Despite being unable to return to the City Council chambers yesterday due to other commitments (the minister of our sister church in the city and I had both been at hearings earlier this month, and he had attended the clergy meeting with the newspaper's editors), here's news based on local TV reports, and from first-hand accounts from fellow members of European Dissent:
At least 3 council members had announced publicly that their minds were already made up and would vote for demolition. Two-three council members were considered probably and likely "no" votes by anti-demo activists, and one was thought to be a "swing" vote. Activists had been involved in many public protests before yesterday's meeting -- some of them witty, such as the rehearsed caroling at the homes of 2 council members (complete with home-made sugar cookies iced "1 for 1") -- they were chased off by NOPD; and young people (including one from my church) arrested for camping out at the closed projects in their holiday PJs, with signs saying, "Home for the Holidays" -- as well as more conventional ways of expression.
Despite months of organized protests and private meetings with council members and the editorial board of the Times-Picayune newspaper, city officials acted totally unprepared yesterday morning for the large crowds of both pro-demolition and anti-demolition representatives who descended upon City Hall for the vote by the City Council on whether or not to approve permits for the demolition of the Big 4 closed-since-Katrina public housing projects. (With all they knew in advance, it would have been much better and less provocative if the meeting had been moved to a much larger venue.)
It did not take long for the council chamber to fill up with spectators, while something more than a hundred or so (maybe as high as 200) people were unable to enter, and began chanting outside. Inside, one white council woman, responding to calls to "resign before recall." sarcastically waved and blew kisses, which led a few protesters (who apparently had skipped the nonviolence training required of anti-demo protesters) to attempt to jump the barrier separating the spectator area from the council. There was something of a melee, and 2-3 protesters were arrested, after a struggle with police that made the national news. The council was adjourned for things to clear up for about 45 minutes.
Back outside, in heavy wind and rain (tornados were feared but did not materialize), the locked-out chanting protesters were confronted by nervous NOPD, who shut a barred iron gate to keep protesters out of the sheltered porte cochere between a court building and the council chamber. The crowd pushed back, and the police responded with mace or pepper spray (reports differ) and tasers. One young woman went into seizure. Several people (numbers unclear at this point) were hurt. Police reported that protesters had punched a deputy, but this is not shown on the TV video and is disputed by spokespeople for the protesters. About 6 people were arrested for disturbing the peace. Once all the protesters had left, either going to seek medical treatment or shelter from the weather, the NOPD unlocked the gate and announced piously that anyone who wanted to enter the council do so.
When order was restored inside the council, individuals were allowed to testify, first pro-demo, then anti. Pro-demos included "the usual suspects" (white neighbors, developers, etc.) but also many former residents, who spoke of the horrendous conditions at the " 'jects" even before Katrina. (That is true -- one issue, hardly addressed in the media, is why the agencies involved were allowed to let the sturdy buildings deteriorate and be a haven for rodents and roaches, let alone drug-dealing and crime.) Equal time was given to both sides, and the antis were well-spoken, passionate, and, for the most part, reasoned. Pleas were made for a compromise -- a 60-day moratorium instead of an up or down vote right then and there -- which many protest leaders thought had been worked out with the 3 council members thought to favor denying or delaying demolition.
But in the end, after 5 1/2 hours of testimony, all 7 council members, black and white, voted for demolition. (Interestingly, one black council member, who had been thought to be anti-demo, was near tears as she made her public statement before the vote.) The council averred that deals had been struck with HUD to replace demolished units 1 for 1, and to reopen units in some of the undemolished projects for homeless and displaced New Orleanians. (None of this in writing, however. Most council members spoke of hopes, dreams, and reliance on HUD's promises and assurances -- nothing concrete.) What seemed clear was that the minority black council members had been pressured with visions of further racial rifts in New Orleans if the vote split on racial lines -- and sure enough, all media reports after the vote trumpeted the council's new "unity."
There are some avenues left to be explored, but right now, it seems the demolitions will go on. Like many New Orleanians of good will, I am of 2 minds -- we've got over 12,000 homeless folks right now, many of them working, and we've got thousands of New Orleanians living in the diaspora, longing to come back to the only place that will ever really be home. And some of the projects are sturdily built, garden-style apartment blocks that could be renovated into nice places to live. BUT the 'jects were indeed havens for crime, drugs, violence, rodents and roaches, that warehoused generations of poor families. Mixed income would be perfect, but only IF it's on on higher ground and IF there truly is 1 for 1 replacement and IF "affordable housing" is tied to income with provisions to alleviate the hardship of big up-front deposits, and IF the new units are as well-built as what is being demolished. Lots of big ifs.
