The Camp

I’m Cajun, and my ancestors lived in south Louisiana for generations.  All of my grandparents spoke Cajun French.  It was my mother’s first language as well, though my dad didn’t speak it.  If you want to see what it looks like, google some episodes of Swamp People- the episodes with Troy Landry in them were filmed about 20 miles from where I grew up.

I grew up in a very nice home surrounded by sugarcane fields. There were several ancient live oaks in our yard draped in grey Spanish moss.  On one side there was a bayou that drifted lazily all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. 

There wasn’t much to do in our small town, so on weekends, everyone hooked up their boats (EVERYONE had a boat) and headed to the lake.  When I was 7 or 8 years old, my dad bought a houseboat (in addition to the glittery green bass boat we already had).  It was a grey metal barge with rails around the outside and a white cabin and canopy over the front deck.  Dad moved the steering from inside the cabin to the roof, so he could enjoy the outdoors when we drove it.

We kept it tied to the bulkhead on a bayou across from a boat landing.  We’d hook up the bass boat behind the truck and drive to the lake, launch the bass boat and unload everything into the houseboat.  Then dad would tie the bass boat behind, crack open a beer and drive us down the moss draped bayou into the lake.

There was a line of utility poles running across the middle of the lake.  Dad would motor up to a suitable one and throw the rope around it and tether us there for the weekend.  We tried to stay one night, but the bugs were too bad.  When the sun went down, we piled into the bass boat and went home for the night and reappeared for more sun and fun the next day.

Lots of my parents’ friends had camps on the lake, and sometimes we spent the night at someone else’s camp.  We spent the days jumping off of the roof of the houseboat, visiting, swimming, and water skiing.  It was as close to heaven as you could get for an 8 year old girl.

Thirty years later, I was living in a different state, and I got invited to a crawfish boil at a friend’s camp on the river.  It was on a small muddy island in a river 20 minutes from my house.  When I rolled down the window to punch in the gate code, the scent of the river drifted into the car. It smelled warm and green and alive- and like I was 8 years old again. 

We sat on my friend’s dock that day and drank beer and talked and laughed and watched the river go by.  It was wonderful.  As I was leaving and thanking her for a lovely day, she mentioned that there was a small camp down the road for sale.  “Its not much” she said.  And it wasn’t.  I drove by and looked.  It was an A frame cabin with an addition awkwardly tacked to the back of it.  It had a rickety screen porch, and the pier was so old it appeared to be made entirely of splinters.

When I got back to my house, I pulled up the real estate listing and looked again.  And again.  I thought about it for a whole 24 hours before I told my husband.  I told him I was going to call a realtor.  I did, and I made an appointment for us to look at it the next day. 

It was not beautiful.  The previous owners apparently liked blue.  EVERYTHING inside it was blue- it looked like the Smurfs lived there.  There were holes in the floor along the edges of the door from where water had come in around the frame and rotted it.  The stairs to the loft are dangerous.  The stairs to the downstairs addition lean hard to the right.  In fact, the whole addition is crooked.

When we walked out the door to the deck, the trees in the yard formed a living canopy over the walkway to the water.  The Spanish moss swayed in the breeze and I was in love.  I made it all the way to the car before I blurted out, “I want to buy it.”  my husband stared at me like I’d grown a second head.  This was extremely out of character for me to say the least.  We discussed it (briefly) and by the end of the week had a purchase agreement. 

We’ve had it a few years now, and spend every weekend we can manage there.  My husband, who was a little hesitant at first (because of the projects and maintenance) is now just as in love with the place as I am.

Although its only 20 minutes from our house in town, it feels different, slower.  People walk or ride around in golf carts, and stop and chat in the road.  Everyone on the island stops to watch the sun go down.  We fish and kayak and catch crabs.  We have cornhole and ping pong tournaments. We play endless games of cards or board games when the mosquitoes come out, or watch movies and eat popcorn.

The camp does have its drawbacks.  It is another yard to mow, and its hard to keep two houses stocked with groceries and such.  There are bugs and snakes and alligators.  The squirrels keep eating things- wiring, water lines, you know, expensive stuff.  The river often comes up in the early spring or if there is a hurricane, and floods the property (not the house).  It leaves a thick coating of smelly river mud which is a pain to clean.  This spring the floods were higher than usual, and we had damage to fix in addition to the mud.

There are YEARS worth of projects- rotten boards, broken windows, etc, etc.  We’ve done most of the immediate repairs, and a few projects.  Other stuff we’ll get around to eventually- or not. 

We didn’t redecorate much.  We did get rid of some of the blue- the blue suede upholstered chairs and blue coffee table got tossed the first day.  We covered up the blue back splash in the kitchen, and painted the blue kitchen table, and decided that was good enough.  My husband added a hideous burgundy recliner, which doesn’t match anything else in the house.  It sort of contributes to the “Early American Yardsale” decor- which oddly, I have come to like.  This baffles my neighbor who wants to help me “fix it up”.  I kind of like it shabby.  I want everyone to feel comfortable in there, even though they’re still dripping from a swim in the river.  If you come to our river camp, you may sit on the couch even if you’re wet, and you can set down your drink anywhere you like- no coaster required.

There is something about the river that soothes me.  I feel connected to the earth there in a way that I don’t feel anywhere else.  I relax when we drive through the gate.  I love the smell of it, and the sounds the insects and frogs make.  I even love the thick humid air at night in the summertime.  When I was still working, sometimes I would sneak off to the river after a bad day.  Just sitting on the end of the pier with my feet in the water relaxed me.

It is my favorite place, perhaps because it is the place I feel the most like my real self.  Several times during my career, colleagues commented that my husband and I didn’t seem to “match.”  This was usually after seeing us in our work clothes- mine were usually a suit and heels, his were rough and dirty.  What they didn’t understand is that I was wearing a work disguise, and we matched perfectly at home, where I was usually in cut offs with a ponytail.  Deep down, I am still the barefoot bayou girl.

For years we saved.  I thought that someday we would happen across something we REALLY REALLY wanted, and we would have the money to buy it.  Years passed, and we didn’t find anything we wanted that much.  We have never owned a luxury car, our house is nice but modest, and I don’t own expensive jewelry, or designer anything.  When I fell in love with the camp, it was the perfect time- we had enough saved.  It wasn’t cheap, but it was worth every penny.

**I  have recently discovered that “Camp” is a Louisiana term. It’s called a fishing camp elsewhere in the south. I guess you’d call it a cabin if you lived outside of the southern U. S.