some of the comments I have heard regarding race would make those in my social circle rightfully cringe. They are easy to overlook, but not wholly ignore. As a New Englander, it has taken some getting used to pedestrians waving hello to me as I zip by them in my car. By the second visit to Black’s many on staff not only knew my name, but the nature of my visit. Back home, few staff where I frequent know my name or care to make the effort. In Vermilion, sticking a hand in one’s face as a greeting is returned with a firm handshake and a smile. Where I’m from, it will provoke a scowl and maybe even harsh words from the aggrieved victim.
When confronted with adversity, Vermilion’s residents come together and pool their resources, as they did during Rita. Never did I hear a single complaint or story of looting or violence. Though certainly not privileged, people here do not point fingers and blame governors or presidents for their misfortune. Their suppression of anger and grief encapsulates a deep-rooted independence streak in stark contrast to New Orleans’ abyss of urban violence and anthills of public dependency. The people of Vermilion do not care for handouts, just the chance to rebuild, rejoice in the good fortune of their loved ones, and move on with their lives.
Coming to Abbeville requires an investment in trust more than it ever does showing off a résumé. Jerry Guidry put it best when he said, “Merit? Sure, that helps. In Abbeville, you could be a first-class web designer with all the accolades and commendations. But it is all worthless without someone to speak up for you.” I have placed my trust where unrestricted kindness and generosity reign supreme and have been handsomely rewarded.

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