Don't let what's being shown on TV or in the NY TImes photos keep you from visiting. What's happening over public housing is not happening everywhere, and not all the time. And no one here, least of all the poor or working poor, is served if on top of everything else, we start losing visitors and the money they spend. There's still lots that both skilled and unskilled volunteers can do here, and when you're finished working hard, there's great food and wonderful music to refresh your body and soul. Even a diminished and wounded New Orleans is a great place to be, and I urge you and your congregations to get involved with us.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
"Let's Get This Gig Going!"
On Saturday, November 24, I attended the funeral of the man who had been, up til a week or so ago, the oldest living jazz musician in the city, Ernest "Doc" Paulin. We had two special family connections to Doc Paulin and his brass band. The first goes back to my first ministry outside New Orleans, in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and the second is quite recent.
Back in 1993, when I was first called to the church in Chattanooga, my son and I were pretty homesick. We missed our family back home, but we also sorely missed our New Orleans food and holidays and traditions and especially our music. When we learned that the National Folk Festival was to be held in Chattanooga for the next two years, we were excited -- but we were even more elated to find out that the festival would be kicked off with a New Orleans-style parade led by the Doc Paulin Brass Band! On that evening, we gathered our secondline umbrellas, our handkerchieves, and our dancing shoes, and drove downtown to be a part of it. We met up with Doc Paulin and his sons and the other musicians in the band, told them we were from home, and let them know we were their secondline! (A couple of the musicians actually recognized me, and said, "Didn't we play your going-away party at a church?" Brass bands in New Orleans being what they are, some musicians from the Paulin band had played with the Treme Brass Band the night of my farewell party.)
Stevie and I swung into action as the band got started, tossing our handkerchieves and lifting our umbrellas, and to our surprise and not a little embarrassment, we were the ONLY secondliners in the parade! Folks in Chattanooga had never heard of secondlining before and watched us in amazement (and possibly disbelief). Our photograph appeared on the front page of the Chattanooga Times, and we were interviewed on local TV. We couldn't have been more surprised -- wasn't secondlining a brass band the most natural thing in the world? (Interestingly, the second year of the National Folk Festival, we two secondliners were joined by a host of people who had picked it up from us the year before. Stevie and I are proud to take credit for teaching Chattanooga this great tradition.)
The second connection to Doc Paulin is through Big Man in our new life in New Orleans post-Katrina. The band Big Man plays with on Bourbon Street (the Blues Club, across from Galatoire's, in case you want to go) is called Category 5, and from the first night he played, Big Man was coming home and talking about this great trombone player in the band called "Doc." In fact, Big Man said, the band had at least two members who went by that appellation, and, this being New Orleans, I didn't think anything of it. Then I finally went down to the club myself and Big Man introduced me to the trombone player, saying, "This is Doc Paulin, who I've been telling you about." And I blurted out, "You're not Doc Paulin, he must be your daddy!"
That's when "young" Doc told me that his dad would celebrate his 100th birthday in a few weeks, and that since he was the oldest son, he was named after his dad, complete with nickname. We talked a bit, and I recalled the Chattanooga story, and wished old Doc a great birthday. A few days after the big celebration birthday, Doc told Big Man that the family didn't expect his dad to live much longer, and sure enough, he passed close to Thanksgiving.
The funeral was held at Holy Ghost Church on Louisiana Avenue. When I arrived, the historic glass horse-drawn funeral carriage was outside, and the visitation and recitation of the rosary was still going on inside. (I haven't been anywhere close to a rosary service in decades and I found the repetition of the prayers meditative and calming.) Crowds of musicians of all ages were coming in, many holding the traditional jazz caps emblazoned with "Doc Paulin Brass Band." There were many extended family members (Doc and his wife had 13 children, so do the math with the kids, grandkids, nieces, nephews and so on), and jazz afficionados. It was a lovely service. The St. Francis de Sales Golden Voices choir sang, there was lots of emotional music, and spoken tributes that made you laugh and tugged at your heart.
Hearing Doc's life story being shared in the eulogy, I realized that even at 100 he was too young to have ever known jazz progenitor Buddy Bolden, who was institutionalized in 1907, never to play again. But Doc did know the men who knew Bolden, who heard him play and who played with him, who were inspired directly by his loud and wild horn. So now with Doc's death, we lose the last of the generation of musicians who were once removed from King Bolden. The oldest among us now is too young to have known anyone who knew Bolden or who played with him. It was a melancholy thought.
