A Barge on the Bayou

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Finally, on July 22—six months to the day from the time we started to build—the last piece of crooked molding (there's not a 90° angle in the entire house) was nailed into place, and we returned the hammer, handsaw, and ladder we'd borrowed in January. From top to bottom, we'd spent less than $2,500 for our floating home.

We'd actually been living on the barge since the completion of the kitchen in April, but suddenly we felt as if we'd never seen it before! Like strangers, we drifted through the screened porch, the kitchen, the library, the bedroom, and the tiny blue-sky-and-white-cloud-painted bathroom. (The empty nest syndrome isn't reserved for mothers. I've seen these same blues follow the completion of any long-term project, whether it's a stage play, a dissertation, or the building of a home.) With no house to work on, we momentarily wondered what we were going to do with the rest of our lives!

COMING HOME

Our restlessness lasted only until we made arrangements for towing to the swamp. Once we actually tied our home in place in the sleepy summer waters of our new address, we were faced with all the expected life-in-the-wilderness chores, as well as the added challenge of cooperating with our environment.

Even after years of houseboat living (several of which brought floods), we're still learning new ways to work with the high water. In choosing vegetables, for example, we must give priority to lateseason varieties, since a swollen Mississippi could cause our fields to flood and delay the planting dates. (Early tomatoes and peppers, along with cooking herbs, are container-grown on the barge.) Our chicken population is limited to the number that can be conveniently accommodated by a floating coop when the henhouse goes under. And since a permanent fence would rust, be torn loose, or get buried in silt every flood year, the chicken and garden enclosures are made up of wire-covered frame sections that can be taken down and stacked, then reassembled in minutes with a pair of pliers.

Once he'd observed that wild swamp lilies can survive floods, Calvin abandoned his beloved roses for tame lilies, which are just as varied and beautiful but can stay submerged for weeks and still come up smiling. A 500-gallon rainwater cistern stays conveniently full during the wet season when the swollen bayou is too muddy for house use, but when the tank gets low (during the dry summer and fall months), the bayou provides us with an endless supply of clear water. And instead of regularly running propane bottles in by way of truck and boat, we nestled a 150-gallon tank in its own aluminum bateau, which is easily towed in for filling twice a year. (The large tanks are sometimes free for the hauling in rural communities that are in the process of switching from propane to natural gas.)

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