Times were different then. Growing up in the city gave me little opportunity to enjoy wildlife. The few trips we made to Raceland, Louisiana were the only times I was able to enjoy the freedom of the real outdoors. It was these trips that I looked forward to with great expectations of encountering something beyond house sparrows and the occasional squirrel that we would see around the house.
My relatives living there were so lucky. They were able to enjoy this great place all year long, but me only two or three times a year. It was here that my dad would talk French. It seemed like he never spoke a word of English in Raceland and never a word of French in Metairie. Of course, I would pick up a word now and then—just enough to know what the topic of conversation was about. Particularly when they said, “canard,” and I would ask, “Who went duck hunting?”
My Uncle Octave “Tav” was very special to us. He was “Da Man.” His stories (which he made sure to tell in English for my brother and I) would rival any adventures of today. I could only dream of being on hunts like those. Most of these stories would take place at or around his camp, which was somewhere hidden in the swamp near Lake Boeuf. It was behind a spoil bank of a canal set deep into the woods. You would have to traverse several plank boardwalks to cross the sloughs before arriving at the camp. This was a special place where not even the kings in Europe could enjoy such pleasures. There was everything that a kid could ever want back there.
We only made a few trips that I remember, but the memories are still vivid over fifty years later. The last trip we made there was truly great. I was around ten years old (give or take a couple of years), and when my dad told me that we were going to Uncle Tav’s camp, I can still remember how excited I was. On the way to Raceland, we stopped at the hardware on Jefferson Highway to pick up .22 cal bullets. At 19 cents for a box of 50, my brother and I each purchased five. We also stopped at Leblanc’s Bakery every time we went to Raceland to pick up cinnamon rolls and French bread.
The 45 minute ride to Raceland on old Hwy 90 was filled with expectations. My parents played a game with us on every trip. The first one to see the smoke stack at the sugar refinery in Raceland won. In the many trips there, my brother and I never found out what the prize was, but it was still fun playing the game. When we arrived in Raceland, my dad would visit with his mother and sister talking over whatever old people talk about. We would tug on my dad’s shirt and ask, “When are we going to the camp?” It never was soon enough.
Eventually, it was time to go. We would get into two mud boats and head up Bayou Lafourche, and then take a side canal and head to the camp. There wasn’t a marking on the bank where the camp was located, but my uncle knew exactly where to stop. He would nose the boat against the bank very easy, as to not mark a spot for someone to see. We’d then get out of the boat and carry the supplies to the camp.
Man, this was a camp—perfect in every way. It was approximately 12′ x 12′ with a porch and a tin roof. Bunk beds lined the walls, and a stove was near the other wall. There was no electricity, water, or gas. Coleman lanterns were the only luxuries to be had. On this trip was my brother, dad, Uncle Tav, my cousin Butch, and another friend of my dad and uncle. My brother Butch and I started shooting the .22 right away. At first, we shot little leopard frogs. There were thousands of them all over the place. Then, we put the brass from the rounds we shot before on a log about fifteen yards away and shot them.
I was a pretty good shot then; at least that’s what I thought. My dad and uncle had a little joke planned for me. They’d placed a small target on the stump, and my dad told me he was going to count to three and for me to then shoot. When I shot, my uncle was behind me and shot a 12 gauge shotgun just over my head. It scared the heck out of me. We kept shooting all afternoon and never got close to running out of bullets; it was just a single shot rifle and we all took turns.
