Competition

Last year, I wrote about my trip with my cousin Bonnie to my hometown for Mother’s Day weekend (Country Comfort, 5/17/12).   I hadn’t seriously entertained the idea of returning to Mansura for the Cochon de Lait Festival this year until my friend Kelly called a few weeks ago.   I’ve mentioned Kelly before—she’s a classmate and one of my oldest and dearest friends.   Our hometown is small, but we lived at its outskirts, down the winding, roughly horseshoe-shaped Petite Cote Road.   The “‘Tite Cote,” as it was called, was as rural as rural got.  Kelly lived about two miles from me, and today she lives right next door to the house where she grew up.

Over the years, no matter where I’ve been, Kelly has always kept track of me: she knows everyone in town--or if they’ve moved away, where they are and what they’re doing.  “Are you coming?  You have to come!  You have to defend your title.  I’ll get a bunch of people together.  We’ll have fun!”  Kelly is great at organizing—I think she’s been on every class reunion committee we’ve ever had.   The next day, I called her back to let her know I’d made my plans.

Word traveled quickly—the next night, I found myself Skyping with Michelle, another friend, fellow classmate, and ‘tite Cote native.   Michelle, newly divorced, had moved away from Virginia and was living with her dad, two doors down from Kelly’s parents.   Michelle and I have kept in touch sporadically over the years, but haven’t gotten to see much of each other, since we were usually in different parts of the country.   One of my favorite of Michelle’s traits is her outspokenness—like me, but totally unfiltered. 

We plotted our takeover of the Hampton Inn: I would have a room for me and whatever cousin I could wrangle into coming along, and she would have a room where she and Kelly would stay, as close to mine as she could get.  We hoped more friends would follow suit, but regardless, we were all-in.  The Hampton Inn is right across the street from the casino, which is the social hub of the parish: we could ride the shuttle, walk, or crawl back to our rooms when we were ready to go back.  Side note: the casino has done more to develop the parish than anything I can think of--it was built in the early 90s on pasture land.  Bunny and I used to joke that it looked like a space ship had come from Mars and just dropped it there.  Now it looks less foreign, because national brands have sprung up a presence around it.

Last Thursday, Kelly called and instructed me to meet her at the ice bar as soon as I got to the hotel.  I’ve noticed a pattern over the years--everyone meets at the ice bar, then moves to another bar or restaurant, if necessary.  The first time she ever told me to meet her there, I spent a good 30 minutes looking for a place called The Ice Bar.  It doesn’t exist: the meeting place is actually called the Atrium Bar.  Like most people and many things in Louisiana, it goes by another name; the actual bar is made of ice—like a mini skating rink. 

I got to the ice bar after driving hours through torrential rain, then the most pitch-black darkness I could remember seeing.  After you’ve lived away from The Country, you forget how dark it is there: miles and miles of feeling like you’re immersed in a giant vat of tar, except for whatever meager path your car can illuminate for a short distance in front of you.  When Kelly called at one point to find out where I was, she laughed at my complaints of how dark it was: “You in The Country now, girl!”

I got to the ice bar, where none of the usual suspects were to be found.  Finally, I caught sight of them at a table away from the ice bar, but still in easy distance: Kelly, Michelle, Cindy and Joel.  The same crew from my last casino get-together (see I Know Why the Irish Drink, 2/2/12), with Michelle substituted for Greg, who Kelly hadn’t been able to reach.  

Cindy isn’t technically from the ‘Tite Cote, but she had grown up right across the far point of the horseshoe, where it intersected with the highway.  She lives about a mile from where she grew up.  She, Kelly, Michelle and I (plus two other girls) had carpooled to practical nursing school during our junior and senior years of high school.  We graduated from high school in May, and nursing school in June.  Cindy was generally the most serious, most quiet of the bunch, but she was always down for a good time, and she has a wicked sense of humor. 

Joel (pronounced Joe-El) grew up in town.  He’s sort of the male equivalent of Kelly: he keeps tabs on the boys and some of the girls, and he’s on most every reunion planning committee.  Now, he found himself with four women for whom no topic was off-limits.  Most guys might have shrunk from the task, but as I remarked later in the evening, he kept up with everything we threw his way, and threw it right back.  We started with the serious topics—aging or deceased parents, grandchildren, family—and quickly progressed to the light-hearted, boisterous banter that you can fearlessly have with people you’ve known all your life.  We talked and laughed and carried on like we always do when we get together. 

Early on, we discussed the ladies’ beer drinking competition, to be held the next day at the festival.  Joel hadn’t seen my medal, but I won the contest last year, when Bonnie and my step-father, Donald, had dared me to enter.  This was the title I was defending.  Michelle had seen my medal when she asked me about it during our Skype session.

   

Kelly works with a woman named Allison who had won the two consecutive years prior to my victory.  Her cousin, Jeff, had gone to school with us, but wasn’t coming in until Saturday afternoon.  Allison hadn’t competed against me, so she had peppered Kelly with questions all week about my technique, my time, and anything else she could plug into her strategy.   Kelly didn’t know any of the details—I didn’t even know those kinds of details—but at any rate, Allison was undecided about entering.

