Editor's Note: In 2010, Katie Oxford filed a series of riveting columns from the heart of the Gulf oil spill disaster. She recently returned to Louisiana to find out what happened to some of the people she had talked to back then. This is her tenth column in a new series.
In Montegut, the Live Oak Baptist Church was celebrating Good Friday with a crawfish boil. Earlier, I'd asked a member there if I could attend, and in that simple, warm word you so often hear in Louisiana, Arline said, "Sure."
I admit that I had a motive. Really, it was a hope, that someone might tell me where Hanna was, a little girl who I'd met three years ago when she was sweeping inside the Church.
Strangely, Hanna had haunted me. Maybe it was her innocence and exuberance that I wanted to protect. Nurture. There seemed a loneliness about her that scratched something deep. Wanted to give company to.
When I returned to Louisiana, I would visit Hanna again. Success wasn't essential. Only the knowledge that when I left Louisiana, I'd done everything I could to keep that promise.
I was set on finding her, which was exactly my promise. When I returned to Louisiana, I would visit Hanna again. Success wasn't essential. Only the knowledge that when I left Louisiana, I'd done everything I could to keep that promise.
On Good Friday morning, I was glad to be back on Hwy 665, a narrow winding road that stirs the senses a little like the Bayou DuLarge. Not surprisingly, an unexpected stop was just around the corner.
In Montegut, near the Pointe Aux Chenes Elementary School, I saw a long line of people moving down the sidewalk. Leading them was a boy carrying a cross. Russell Dardar was walking too. At intervals, they stopped while someone holding a microphone read from a leaflet. I'd pulled over to observe all this.
Minutes later I made a U-turn and followed the line to St. Charles Borromeo Catholic Church where the sign out front read "Walking Way of the Cross." There, I spotted other friends. Anna Mae and Raymond Dupre, who I'd dropped in on during previous trips, were standing there on the steps. "Hey Pirogue!" Anna Mae called out (it was a nickname she'd given me), "I thought you'd left!"
I was reminded that the love between Anna Mae and Raymond is palpable. Sorta like how the Bayou Lafourche rolls toward the Gulf. A force you see not hear. Refreshing. In July, Anna Mae and Raymond will celebrate their 66th wedding anniversary.
After a prayer in the parking lot, folks moseyed over to an oak tree where lunch was spread across picnic tables. "I hope you'll join us," said Father Thomas warmly. Suddenly, I wished that I wasn't scurrying off to the crawfish boil but, then, so it goes here. In Louisiana, your heart's tugged all the time, like a crab on a string of bacon.
I thanked Father Thomas but explained that I had to be somewhere else.
As I turned into the driveway at the Live Oak Baptist Church, members were gathering next door underneath the blue house on stilts where Hanna had lived.
Pastor Matthew Chouest was at the grill cooking up some grillades, he called them. (Pronounced GREE-yahds). "It's pork roast sliced real thin," he explained. You add a little barbecue sauce along with Tony Chachere's Creole seasoning and voila.
It was a small but friendly group. When someone's name was spoken, it came with a prefix like "Brother Jay, "Sister Shirley." They seemed to have known each other for longer than they had lived. Jake Billiot was there too, wearing a blue shirt the color of the sky.
Before heading back to Galliano, I took a group photograph. Then, I thanked them, especially, Bernadette, the pastor's wife. Earlier, she'd handed me a slip of paper. "If you can't reach Hanna's family," she said, "this man can probably give you their number."
Nice thing was, I hadn't asked her.
At intervals, they stopped while someone holding a microphone read from a leaflet. I’d pulled over to observe all this.
