Bar Pits

My dad’s Volkswagen Beetle bounced along the top of the levee, spilling a trail of dust behind us. Trapped in the tiny, steel blue cage, it seemed any minute we would tip over and roll down the steep incline that was on both sides of the narrow dirt road. High above the rest of the world, I looked out at the world that was passing by through the thick glass to my right. My dad looked over at me, smiled and said, “Hey bud, what do you think about this South Louisiana Mountain you are riding on?” I never thought about mountains in Louisiana, mainly because I was 7, and also because, well, this was South Louisiana.

We had left our home in the small town of Patterson, a quiet city that had rich historical roots during the heyday of the cypress logging industry of the 1920’s. We met up with the levee at a squatter’s village known as Wilson’s Landing. This group of camps and old trailers somehow became a permanent residence for people who made their living off the land, or in their case, the water, the swamp that was known as the Atchafalaya Basin. This same levee that allowed us the view of the water, pastures, and camps, also kept the southern part of Louisiana from flooding, just one of the many controversial U.S. Army Corp of Engineer projects, that saved many a town from floods, yet created havoc on the natural infrastructure of Louisiana. However, politics and the reason we had such structures is not what this story is about, so let me continue.

The air was not warm, but hot. July in south Louisiana is just plain hot. The humidity is thick enough to walk on and there was no movement of air, wind or anything to be found. But that was okay for me because it was another excuse to roll the window down, hang my hand and arm out, and let the warm air hit my face. My dad never seemed to mind the heat. Sure, he sweated a great deal, but when it became too much, he simply took out a white handkerchief from his right pocket, wiped his brow, smiled over at me and kept driving. My dad seemed to always drive with just one hand. I know in Driver’s Education you are taught to drive with your left hand in the 10:00 position and the right hand in the 2:00 position, but my dad seemed to just use his left hand, casually placing it in the middle of the steering wheel. His right hand was always on the tall gear shift found in those 70’s VW’s, ready to shift on the fly when needed. While we are talking about driving, Dad was able to keep one hand on the wheel and wave to any driver who passed him. It was not a wave, but merely a quick flick of his index finger into the air, a friendly acknowledgement of the approaching person.

Back on top of the world, we drove along. We crossed over cattle guards and honked our horn at slow moving cows that seemed to think the top of the levee belonged to them, not to city fishermen who were hoping to come home with a nice catch at the end of the day. From time to time we would meet up with a passing automobile, which made the drive interesting. Driving on a one-lane road on top of this man-made mountain, each vehicle would have to ease as far to the right as possible, causing the passenger’s side wheels to be off of the main path. With the car leaning to the right, I always felt my heart thump in my chest as I wondered if any minute we would roll down the side of the levee, splashing into the swampy water below. Of course we never did, but each time the thought was in my young mind.

Gradually, we made our way to one of the many bar bits that followed this meandering mountain of dirt. Bar bits are small ponds, so to speak, that were dug to provide the dirt for the levee. Technically they are called borrow pits because the dirt was borrowed from one area and placed somewhere else. My dad and I just called them bar pits. Every so many miles you would find these ponds or pits off to one side of the levee. On my side of the levee, the view was swamp. On my dad’s side, was land, usually sugar cane fields or just pastures where periodically, there were bar pits. My dad and I had our favorite bar bits, the ones we had found to be full of fish, waiting to bite down on our tasty bait and unsuspecting barbed hook.

But hot days like this, were not really about fishing. In fact, many of these drives along the levee never produced one fishing story. Sometimes, our fishing poles or cane poles never left the car. Sometimes, we just drove. Sometimes we stopped just to explore. Sometimes I just listened to my dad’s stories. Sometimes we just rode the levee, my dad and me, on hot July afternoons.

From Son of a Preacher Man, by Steve Achord