A Cajun Day After Christmas
12/28/2008

At 3 a.m. the dark morning after Christmas, my brother-in-law Chris took his son and a group of friends out duck-hunting.  Micheal and I declined that particular adventure, but later that afternoon we did welcome the chance to go out to Chris’s houseboat, which he keeps at the Beaumont Yacht Club, a dilapidated dock next to a dirt parking lot on a brown waterway underneath an I-10 overpass.  I kid you not.

Chris has a lot of fun on his houseboat—fun that has formed the basis of a well-received novel he’s written, Poco Bueno, for which he’s currently seeking a publisher.  Indeed, once we motored past the detritus and blight that humankind have inflicted on the natural environment in this part of Texas, I too was happy to be out on the boat in the quiet cypress- and palmetto-fringed bayou.

But we were about to destroy that quiet by shooting crackers.  No, not ill-bred white folks; Premium saltines.  Chris took us up on the top deck, showed us how to handle his firearm, and we took turns shooting the crispy targets he tossed one by one into the water.

It was my first time shooting a gun and I had lousy aim.  Balnour, Micheal’s nephew’s girlfriend from Kazakhstan, was an excellent shot, however.  The men were fair to middlin.’  All in all, we endangered few saltines, and I guess it was harmless enough activity.  Mindless, perhaps, but harmless.  I saw no birds or other wildlife scatter…and at least we weren’t drunk. 

While I was waiting my turn with the gun, Micheal’s son Ryan, a petty officer in the Navy, taught me how to tie two knots: a bowline and a double fisherman.  That was gratifying: three new experiences in one afternoon.

Back from the boat we changed into cowboy boots and drove to Larry’s French Market—a Cajun restaurant with a bounteous buffet and a rotund, white-haired, ZZ-Top-inspired zydeco band.  We were trying to give Balnour an authentic southern experience and indulge our own love of fried oysters, smoky gumbo, spicy etouffee, and soft-shell crabs.  After stuffing ourselves, Micheal and I took a few turns on the dance floor, swinging and two-stepping to the best of our recollection.  A good time, Southern-style, was had by all.

Merry Christmas.