Other sharing made us laugh. Doc was punctilious to a fault, and demanded discipline of all the younger musicians who played with him. Being neat, well-dressed, and on time was almost a religion for him. Going on a Doc Paulin gig meant showing up at his HOUSE, so he could look you over first and make changes and improvements when necessary. Doc also couldn't abide fooling around on a stage, wasting time. He was a consummate professional. His perennial expression was, "Let's get this gig going!"
At one point near the close of the service, all the musicians present were invited to join in a rendition of "I'll Fly Away." The music was heart-felt and powerful -- so powerful, in fact, that the 4th Station of the Cross was jarred loose from the wall and crashed to the floor, shattering it into pieces. Hardly anyone noticed, and the improvised band played on.
Toward the end of his life, suffering the ravages of Alzheimer's, being unable to play his beloved cornet for 4 years (his last gig was at age 96!), he began to wish for it to be all over. In those last weeks, he was heard to tell his daughter, "Let's get this body in the ground!" And on Saturday, that's what they did.
Back in 1993, when I was first called to the church in Chattanooga, my son and I were pretty homesick. We missed our family back home, but we also sorely missed our New Orleans food and holidays and traditions and especially our music. When we learned that the National Folk Festival was to be held in Chattanooga for the next two years, we were excited -- but we were even more elated to find out that the festival would be kicked off with a New Orleans-style parade led by the Doc Paulin Brass Band! On that evening, we gathered our secondline umbrellas, our handkerchieves, and our dancing shoes, and drove downtown to be a part of it. We met up with Doc Paulin and his sons and the other musicians in the band, told them we were from home, and let them know we were their secondline! (A couple of the musicians actually recognized me, and said, "Didn't we play your going-away party at a church?" Brass bands in New Orleans being what they are, some musicians from the Paulin band had played with the Treme Brass Band the night of my farewell party.)
Stevie and I swung into action as the band got started, tossing our handkerchieves and lifting our umbrellas, and to our surprise and not a little embarrassment, we were the ONLY secondliners in the parade! Folks in Chattanooga had never heard of secondlining before and watched us in amazement (and possibly disbelief). Our photograph appeared on the front page of the Chattanooga Times, and we were interviewed on local TV. We couldn't have been more surprised -- wasn't secondlining a brass band the most natural thing in the world? (Interestingly, the second year of the National Folk Festival, we two secondliners were joined by a host of people who had picked it up from us the year before. Stevie and I are proud to take credit for teaching Chattanooga this great tradition.)
The second connection to Doc Paulin is through Big Man in our new life in New Orleans post-Katrina. The band Big Man plays with on Bourbon Street (the Blues Club, across from Galatoire's, in case you want to go) is called Category 5, and from the first night he played, Big Man was coming home and talking about this great trombone player in the band called "Doc." In fact, Big Man said, the band had at least two members who went by that appellation, and, this being New Orleans, I didn't think anything of it. Then I finally went down to the club myself and Big Man introduced me to the trombone player, saying, "This is Doc Paulin, who I've been telling you about." And I blurted out, "You're not Doc Paulin, he must be your daddy!"
That's when "young" Doc told me that his dad would celebrate his 100th birthday in a few weeks, and that since he was the oldest son, he was named after his dad, complete with nickname. We talked a bit, and I recalled the Chattanooga story, and wished old Doc a great birthday. A few days after the big celebration birthday, Doc told Big Man that the family didn't expect his dad to live much longer, and sure enough, he passed close to Thanksgiving.
The funeral was held at Holy Ghost Church on Louisiana Avenue. When I arrived, the historic glass horse-drawn funeral carriage was outside, and the visitation and recitation of the rosary was still going on inside. (I haven't been anywhere close to a rosary service in decades and I found the repetition of the prayers meditative and calming.) Crowds of musicians of all ages were coming in, many holding the traditional jazz caps emblazoned with "Doc Paulin Brass Band." There were many extended family members (Doc and his wife had 13 children, so do the math with the kids, grandkids, nieces, nephews and so on), and jazz afficionados. It was a lovely service. The St. Francis de Sales Golden Voices choir sang, there was lots of emotional music, and spoken tributes that made you laugh and tugged at your heart.
