Today I had an experience that perfectly sums up what Tales From the Bayou is all about.
For my job, I just got a new route consisting of areas in Destrehan, Vacherie, Donaldsonville and along Airline Highway. If you head up Canal Blvd. through Thibodeaux it takes you on a long road toward several of these places. Along the way, I found this at the side of the road and had to share it.
It's an old abandoned church in a clearing in the woods. God knows how long this has been here or when people stopped visiting it, but clearly it's old as hell. Mold and water have ruined the wood and the whole building is warped and twisted at odd angles. Hurricanes, floods and the elements in general have battered this building and it still stands, albiet barely. The tree at the right seems to have overtaken the wall, leading me to believe that it wasn't there when people still worshipped at this church.
This pic shows the steeple, where a bell undoubtedly once hung. At this point I began to drive around the right side, which was the only clear area not full of woods and overgrowth.
Years of flooding have rotted the lower boards completely off.
I'm approaching the back in this picture. The mold damage is worse here.
This is the very back end. A large section of tree has fallen on the roof, smashing it and leaning the entire back of the church in that direction. The hole here is narrow, but could have been either a door or a window of some kind. Continuing my drive toward the back to turn around, I find a surprise.
In the back, covered by grass and branches, were maybe half a dozen graves. I couldn't approach any closer, as the path got too narrow for the truck and the ground was too soft. Make no mistake, I didn't leave the truck at any point in this excursion. My rational mind was thinking: "The ground is wet, your feet will get soaked. There are snakes all over this kind of area. The mosquitos are out bad." The other part of me was thinking: "Fuck this! This is creepy!"
This is a dead on shot from the front. Here, you can see the crazy angle the church is warped at. Nothing remains inside, but if you look close, you can see the small raised pulpit where a preacher once stood. No doubt he was all fire-and-brimstone as he preached the word back then. But how long ago? The 40's? The 20's? The only clue lies to the side of the steeple. A long-broken, obsolete-style power meter frame is still there. At some point in this church's life, it had electricity. I'm betting, however, it was just to power a simple light setup. More than likely there was no air conditioning, and I saw no evidence of it. Parishioners probably fanned themselves with a book and sat in their own sweat as the preacher spoke about God smiting the non-believers.
From there, I was done. I drove off so I could go home. But although my visit with the church was over, the story is not. As I drove the 45 minutes back home, my head pounding with a combination of my nervousness and the medication I am on, a story began to form in my head. Quickly and vividly. And as soon as I finish this blog entry, sharing my adventure with you, dear reader, I will commit this story to Microsoft Word. At some point you will read it, I am sure, but hopefully it is from a published book you bought at a local book store with my name on the spine. At this point, know that the church mentioned still stands, in Chackbay, Louisiana, a monument to a simpler time.
And that is the heart of Tales From the Bayou.
