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AMA’TPAN NA’MU

By Roger Emile Stouff

Awakening to thunder from a late afternoon nap, flashes of brilliant lightning lanced through the windows, burning my eyes with white magic.

There were massive black storm clouds outside the window when I peeked through the curtains. Though there was no place I needed to go, I put on my shoes, grabbed my keys and went to the truck, feeling the need to chase the storm.

Author Sherman Alexie once noted that some children aren’t really children at all, they are pillars of fire which burn everything they touch; and there are some children who are pillars of ash, and fall apart if you touch them. I am a child of the storm. Born in the eye of a 1964 hurricane, I am a child of wind, and of water.

Across the miles along the road of my life, I have always chased storms. I feel an affinity with them, some kinship which trembles and sparks in air charged by the lightning. So not really knowing where I would go, I chased the storm broiling to the north, and the road led me to the Atchafalaya Basin Protection Levee, which I crossed and found myself on the southern shore of Grande Lake.

Ama’tpan na’mu. Beneath my feet, the broken white clamshell was like bleached bone. It stretched out for half a mile to the east and west, a fingernail of raised mound deposited here a basketful at a time by my ancestors. This was Ama’tpan na’mu, a very large village which looked out over part of Sheti, that great series of interconnected lakes from which we took our name in kinship.

I parked the truck away from the attendant’s shack, for today this is a boat landing, bulldozed at some point in the early part of the century so that fisherman could launch into Grande Lake here. I can still walk along the edge and find bits of broken pottery, some plain, some ornate. When I was a child, I would stand here with my father and we couldn’t see the other side of Grande Lake, but decades of man’s tampering with nature have taken their toll, and the northern bank is now easily visible. Grande Lake is but a shadow of its former self. Much like the people who share its ancestral name.

Over that now-near treeline of cypress and willows, a blackness as absolute as midnight churned and spit silver fire at the earth. The bolts found some ground below, discharged into the swampy watersways beyond. It was here, on Ama’tpan na’mu, that an entire village stared in amazement as a Spanish ship sailed up Grande Lake, having entered the Atchafalaya River from the Gulf of Mexico and made their way north. These were no mere Spanish colonists, no priests and missionaries: These were Conquistadors, set upon their mission by God, they supposed.

We call it The Beach now. It rather looks, from a distance, like a white sandy beach, until closer examination reveals the crushed and compacted clamshell. The clam species rangia was abundant when these lakes were sometimes brackish, and Chitimacha would feast on them, using the discarded shells as a sort of building material, a pre-historic concrete as it were. It kept their feet out of the mud in Louisiana’s frequent rains, provided a stable base for erecting palmetto huts, and the stark whiteness of it was a pristine backdrop to easily see a big, black water moccasin snake slithering up on the children.

Overhead, silver warriors throw spears from inside the black clouds, spears which turn into jagged, spectacular lightning bolts. The crash of them is created by a thunderbird, lurking somewhere in those same billows, beating its wings like a gargantuan raptor. There is no rain. I watch the lightning, not a second goes by without a magnificent blast of power, pitched down by silver-faced dead.

When the galleons arrived on Grande Lake and approached Ama’tpan na’mu, the na’ta of the village refused them. He forbade them to come ashore. If I look beyond the scattered wreckage of old oil drums lashed together as buoys, derelict boat trailers and assorted metal and wooden junk, I can nearly see small children, their faces stricken with amazement, looking out at these huge wooden vessels with their great sails, the strange, iron-clad men upon them, their faces so pale and bearded. I can see the na’ta, standing firm in his protection of a single village among dozens in the nation. What might have gone through his mind? Surely he could not have imagined that he was the first to witness the end, those who would, with the passing of time, reduce his thriving nation from tens of thousands to a handful of survivors numbering less than one hundred.