Hearing Doc's life story being shared in the eulogy, I realized that even at 100 he was too young to have ever known jazz progenitor Buddy Bolden, who was institutionalized in 1907, never to play again. But Doc did know the men who knew Bolden, who heard him play and who played with him, who were inspired directly by his loud and wild horn. So now with Doc's death, we lose the last of the generation of musicians who were once removed from King Bolden. The oldest among us now is too young to have known anyone who knew Bolden or who played with him. It was a melancholy thought.
Other sharing made us laugh. Doc was punctilious to a fault, and demanded discipline of all the younger musicians who played with him. Being neat, well-dressed, and on time was almost a religion for him. Going on a Doc Paulin gig meant showing up at his HOUSE, so he could look you over first and make changes and improvements when necessary. Doc also couldn't abide fooling around on a stage, wasting time. He was a consummate professional. His perennial expression was, "Let's get this gig going!"
At one point near the close of the service, all the musicians present were invited to join in a rendition of "I'll Fly Away." The music was heart-felt and powerful -- so powerful, in fact, that the 4th Station of the Cross was jarred loose from the wall and crashed to the floor, shattering it into pieces. Hardly anyone noticed, and the improvised band played on.
Toward the end of his life, suffering the ravages of Alzheimer's, being unable to play his beloved cornet for 4 years (his last gig was at age 96!), he began to wish for it to be all over. In those last weeks, he was heard to tell his daughter, "Let's get this body in the ground!" And on Saturday, that's what they did.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The Return of the St. Charles Streetcar!
All of us New Orleanians treasure and savor each new small sign of our recovery and our return, as my son's parain says, to abnormal. The College Inn is reopening (in a new building) Tuesdays through Saturdays -- yay! Two young guys are working on renovating Charlie's Steakhouse and will bring it back better than ever -- yeah you right! The City Park Carousel will reopen -- hurrah!
Every little bit of our culture and tradition coming back to us is like getting pieces of ourselves back. We trade news with each other, and give the thumbs up. The happiness is shared, and gives us hope and strength for what we know is a very long haul indeed.
On Saturday, November 10, Big Man and I hustled to get from the Marigny, where the New Orleans Book Fair was held, to be at the Grand Reopening of the St. Charles Streetcar at the corner of Napoleon and St. Charles Avenues. (By the way, the Book Fair was terrific, with perhaps seven-eighths of the city's char-ack-ter population in attendance. After about the 5th booth, Big Man says to me, "I've never been to a Book Fair anywhere in the country where there were so many books about the city where the fair was held." We are pretty self-referential, but we just think it's normal. We think, who wouldn't want to write a book about New Orleans?)
By the time we arrived, a fair-sized mixed crowd had gathered at the starting point of the streetcar's reduced line. (The rest of the line, from Napoleon uptown to Riverbend and Carrollton, will open, they say, in 2008, after more work is done on the tracks and the electric wires.) The folks formed around the temporary speaker's platform were a microcosm of the city at her best -- white well-dressed Uptowners (with champagne glasses!), young white people with piercings and wildly colored or dreadlocked hair, some Latino families and singles, some black families and singles, a few Asian-Americans, children, youth, young adults, aging Baby Boomers, wise elders. The parents held their little kids up so they could see better. Many people held handkerchieves which they touched to their eyes; many eyes shone with happy tears, including mine.
There were speakers -- officials from the mayor's office, from RTA, from FEMA, from the City Coucil, even Bill Jefferson -- and the crowd was mostly polite (there was one heckler, over by Fat Harry's, but he was not very audible and was easily ignored). But we really didn't care about the speeches. All we wanted was our streetcars.
In front of the first streetcar -- there were 4 lined up altogether -- stood the Warren Easton High School Marching Band, complete with flag girls. Their uniforms were brilliant in the sun, obviously band-box new. ("Tipitina's Foundation," guessed Big Man.) When the time came to rewire and electrifiy the streetcars, the drum line did a roll, and a cymbal crash, and then we all applauded. The dignitiaries and officials got onto the first streetcar, as the band struck up a marching tune.
The rest of us regular folks pressed up against the next streetcar, including Big Man and I, since I wanted so much to be in the second streetcar in the little "parade." A young mom near me comforted her little girl, "Don't worry, honey, we'll be in this one." We climbed in and the love and nostalgia washed over us all. I was not the only one with tears in my eyes. The old familiar smell of a streetcar -- who knows what it's composed of? who cares? -- filled our nostrils.
