Artifice and family bonds in Southeast Louisiana and beyond

We woke up on last Saturday morning and everyone was preparing for our little family excursion to Madisonville, Louisiana for the wooden boat show. Cindy's Aunt Joan and Uncle Ray drove us over to Aunt Cindy and Uncle Chuck's house in Beau Chene, where we gathered for all of the cousins and aunts and uncles and nieces and children to arrive so we could drive down Ivy Street to the manion in the woods and the dock for the yacht out back.

Several months ago, I read a diary written by a young woman who built a houseboat on a barge with her male companion, down in the bayous along the Atchafalaya. They lived for about ten years in the waters of Southeast Louisiana, living off what the river and the forest gave up for their support and subsistance. She now lives in Pike County next to some friends of ours. She is still quite self-reliant and impressive in her peaceful self-satisfaction.

I watched a film about her diary and she was present in the studios of the public television station. I was quite impressed with the film and her life. There was an air of serenity that flowed through the film and the interview.

But here we were, carrying food and drink on board a one hundred foot yacht, ready to sail down the river to downtown Madisonville for a wooden boat show. As the ship's captain cranked up the engines on the big vessel, we watched as the boat left shore among the diesel smoke and bright October sunshine.

As we floated down river, or up river, I'm not sure, I watched the cable television in the library on the second level of the yacht, trying to get coverage of a couple of football games being played in Georgia and elsewhere throughout the country. Meanwhile, lunch was served in the aft salon. I drank several beers and stepped carefully from one deck to another, impressed with the cabins, their appointments and the sheer size of the vessel. It was a beautiful yacht.

When we got to Madisonville, we quickly found ourselves the center of the boat show. People stopped and stared and took pictures. Little kids waved. I remarked to the owner of the ship that we were now part of the boat show. He agreed. Meanwhile, we tried to catch glimpses of the actual boat show along the bank, set above the crowds, as we were.

After several minutes of providing our part of the show, the captain turned the boat around and headed back home. As I examined a photograph of our hosts with the new Governor of Louisiana, I wondered how much it cost to make this short little trip up and down the river. I was later told that to fill the tank up with gas would cost around $12,000.00.

Later, we left the luxurious surroundings, the pomp and circumstance, and headed off to a little restaurant in a strip shopping center called "Rags" and ate shrimp and oyster poboys and drank beer and iced tea with the whole family. The family provided a pleasant chatter to the small restaurant. Later, at the end of our meal and the day, we stood out in the darkness of the parking lot for the strip shopping center and talked amongst ourselves. A sense of reality slowly flowed back into my brain.

That night, I drove Missy and Megan to the local Barnes and Nobles. The security guard at Beau Chien took my name down for the second and third time that day, his pencil scratching on his pad. In the bookstore, I examined all of the books about Louisiana and New Orleans in the Local Interest section. I found a book about a couple who, immediately after Hurricane Katrina, fired up their airboat and rode downriver into the flooded streets of New Orleans to help out. The sense of the story that I gleaned from the dust jacket was that they realized the need for assistance in the city immediately, and simply packed their airboat and traveled into town. No hesitation, no complicated plan. Just a simple response to an overwhelming need. If only the powers that were could have responded in the same manner.

It reminded me of a men's bible study I attended one afternoon, a long time ago. The leader of the group was trying to get us all to share our lives with each other. Progress was slow. We were Presbyterians after all. We were all stiffly wading through the thick mud of the masks we wore. As one young man finally began to slowly tell his sad story, he began to tear up and sob. Almost all of us sat there in silence, sheepishly staring with embarrassment at the young man.

But not one of the leaders. He immediately charged out of his chair and rushed to the side of the young man. He carefully placed his arms around him and asked us to pray. We closed our eyes and joined the leader in prayer for the young man. Suddenly, a small bond was formed between us that afternoon. Something real occurred despite our reticence. A communion of a spiritual nature, which manifested itself in our common prayers.

Reality, communion and love lie right below the surface. Despite the artifice. Despite the attempt to surround ourselves with the images provided by the things we have accumulated. In my better moments, I yearn for the spirit to reach for that communion when it presents itself. Like the young couple in Louisiana. Like the bible study leader ten years ago. To show love without hesitation.