If I follow the village shell bank by boat, as I did last spring, to the east away from the ramp, there are shallows in which huge redears gather for a short few days each year. I chased them with the rod, they were fat and bold. They had come from the few remaining depths of Grande Lake to make their spawning nests in the hard shell shallows of Ama’tpan na’mu, where nearly five hundred years ago, the village na’ta refused the Spanish, and steel was brandished, cold and glistening white, like the lightning bolts crashing and crackling with power out across the lake.

It saddens me, sometimes, that we do not know his name, that na’ta, the chief of the village of Ama’tpan na’mu who stood, surely afraid and uncertain of his actions, against their blades. But the Spanish were beaten back, forced to leave, and they made their way down the lake and river, accosted by Chitimacha warriors all along the way as the alarm was sounded from village to village. Eventually they reached the safety of the Gulf of Mexico, and that first tragic encounter ended.

Traveling northwest by boat, I can enter the terribly shallow waters of Cok’tangi, “pond lily worship place,” which the Spanish called Grande Avoille Cove. The levee intersects it now, and its other half to the south is a favorite spot for fishing bream and bass in the spring, though in the summer its shallow waters are too hot to support much of a fish population. If I travel southeast, around Taylor’s Point and into the river proper, I can traverse the entire Atchafalaya basin with its winding oilfield canals, natural bayous, hidden ponds and pools.

But lighting is flashing everywhere, and thunder is resonating, trembling the clamshell mound. The storm is moving just north of me, to the southwest, and skirting the edge of the lake. I can see gray rain coming. Soon it will fall and Ama’tpan na’mu will glisten under it. A chief, when the word na’ta was no longer used, is buried somewhere on this mound, forbidden interment in Christian cemeteries during the mid-1800s, for after the Spanish retreated that fateful day, they made alliances with another tribe far to the east, and returned in force. The first chapter in the demise of the people of the lake was written in the war that followed.

Ama’tpan na’mu was long dead, its people scattered and decimated, when the Union army landed here to assault rebel troops stationed in Franklin in what would become known as the Battle of Irish Bend, just a skirmish by most reckonings, but a part of local history and folklore. Irish Bend is Oku’nkiskin, “old man’s shoulder,” a steep twist of Bayou Teche to the southeast.

The storm is passing, carrying its spears of lightning and silver warriors with it. Clearing skies behind, peeking sunshine and scattered rain. I am reminded that I have not fished this side of the levee since last year. Perhaps I’ll bring the boat some weekend soon, put it over into Grande Lake from the shell beach of Ama’tpan na’mu. I have probably missed the big redears, what we here call chinquapin, but there are still bream and bass moving along the canals and through the cypress.

I start the truck and head for home, leaving the old village behind, white and still. I make my way home, to T’kasi’tunshki, which the French named Charenton. As I am climbing the road which crosses the levee, in the rearview mirror I can almost see, in the gray misting of rain augmented by a few shining sunbeams far behind, massive, parchment-colored sails, mahogany bows, glistening swords, and one steadfast man standing at the water’s edge on Ama’tpan na’mu. His name is forgotten, but his courage will live on in the hearts of some long after the storms have passed.

Roger Emile Stouff is the Managing Editor of the St. Mary & Franklin Banner-Tribune. He was narrator and co-writer of the Louisiana Public Broadcasting documentary “Native Waters: A Chitimacha Recollection” based on his memoirs. He is also the author of the acclaimed “Lawson’s Peak” series of novels, including a mystery series.

From Discus to Quiots to Horseshoes: How Horseshoes Had its Start in a (Seemingly) Unrelated Olympic Sport

Ancient Grecians surely watched with anticipation as their favorite contestants competed in early Olympic events like boxing, archery, chariot races and discus throwing.

The discus was similar in form to a modern quiot – metal, rope or rubber rings – but not in size or weight. Originally, it was a metal or stone circular disk, 10 or 12 inches in diameter, with a thong passed through the center hole. The athlete swung the disk by the strap and released for greatest possible distance.

Quiots is a traditional game involving the throwing of rings over a set distance, usually to land on or near a spike.