Big Man and I got a seat, and he opened the window for me, clack-clack-clack-clack, all the way up. It was a glorious day, all blue sky and sunshine and warm. We could just barely hear the band in front of the streetcar in the lead in front of us and suddenly, we were off! but at a stately, parade pace. The St. Charles streetcar had returned, and we were on it! All of us screamed and cheered and clapped. Cars going by us blew their horns and the drivers and passengers grinned and waved, and we waved back. Our streetcar driver hit the bell, ding! ding! ding! Oh, that beloved sound!
We rattled down St. Charles, bodies moving in the old sweet rhythm, rocking back and forth. We were all so happy. At nearly every block along the way, there were little crowds of people waiting for the streetcar. They didn't want to ride, they just wanted to see and celebrate. At one swank St. Charles mansion, men in pressed khakis and women in dresses came onto the veranda and toasted the streetcar; we cheered. At another stop, a crowd of people held up home-made signs: "Boo Buses! Yay Streetcar!" "Katrina 0 -- Streetcars 1" and even "We Love RTA." We roared our approval and agreement. At another, the gathered group pelted the streetcar with beads. We cheered them too.
A woman stood up in the front of our streetcar and said, "Let's celebrate the return of the streetcar in real New Orleans style!" and she began to sing "The Saints." Everyone aboard joined in with gusto and cheered after. Cars on St. Charles paced us, the drivers waving. A woman came out onto her porch, holding an infant, who she held up to "see" us go by. An elderly couple sat on lawn chairs in their front yard to watch us. People came running out of banks and bars on St. Charles to cheer as the streetcars went by. Buildings like The Columns Hotel and the Tourist Commission were draped with banners, welcoming the return of the streetcar. Folks on the sidewalk held up their cell phones to take pictures, and all the TV stations -- NBC, CBS, ABC, WYES, FOX, and even Telemundo -- shot streetcar footage as we went by. It was a tremendous feeling.
As we passed Felicity Street, Big Man and I got up from our seat and walked to the front, having first made sure to pull the line to alert the driver that ours was the next stop. (I think we may have been the only people to disembark that day, but we had planned on purpose to do this, having preparked our car at my sister's, where I would pick it up that night after a party.) As we walked past a RTA official, I smiled and said, "Just using it for transportation, y'know" and she smiled back. We alit at Euterpe and walked the 6 blocks home from there, still on a high from the ride and the day. A day to remember and treasure.
The St. Charles streetcar is back!
Every little bit of our culture and tradition coming back to us is like getting pieces of ourselves back. We trade news with each other, and give the thumbs up. The happiness is shared, and gives us hope and strength for what we know is a very long haul indeed.
On Saturday, November 10, Big Man and I hustled to get from the Marigny, where the New Orleans Book Fair was held, to be at the Grand Reopening of the St. Charles Streetcar at the corner of Napoleon and St. Charles Avenues. (By the way, the Book Fair was terrific, with perhaps seven-eighths of the city's char-ack-ter population in attendance. After about the 5th booth, Big Man says to me, "I've never been to a Book Fair anywhere in the country where there were so many books about the city where the fair was held." We are pretty self-referential, but we just think it's normal. We think, who wouldn't want to write a book about New Orleans?)
By the time we arrived, a fair-sized mixed crowd had gathered at the starting point of the streetcar's reduced line. (The rest of the line, from Napoleon uptown to Riverbend and Carrollton, will open, they say, in 2008, after more work is done on the tracks and the electric wires.) The folks formed around the temporary speaker's platform were a microcosm of the city at her best -- white well-dressed Uptowners (with champagne glasses!), young white people with piercings and wildly colored or dreadlocked hair, some Latino families and singles, some black families and singles, a few Asian-Americans, children, youth, young adults, aging Baby Boomers, wise elders. The parents held their little kids up so they could see better. Many people held handkerchieves which they touched to their eyes; many eyes shone with happy tears, including mine.
There were speakers -- officials from the mayor's office, from RTA, from FEMA, from the City Coucil, even Bill Jefferson -- and the crowd was mostly polite (there was one heckler, over by Fat Harry's, but he was not very audible and was easily ignored). But we really didn't care about the speeches. All we wanted was our streetcars.
In front of the first streetcar -- there were 4 lined up altogether -- stood the Warren Easton High School Marching Band, complete with flag girls. Their uniforms were brilliant in the sun, obviously band-box new. ("Tipitina's Foundation," guessed Big Man.) When the time came to rewire and electrifiy the streetcars, the drum line did a roll, and a cymbal crash, and then we all applauded. The dignitiaries and officials got onto the first streetcar, as the band struck up a marching tune.