I mentioned that my sister, Julie, was considering challenging me, but she drinks about as much beer as I do—practically none.  If my cousin Norman came up from New Orleans, though, I was going to try to talk his wife, Lisa, into competing.   I had been talking with Norman for the better part of the week as he decided whether he was going to make the trip. 

One of the beauties of Facebook is that you can keep up with people you rarely see, and get to know people you’ve never met.  I hadn’t seen Norman in at least seven or eight years, but he’s one of my Facebook friends.   I’d never met Lisa, but from getting to know her on Facebook, I knew she drank beer and that she looked to be the competitive type.  If she showed up, my money was on her.  All the talk of the family competition seemed to create great excitement in the group.

The next morning, I met Julie and her family at the parade.   Donald’s daughter, Lisa, had come up for the day.  Another potential competitor!  She demurred, but said she’d do it if Julie would.  Julie was still on the fence, but her husband (Todd) and I were able to swing her over to the competing side.  Now we three sisters would compete.  I knew Norman and his Lisa were on their way, because I’d talked to Norman about an hour earlier.

Toward the end of the parade, they joined us, with their son, Harley, who is a year younger than Trinity.  This was the first time I’d met Harley, too.  Typically, my first questions on meeting a new-to-me family member don’t involve beer drinking competitions, but this was a special occasion.  I explained the contest to Norman and Lisa—two cans, as fast as possible, and boom!  Family competitor number four was on board.

I’d been running into classmates and Facebook friends all morning, which was fun.  Everyone wished me luck.   It had rained a lot the day before, so the humidity was quite high.  As we walked around after the parade, Harley told me I’d have to win.  I told him I didn’t expect to—last year’s win was just a fluke.  He is such a cute kid—much quieter than his dad at that age, and very polite and smart.  Since I wasn’t really serious about the title, he hoped his mom would win.  I love this kid!

Finally, 1:30 p.m. rolled around and we took the stage.  Twelve of us sat down initially, and were joined near the start time by two additional women.  Julie and Sister Lisa sat on left side, and Cousin Lisa and I sat in the middle of the table.  From the crowd, Kelly caught my eye, pointed to one of the newcomers, and mouthed “Allison!” I leaned forward and looked to the right side, where a young woman in a blue shirt was doing the same thing, looking my way.  We waved at each other, then made fighting gestures and laughed.  I told Cousin Lisa it was on!

We got our beers and listened as the rules were explained: drink two beers, one at a time, as fast as possible.  Turn the cans over as you finish each one.  No spitting, no spilling, no excess beer from the turn-over.  Cousin Lisa made a remark about not swallowing, which the MC overheard and repeated.  I loved this cousin, even though I’d just met her!

Before I knew it, we were off.  The beer seemed even colder and more carbonated than I remembered it.  I finished the first one with only one pause, turned it over and started the second.  At this point, my focus was laser-like: I didn’t look around at all—not at the big crowd, with lots of family and friends, and not even to Cousin Lisa, who was right beside me.  For me, there was only one person in the world, on the stage, and I was sitting in her seat.  The second can was much more difficult: much, much more difficult.  I stopped several times, but pressed on, turned my can over and began to stand.  I felt Cousin Lisa doing the same, a fraction of a second before me.

I looked around, and four women—Allison, a young woman near her, Cousin Lisa, and I--were standing.  Slowly, others stood.  The young woman near Allison was disqualified—she’d left a big puddle under one of her cans.  Allison was first, Cousin Lisa was second, and I was third.  Third place!  Yea!  Two of the three placers were Chatelains.  Even bigger yea!  Cousin Lisa and I hugged. 

We stood before the now huge crowd to get our medals and be introduced. When the MC said her last name, Lisa looked confused.  She’s from New Orleans, so she’d only heard the city pronunciation: Chat-a-lane.  In The Country, it’s Shot-Lan.  Harley Shot-lan reached up to the stage to high-five us.  As I came off the stage, he was the first person I saw: “You see, it wasn’t a fluke!”

Michelle, Kelly, Cindy and Joel had all been in the crowd cheering for me.  I ran into Greg, who’d come with his father, sister and daughter.  His daughter goes to school in Tampa, so I’d met her last year when he brought her back to school.  His dad told me that they’d all been rooting for me.  I saw all my family there—cousins, niece, nephew, step-father, brother-in-law—who’d had divided loyalties, perhaps, but were supportive and proud of us all for competing.  I’m having a ggggrrrr moment as I realize that we should have taken a group photo of the four of us: fierce women warriors of the family.

As I was leaving a message for Daddy, Julie said, “Tell him I’ve shamed the family.” We laughed so hard over that!  Norman, Lisa and Harley were going back to the city that night, so we said our good-byes.  Then, we all parted ways to rest up for the evening.  There would be a street dance at seven, and everyone was sweaty and hot and tired. 

As I showered before climbing into bed for a well-deserved nap, I reflected on the day’s events.  I hadn’t won the contest, but I had placed. The family honor was safe.  Even more importantly, though, I’d had all the support I could have asked for—and that’s better than any medal ever hoped to be.