by Monica L. Bellon-Harn JP Valery Fred’s Lounge serves its last beer at noon, so with the sun high I am pushed out drunk on the memory of men and women dancing a feis-do-do. Words of lost life and love on a wave of accordion and fiddle reverberate in my head. Motorcycles with license plates from California or New York line the edge of Fred’s entrance, people looking for the myth of the Cajun man. I climb up into my rented Chevy pick-up truck and look in the rearview mirror s