The rest of us regular folks pressed up against the next streetcar, including Big Man and I, since I wanted so much to be in the second streetcar in the little "parade." A young mom near me comforted her little girl, "Don't worry, honey, we'll be in this one." We climbed in and the love and nostalgia washed over us all. I was not the only one with tears in my eyes. The old familiar smell of a streetcar -- who knows what it's composed of? who cares? -- filled our nostrils.
Big Man and I got a seat, and he opened the window for me, clack-clack-clack-clack, all the way up. It was a glorious day, all blue sky and sunshine and warm. We could just barely hear the band in front of the streetcar in the lead in front of us and suddenly, we were off! but at a stately, parade pace. The St. Charles streetcar had returned, and we were on it! All of us screamed and cheered and clapped. Cars going by us blew their horns and the drivers and passengers grinned and waved, and we waved back. Our streetcar driver hit the bell, ding! ding! ding! Oh, that beloved sound!
We rattled down St. Charles, bodies moving in the old sweet rhythm, rocking back and forth. We were all so happy. At nearly every block along the way, there were little crowds of people waiting for the streetcar. They didn't want to ride, they just wanted to see and celebrate. At one swank St. Charles mansion, men in pressed khakis and women in dresses came onto the veranda and toasted the streetcar; we cheered. At another stop, a crowd of people held up home-made signs: "Boo Buses! Yay Streetcar!" "Katrina 0 -- Streetcars 1" and even "We Love RTA." We roared our approval and agreement. At another, the gathered group pelted the streetcar with beads. We cheered them too.
A woman stood up in the front of our streetcar and said, "Let's celebrate the return of the streetcar in real New Orleans style!" and she began to sing "The Saints." Everyone aboard joined in with gusto and cheered after. Cars on St. Charles paced us, the drivers waving. A woman came out onto her porch, holding an infant, who she held up to "see" us go by. An elderly couple sat on lawn chairs in their front yard to watch us. People came running out of banks and bars on St. Charles to cheer as the streetcars went by. Buildings like The Columns Hotel and the Tourist Commission were draped with banners, welcoming the return of the streetcar. Folks on the sidewalk held up their cell phones to take pictures, and all the TV stations -- NBC, CBS, ABC, WYES, FOX, and even Telemundo -- shot streetcar footage as we went by. It was a tremendous feeling.
As we passed Felicity Street, Big Man and I got up from our seat and walked to the front, having first made sure to pull the line to alert the driver that ours was the next stop. (I think we may have been the only people to disembark that day, but we had planned on purpose to do this, having preparked our car at my sister's, where I would pick it up that night after a party.) As we walked past a RTA official, I smiled and said, "Just using it for transportation, y'know" and she smiled back. We alit at Euterpe and walked the 6 blocks home from there, still on a high from the ride and the day. A day to remember and treasure.
The St. Charles streetcar is back!
All Saints on Halloween
Since I had to leave early the next morning for a conference in Cleveland, Big Man and I decided to honor our beloved dead (or, this being MY hometown and not his, honor MY beloved dead) on Halloween instead of All Saints. To prepare for the traditional cemetery visits, we went first to a local grocery store and got 2 beautiful chrysanthemum pots in bright orange.
Of course, we had to go inside the store to make the purchase; back in the day, stores would be so busy with the All Saints chrysanthemum traffic that many stores would set up canopies and tents in the parking lot, so you wouldn't have to go inside the store, or even leave your car. You would just pull up, point to what pot or arrangement you wanted, pay the clerk, and drive to the cemetery.
This was the first time for me to be inside St. Vincent de Paul in the Upper Ninth Ward, my father's family cemetery, since the storm. I was nervous about it -- I had such lovely memories of doing All Saints with my father and my son for years. And then, after my dad died, there was that never-to-be-forgotten All Saints when Stevie and I went to the cemetery for the first time without "Pop-Pop" and we both had the strongest physical feeling of his presence. I remember that as we were driving away, I asked my son, "Lemme ask you, did anything strange happen back there?" and he came back with "You mean when Pop-Pop came?" Yeah, that was what I meant.
We drove through the devastated neighborhoods around the cemetery, the places where my father and uncles had grown up, the neighborhood where we used to visit my grandparents when I was a girl. Things were a mess, with here and there a home being worked on or one finished and looking spiffy, but mostly it was abandoned and falling-down houses and businesses and some FEMA trailers. It was so sad.
