CCJC: Audio Podcast: Episode 00068, Season 2
Wings, Water, and Wonder: An Anhinga’s Invitation To Embracing Curiosity
Welcome, dear listeners to Cajun Chronicles Podcast Corporation where the stories flow as deep and mysterious as the Atchafalaya Basin itself. Recently, we received a tale straight from the very fabric of our Louisiana wetlands, a story oozing with the spirit of the bayou and the quiet wisdom passed down through generations.
This particular gem reached us courtesy of one of our cherished listeners, a soul who first reared its head from the lips of his Chitimacha grandfather, about a Anhinga bird named Barthalemy Bergeron – a name that echoes through the cypress swamps like the call of a distinct Barbed Owl.
It’s a story that reminds us, in the most unexpected and charming way, that even the most focused among us can miss the very life unfolding just beyond the edges of our routine. So settle in, let the humid air of our imagination surround you, and listen closely to the peculiar predicament of Barthalemy Bergeron, the Anhinga bird who thought he had it all figured out:
Sun-Drenched Epiphanies
Barthalemy Bergeron, the Anhinga considered himself a marvel of avian engineering. Waterproofing? Please. Rain rolled right off his sleek, dark feathers like gossip off a crooked politician. He could slip beneath the murky Bayou Boeuf waters, a silent, serpentine shadow, spearing unsuspecting fishing trips with the precision of a Cajun chef filleting a Channel catfish. Life underwater was a thrilling, fin-chasing adventure.
Le problème, however, arose when Barthalemy needed to dry his magnificent, albeit temporarily soaked absorbent wings. Perched precariously on a half-submerged Bald Cypress knee, wings splayed like a gothic gargoyle statue airing out its pigeon stained laundry. Boredom descended upon him like a flock of particularly dull Brown Pelicans raiding his territory.
“Another few minutes,” he’d sigh, tilting his long elegant neck. “I swear I’d rather start counting silvery Spanish Moss strands.” He’d already recounted the invading Hyacinth Water Lillies (far too many), the passing schools of Weed Shiner minnows predictably silver, and the droning buzz of the cicadas (a true earworm torturous event.
Barthalemy you see, was a creature of habit. Underwater, he could spear sac-a-lait Crappie fish. Above water he had to dry his wings. There was no “and,” No “or.” No “Si jamais . . . What ifs?” His world was as neatly divided as a tourist’s first plate of red beans and rice.
Barthalemy, you see, was a creature of habit. Underwater he could spear sac-a-lait Crappie fish. Above water he had to dry his wings. There was no "and." No "or." No "Si jamais . . . What if?" His world was as neatly divided as a tourist’s first plate of red beans and rice.
This rigid perspective led to his first hilarious blunder. A particularly juicy-looking small juvenile Blue Crab scuttled along the Bald Cypress knee, tantalizing close. Barthalemy’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. “I know I am drying,” he muttered, his brain short-circuiting.
The concept of a mid-dry snack was simply not in his programming. The tiny crab, sensing his internal conflict, nonchalantly and playfully pinched his toe. Barthalemy bird yelped, nearly toppling into the water he was so diligently trying to escape.
The second incident involved a rather chatty squirrel who mistaking Barthalemy’s stillness for a possible Hickory tree ornament. He decided to bury a Water Hickory acorn in the crook of his wing. Barthalemy, engrossed in the existential dread of damp feathers, didn’t notice until the insistent scratching tickled him into a sneezing fit.
That error in judgment sent the Water Hickory nut plummeting into the bayou. The squirrel, understandably indignant, chattered insults at him. Barthalemy, in his state of wing-drying induced Cajun ennui, completely ignored it.
The final, perhaps most embarrassing episode, occurred when a group of those “Swamp Spinner” tourists paddled dangerously in a circle in their pirogue around him. One, clearly mistaking him for some sort of local art installation, attempted to hang a string of plastic Mardi Gras beads around his neck for a selfie.
Barthalemy, jolted from his leafy-counting stupor, panicked. His flailing wings, still slightly damp, sent a spray of water all over the bewildered tourists, who nearly fell overboard, shrieking as if Barthalemy had sprouted a mutated Rougaru with a second head.
Later, as the sun finally baked his wings to a crisp, Barthalemy dove back into the cool embrace of the bayou, a delicious rare Flathead catfish already within his sight. But a nagging thought lingered. He started questioning, “Would those boring drying sessions not be so bad if he tried something different?”
Perhaps he should listen more intently to the squirrel's chatter, or maybe even try to understand their frantic Water Hickory obsession. Or, heaven forbid, actually look at those strange, noisy humans who obviously knew nothing about paddling in their wobbly boats.
Later, sleek and dry once more, Barthalemy plunged into the cool, fish-filled depths. But the image of the bewildered and scared tourist, the chattering squirrel, and even the tantalizing but surprising as an American eel image wriggled into his brain.
“Maybe I should consult the Swamp Gas,” he mused to a passing Garfish, who wisely kept its distance. “Those tedious wing-drying stretches of mine aren’t just empty moments to be endured. Of that, I’m sure.”
He recalled the squirrel's frantic energy, the tourist's strange adornment, the crabs' bold jesting nibble. Each was a tiny window into a world he’d dismissed as irrelevant to his fish-spearing existence. A realization dawned, as bright as the afternoon sun on the Water Hyacinth. Nibble.
Barthalemy, you see, was a creature of habit. Underwater he could spear sac-a-lait Crappie fish. Above water he had to dry his wings. There was no "and." No "or." No "Si jamais . . . What if?" His world was as neatly divided as a tourist’s first plate of red beans and rice.