It is believed that poor Greeks who could not afford the discus set up a stake and threw discarded horseshoes at it.

“Horseshoe historians have not been able to discover when the game of quoits or horseshoes was changed so that it was pitched at two stakes, but it is pretty well established that horseshoe pitching had its origin in the game of quoits and that quoits is a modification of the old Grecian game of discus throwing,” according to the National Horseshoe Pitchers Association.

Changes were notable over the last 150 or so years:

-1869: The distance between the stakes was 19 yards. The player stood level with the stake and delivered his quoit with his first step. There was no weight requirement but the outside diameter could not be more than eight inches. The ground around the stake was clay and all measurements for points were taken between the nearest parts of both quoit and stake.

These became the rules favored in the United States, but no records were kept until 1909. The game seemed to be favored among soldiers in most wars. They brought it home with them and pitching courts were laid out in hundreds of communities across the country.

-1910: The first horseshoe pitching tournament in which competition was open to the World was held in the summer of 1910 in Bronson, Kansas. 

-1914: The first ruling body of horseshoe pitching of which any record was found was organized in a court room of the First District Court, Kansas City, Kansas. Stakes at this time were 38-feet apart.

-1919: The National League of Horseshoe and Quoit Pitchers was organized at the National Tournament in St. Petersburg, Florida, with representatives from 29 different states attending. They were given a charter under the laws of the State of Ohio, June 17,1921. In the 1919 Tournament, the distance from each stake was changed to 40 feet, distance that is in effect today. 

-1930s-1940s: Stake height raised to 12 inches.

-1950: Stake height changed to between 14 and 15 inches.

-1982: The last major rule governing play was enacted. An official game is 40 points.

It is estimated that upwards of fifteen million enthusiasts enjoy pitching horseshoes in the United States and Canada in tournaments, leagues, recreation areas, and backyards.

*Information derived from National Horseshoe Pitchers Association
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To see the game in action, visit the Cajun Coast Classic October 15-16 at Kemper Williams Park in Patterson, LA.

More than 70 pitchers hailing from 16 states are scheduled to take part in the tournament, slated as the final event for the 2016 season of The Horseshoe Tour.

The tournament begins at 8:30 a.m. Saturday and Sunday and is open for public viewing. Concessions will be available. Entrance to Kemper Williams Park is $2 per vehicle.

10 Things to Know About the Southwest Reef Lighthouse

Located on the western bank of the Atchafalaya River in Berwick, Louisiana, the Southwest Reef Lighthouse is the centerpiece of the Everett S. Berry Memorial Lighthouse Park.  In 1987, the lighthouse was lifted from the screw piling – where it sat since before the Civil War – in an attempt to preserve the historic structure for future generations.

Visitors to the park may view the historic structure up close while enjoying scenic views of the Atchafalaya River, relax or try their luck fishing from the recently restored wharfs, or stroll the heights of the protective seawall.  

1· The historic structure is 1 of only 3 easily accessible lighthouses in the State of Louisiana.

2· Predating the American Civil War, the square, pyramidal tower constructed of iron plates was first lit September 1, 1859.

3· The lighthouse was unique in shape for the Gulf, a square pyramid sheathed in iron with a 28-foot base and standing 37 feet in height.  

4· The Southwest Reef Lighthouse guided mariners on the Atchafalaya Bay until it was decommissioned in 1916.

5· It remained abandoned until 1987 when it found a new home in Berwick Bay.

6· It now stands sandwiched between the Atchafalaya River waterfront and the Great Sea Wall that protects the Town of Berwick from the mighty river’s floodwaters.

7· In 1988, the lighthouse itself was place on the National Registrar of Historic Places. It was placed in its current location—the Everett S. Berry Memorial Lighthouse Park— in 1990 and opened to public viewing in 1996.

8· A Fresnel lens and fog bell similar to what would have been used in the lighthouse are displayed in the lobby of Berwick Town Hall, located 2 blocks west of the park on Third Street.