When we arrived at St. Vincent, I saw that the gate that we had always used before, a side entrance, was padlocked, so we went around to the front gate. I led Big Man down the rows to our family vault. We've never been well-off, so the family tomb is what is called an "oven vault" at the top level across from the cemetery wall -- which turns out to have been a kind of blessing, since almost all the graves below that level were damaged by the pitiless flood waters. Row after row showed shattered marble face plates lying face down on the concrete. In one corner, cemetery workers had piled pieces of broken stones and ornaments. (For later sorting and replacement? One could only hope.)
So there it was, as always high above my head. I told Big Man how each year we would have to fetch the cemetery ladder in order to reach the shelf in front of the family vault, how we would carefully sweep it off and place the flowers, how one year my son had brought a special rock form his collection to place there and which we found, safe and sound, on a visit 3 years later. I looked for that darn ladder but of course it was no longer in the spot it used to be. Big Man is tall enough, however, so he did the honors, and held me close as we stepped back to look at it. I couldn't help it, I introduced my father to Big Man and said how happy I was to be home, and Big Man promised Barney that he would take good care of me.
Walking back to the car, I was down-hearted at all the damage in the cemetery. We don't have money in New Orleans to fix schools and libraries and hospitals and the historic famous cemeteries -- where will funds come from to repair poor old St. Vincent de Paul in this working-class neighborhood? It doesn't seem likely.
From there, we drove to the end of Canal Street to the Egyptian Revival gates of the cemetery where the founding father of the church I serve is buried. I couldn't forget our old parson! The second pot of chrysanthemums was for him. His tomb is part of a volunteer fire company, since he was their chaplain, and I placed the pot near his name. I told Big Man some of the stories about him -- how when he was first called to the church in the 1830's they asked him to preach without notes, and he freaked out; how his preaching was so famous folks said you couldn't visit New Orleans without hearing him; how he had been the church's longest serving minister. We wandered around the beautiful cemetery, and found quite by accident a Chinese Society tomb from the late 1890s, a weird and wonderful amalgamation of Chinese and New Orleans styling.
As we left, we noticed a herbal-shop cum voodoo shop cum coffee shop across Canal -- this proved irresistable and we went over and had great coffee while browsig their selections of incense, High John the Conqueror root, home-made candy, and local folk art. I asked for the restroom, and was directed down a long gallery that fronted onto another cemetery. The ladies room was painted shocking pink, had more folk art inside, and I couldn't get the door unlocked when I was done. I had a moment of panic about being trapped in a restroom by a cemetery for who knows how long, but eventually the door came loose.
All in all, a good day. it is good to keep up the old customs and traditions, even if you have to fudge a bit by one day.
Of course, we had to go inside the store to make the purchase; back in the day, stores would be so busy with the All Saints chrysanthemum traffic that many stores would set up canopies and tents in the parking lot, so you wouldn't have to go inside the store, or even leave your car. You would just pull up, point to what pot or arrangement you wanted, pay the clerk, and drive to the cemetery.
This was the first time for me to be inside St. Vincent de Paul in the Upper Ninth Ward, my father's family cemetery, since the storm. I was nervous about it -- I had such lovely memories of doing All Saints with my father and my son for years. And then, after my dad died, there was that never-to-be-forgotten All Saints when Stevie and I went to the cemetery for the first time without "Pop-Pop" and we both had the strongest physical feeling of his presence. I remember that as we were driving away, I asked my son, "Lemme ask you, did anything strange happen back there?" and he came back with "You mean when Pop-Pop came?" Yeah, that was what I meant.
We drove through the devastated neighborhoods around the cemetery, the places where my father and uncles had grown up, the neighborhood where we used to visit my grandparents when I was a girl. Things were a mess, with here and there a home being worked on or one finished and looking spiffy, but mostly it was abandoned and falling-down houses and businesses and some FEMA trailers. It was so sad.
When we arrived at St. Vincent, I saw that the gate that we had always used before, a side entrance, was padlocked, so we went around to the front gate. I led Big Man down the rows to our family vault. We've never been well-off, so the family tomb is what is called an "oven vault" at the top level across from the cemetery wall -- which turns out to have been a kind of blessing, since almost all the graves below that level were damaged by the pitiless flood waters. Row after row showed shattered marble face plates lying face down on the concrete. In one corner, cemetery workers had piled pieces of broken stones and ornaments. (For later sorting and replacement? One could only hope.)