This rigid perspective led to his first hilarious blunder. A particularly juicy-looking small juvenile Blue Crab scuttled along the Bald Cypress knee, tantalizing close. Barthalemy’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. “I know I am drying,” he muttered, his brain short-circuiting.
The concept of a mid-dry snack was simply not in his programming. The tiny crab, sensing his internal conflict, nonchalantly and playfully pinched his toe. Barthalemy bird yelped, nearly toppling into the water he was so diligently trying to escape.
The second incident involved a rather chatty squirrel who mistaking Barthalemy’s stillness for a possible Hickory tree ornament. He decided to bury a Water Hickory acorn in the crook of his wing. Barthalemy, engrossed in the existential dread of damp feathers, didn’t notice until the insistent scratching tickled him into a sneezing fit.
That error in judgment sent the Water Hickory nut plummeting into the bayou. The squirrel, understandably indignant, chattered insults at him. Barthalemy, in his state of wing-drying induced Cajun ennui, completely ignored it.
The final, perhaps most embarrassing episode, occurred when a group of those “Swamp Spinner” tourists paddled dangerously in a circle in their pirogue around him. One, clearly mistaking him for some sort of local art installation, attempted to hang a string of plastic Mardi Gras beads around his neck for a selfie.
Barthalemy, jolted from his leafy-counting stupor, panicked. His flailing wings, still slightly damp, sent a spray of water all over the bewildered tourists, who nearly fell overboard, shrieking as if Barthalemy had sprouted a mutated Rougaru with a second head.
Later, as the sun finally baked his wings to a crisp, Barthalemy dove back into the cool embrace of the bayou, a delicious rare Flathead catfish already within his sight. But a nagging thought lingered. He started questioning, “Would those boring drying sessions not be so bad if he tried something different?
Perhaps he should listen more intently to the squirrel's chatter, or maybe even try to understand their frantic Water Hickory obsession. Or, heaven forbid, actually look at those strange, noisy humans who obviously knew nothing about paddling in their wobbly boats.
Later, sleek and dry once more, Barthalemy plunged into the cool, fish-filled depths. But the image of the bewildered and scared tourist, the chattering squirrel, and even the tantalizing, then surprising as an American eel, wriggled into his brain.
“Maybe I should consult the Swamp Gas,” he mused to a passing garfish, who wisely kept its distance. “Those tedious wing-drying stretches of mine aren’t just empty moments to be endured. Of that, I’m sure.”
He recalled the squirrel's frantic energy, the tourist's strange adornment, the crabs' bold jesting nibble. Each was a tiny window into a world he’d dismissed as irrelevant to his fish-spearing existence. A realization dawned, as bright as the afternoon sun on the Water Hyacinth. Nibble.
His “time outs” of boredom weren’t the punishments he thought they were. They were opportunities. Opportunities to observe, to learn, to maybe even understand the frantic energy of the squirrel, the curious customs, and the actions of humans, the bold resourcefulness of the young crab.
He thought of his own rigid daily routines – Hunt, Dry, Repeat. How much of the world had he been missing, simply because it wasn’t directly related to his primary goal? How many interesting “fish” of knowledge and connection swam just beyond the edges of his narrow mind focus?
As he expertly snagged a plump brown shrimp, a new kind of hunger stirred within him – a hunger for understanding, for perspective. From now on, those wing-drying moments wouldn’t be a stagnant stretch of time to be grudgingly survived. They would be his chance to be curious, to open his mind to the vibrant, messy, and often hilarious world around him.
His “time outs” of boredom weren’t the punishments he thought they were. They were opportunities. Opportunities to observe, to learn, to maybe even understand the frantic energy of the squirrel, the curious customs, and the actions of humans, the bold resourcefulness of the young crab.
He thought of his own rigid daily routines – Hunt, Dry, Repeat. How much of the world had he been missing, simply because it wasn’t directly related to his primary goal? How many interesting “fish” of knowledge and connection swam just beyond the edges of his narrow mind focus?
As he expertly snagged a plump brown shrimp, a new kind of hunger stirred within him – a hunger for understanding, for perspective. From now on, those wing-drying moments wouldn’t be a stagnant stretch of time to be grudgingly survived. They would be his chance to be curious, to open his mind to the vibrant, messy, and often hilarious world around him.
Maybe a little less “drying out” of his mind and wings. A little more “soaking in” the diverse life of Bayou Beouf would lead to even richer catches, both in the water and in the wider world. His next forced sun pause wouldn’t be a bore. It would be an adventure in observation, a chance to finally see what he’d been too busy to notice all along.
Anhinga understood that open-minded observation wouldn’t just alleviate the boredom, but also prevent a future rather damp social faux pas. The bayou, he grudgingly admitted, indeed held more than just fish and drying perches. It held endless stories, stories meant to be shared with others, if he only bothered to always look, listen, and learn.
Our tales are inspired by real Louisiana and New Orleans history, but some details may have been spiced up for a good story. While we've respected the truth, a bit of creative license could have been used. Please note that all characters may be based on real people, but their identities in some cases have been Avatar masked for privacy. Others are fictional characters with connections to Louisiana.
A Word of Wisdom:
As you read, remember history and real life is a complex mix of joy, sorrow, triumph, and tragedy. While we may have (or not) added a bit of fiction, the core message remains: the human spirit's power to endure, adapt, and overcome.
© Jerilee Wei 2025 All Rights Reserved.
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