9· Each fall, the Lighthouse serve as the terminus for the 135-mile Tour de Teche.  Beginning the first Friday in October this annual race for canoes, kayaks, pirogues (the traditional Cajun canoe), and SUPs traverses the entire length of Bayou Teche in southwestern Louisiana.

10•The lighthouse, now a part of the town’s seal, also serves as the centerpiece for Berwick’s Lighthouse Festival held annually in conjunction with the finish of the Tour du Teche.

 During regular business hours, bring your Lighthouse Passport by Town Hall for stamping and receive a commemorative pin. Admission to the Everett S. Berry Memorial Lighthouse Park is free.

Eclectic, creative, unique and empowering – Visit Franklin’s Historic Main Street

For a step back in time to the days of wandering the hometown Main Street to shop for your wares, one only needs exit U.S. 90 at the picturesque town of Franklin, LA.

You’ll find eclectic collections, antiques, local souvenirs, gifts for every taste on your list and more tucked into the shops that inhabit reinvented store fronts in the Historic District.

What’s a Festival Without Shrimp and Oil?

The 81st edition of the Louisiana Shrimp & Petroleum Festival kicks off today with a ribbon cutting and carnival before getting into full swing this weekend. Want to know what to expect? Take a look back at the 2015 edition of the oldest chartered harvest festival in the state through the eyes of local blogger and journalist Danika Foley.

Gravel pebbles under my soft-soled shoes are a quick indication that I’m ill-equipped for today’s walking tour at the 80th Annual Louisiana Shrimp and Petroleum Festival. But, I can’t help but be excited to see, taste and hear this year’s selection of music and food. I’ve been visiting this fest for about 10 years. It’s the right amount of stir crazy for this quaint city on the mighty Atchafalaya River. It’s nestled in a historic, residential neighborhood of mixed architectural homes and manicured lawns in Morgan City. One could easily step outdoors right into the heart of one of the biggest and busiest parties St. Mary Parish has ever seen. It’s a major tourist draw but the hometown folk enjoy it just as much.

I started my rounds at the jam-packed arts and crafts Vendors Row; brimming with pedestrian traffic just as that of the vehicle traffic bustling above on the iconic US 90 Bridge. The five-block neighborhood festival is alive with thousands of tourists and residents sprawling like ants from a dirt colony into what is often considered a relatively quiet community.

Still image credit: KWBJ TV 22

Swamp Pop tunes wafted into the air mixing with the addictive food smells from some of south Louisiana carnival foodie favorites; funnel cakes, gator bites, shrimp and crawfish platters and cotton candy. The combination signified that the state’s oldest chartered festival was in full swing. So many choices that my eyes and stomach were in constant disagreement making it difficult to settle on just one meal. My palate finally met its mate; a sausage link sandwich smothered in grilled onions and red peppers washed down with freshly- squeezed lemonade. The festival boasts itself as a family environment, but after-dark festivities in the park are better suited for adults.

Photo credit: Schola Photography

Parents would be best to shuttle their kiddos away to the bridge area for amusement rides and games. By the time the sun was set, alcoholic beverage consumption was rampant including my favorite, the Hurricane. The “spirits” booth is sponsored by a philanthropy-driven organization of teachers, principals and other business persons, but their specialty drink is anything but mild-mannered and professional. The Hurricane packed a punch greater than a Category 5 storm. Trust me, it only takes one. Employing a taxi or designated driver to transport you to your next destination would be your best bet to make it home safely. 

The Labor Day holiday weekend’s steam bath of blistering temperatures were a better backdrop to the festival’s milestone year compared to 2014’s incessant rainshowers. Although the sun beat my face and sweat dripped to creases and folds I didn’t know existed, I still managed to fully partake in the festivities. I weaved through the cluster of attendees and made my way to the blacktopped, wooden dance floor. During the hottest part of the day, festival goers thought it better to dance in their lawn chairs under the shade of the park’s magnificent oak trees than to venture into the intense heat. But, by night, the floor was hidden under the feet of Cajun two-steppers and dance-how-you-want enthusiasts.

Still image credit: KWBJ TV 22

A favorite around these parts, Wayne Toups drew crowds that extended into almost all ends of the park. Toups’ salt-and-pepper beard, flat-brimmed hat, alligator-tooth necklace and rapid accordion playing made him a likely character from a TV  series set in the Louisiana swamps. His lighthearted Cajun tunes were well-received, and I more of a blues lover, was treated to a Toups’ remake of James Brown, “It’s a Man’s World.” His rendition, along with his smiling bearded face and the crowd’s reception, gave me a reason to tolerate my bath in South Louisiana’s unforgiving humidity and stay a little bit longer.

Still image credit: KWBJ TV 22

From one artist to another…

Toups and his band were accompanied on stage by famed artist, Tony Bernard. Bernard arranged his own funky piece…on canvas, that is; presumably sold to the highest bidder. It was a crowned pelican. It seemed almost befitting to see Toups and Toulouse (my name for the pelican) side by side on the the same stage — like two kings on their respective thrones; Toups, a music monarch of Grammy-award winning proportions alongside the state’s majestic bird. And, when the last song was played, my soft-soled shoes had become a second layer of epidermis on my feet. But, it was well worth the five-block walk.

What’s a festival without oil and shrimp? Well, #ibedamned

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Danika Foley is a journalist who moonlights as a blogger sharing stories often untold but most worthy of attention. Follow the rantings of an introverted extrovert, people watcher and old soul at ibedamned.wordpress.com.

Get Ready for Fall on the Cajun Coast, Y’all!

Crisp air, crunchy leaves tumbling to the ground and tons of festivals – It’s fall on the Cajun Coast, y’all. 
The fun doesn’t stop. Here’s the festival lineup from September until the holidays:

Louisiana Shrimp & Petroleum Festival | September 2 – 5, 2016 |Morgan City, LA
Tap your toes and tempt your taste buds at Louisiana’s oldest state-chartered harvest festival. This four-day extravaganza of family entertainment includes continuous live music by local and national acts, a huge arts & crafts show and sale, a Children’s Village, the Cajun Culinary Classic, the traditional Blessing of the Fleet and water parade…all with no gate fee!
Visit www.shrimp-petrofest.org for a schedule of events and additional information.

Tour du Teche/ Berwick Lighthouse Fest | October 7 – 9, 2016 | Bayou Teche
Experience a 135-mile, three-stage canoe and kayak race from Port Barre to Berwick, through the heart of Cajun Country. Visit www.tourduteche.com for additional information.

DSRA Drag Boat Racing | September 24-25, 2016 | Morgan City, LA
Outboard power racers gather at some of the South’s premier waterways to showcase their skills in drag boat racing.
Visit www.deepsouthracing.net for additional information.

Chitimacha Pow Wow | October 22, 2016 | Charenton, LA
The public is invited to view competition dancing, food and craft vendors with special presentations by Hoop Dancer Lyndon-Alec (Alabama-Coushatta) and Poarch Creek Stomp Dancers all held in The Pavilion at Cypress Bayou Casino • Hotel — a climate controlled arena with bleacher seating. Don’t miss the drum competition and live Medicine Tail recording. The grand entry, gourd dances and a basket raffle highlight the event.
Visit www.chitimacha.gov for more information.

Harvest Moon Fest | October 29, 2016 | Franklin, LA
Welcome fall with all-day festivities on Franklin’s charming Main Street, featuring live music; a children’s carnival, teen activities, an antique, hot rod, classic car and motorcycle show, concessions and special retail promotions.
Contact 985.380.8224 for additional information.

For all the latest, visit the Cajun Coast on Facebook. Find us on Twitter, or give us a call at 800.256.2931.