So there it was, as always high above my head. I told Big Man how each year we would have to fetch the cemetery ladder in order to reach the shelf in front of the family vault, how we would carefully sweep it off and place the flowers, how one year my son had brought a special rock form his collection to place there and which we found, safe and sound, on a visit 3 years later. I looked for that darn ladder but of course it was no longer in the spot it used to be. Big Man is tall enough, however, so he did the honors, and held me close as we stepped back to look at it. I couldn't help it, I introduced my father to Big Man and said how happy I was to be home, and Big Man promised Barney that he would take good care of me.
Walking back to the car, I was down-hearted at all the damage in the cemetery. We don't have money in New Orleans to fix schools and libraries and hospitals and the historic famous cemeteries -- where will funds come from to repair poor old St. Vincent de Paul in this working-class neighborhood? It doesn't seem likely.
From there, we drove to the end of Canal Street to the Egyptian Revival gates of the cemetery where the founding father of the church I serve is buried. I couldn't forget our old parson! The second pot of chrysanthemums was for him. His tomb is part of a volunteer fire company, since he was their chaplain, and I placed the pot near his name. I told Big Man some of the stories about him -- how when he was first called to the church in the 1830's they asked him to preach without notes, and he freaked out; how his preaching was so famous folks said you couldn't visit New Orleans without hearing him; how he had been the church's longest serving minister. We wandered around the beautiful cemetery, and found quite by accident a Chinese Society tomb from the late 1890s, a weird and wonderful amalgamation of Chinese and New Orleans styling.
As we left, we noticed a herbal-shop cum voodoo shop cum coffee shop across Canal -- this proved irresistable and we went over and had great coffee while browsig their selections of incense, High John the Conqueror root, home-made candy, and local folk art. I asked for the restroom, and was directed down a long gallery that fronted onto another cemetery. The ladies room was painted shocking pink, had more folk art inside, and I couldn't get the door unlocked when I was done. I had a moment of panic about being trapped in a restroom by a cemetery for who knows how long, but eventually the door came loose.
All in all, a good day. it is good to keep up the old customs and traditions, even if you have to fudge a bit by one day.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
I swear to God...
these expressions and sayings and remarks were actually overheard on the streets, in the restaurants, and in the offices of the city of New Orleans. You can't make this stuff up, or at least I couldn't. I'm not that clever. New Orleanians have wonderfully expressive and memorable ways of getting their point across, or expounding on their grandiose ideas, or strange and delightful ways of pronouncing ordinary words. The city is flooded with natural poets and born raconteurs. This is just a sampling.
Big Man and I ate a delicious lunch one recent Saturday at Deanie's, a favorite Bucktown seafood restaurant, the kind swarming with locals. We overheard two great comments while there. A woman at a nearby table was telling her friends about finally ending a dysfunctional relationship, and she declaimed a little loudly, "...And so, I walked in there, and told him, 'The party's over, the show is closed, and the monkey's dead.'" He had to have gotten the message.
At another table, a diner inquired of his waitress if the dish in question is spicy enough, and she replied, "Me, I like my food spicy. If I'm not sweatin' and don't lose my tastebuds for a little bit, it idn't hot enough." Now, that's a New Orleanian's idea of spicy!
Big Man and I ran into a musican acquaintance of his while waiting in line at the drugstore. This woman, who is white, told us, "I played in this club in the 7th Ward last night, and around 2 a.m. they were callin' me 'White Chocolate.'" She grinned as if to say, "See?" and we laughed back. The 7th Ward is big Creole territory. It was a compliment, and we were suitably impressed.
A parishioner of mine heard from a friend who is doing relief work in poor neighborhoods in the city, helping people fill out the myriad forms they need to submit for Road Home, insurance, and so on. An older black lady came in, and he dutifully took down her information -- name, social security number. Then he asked, "Could I have your address please, ma'am?" She relied, "I live at Genitalia Street." Her interlocutor was dumbstruck. "Pardon me?" and she repeated her impossible address. There's some crazy street names in New Orleans, but still... "Could you spell that for me, please?" he asked in desperation, and she went, "G-E-N-E-R-A-L T-A-Y-L-O-R Street." Oohhh, of course, Genitalia Street, no problem.
Big Man and I went shopping at Terranova's on Esplanade, in our eternal quest for good homemade sausage. When we were done, I took us down a little-known street and drove all the way down to the racetrack, where the street ended, and turned down a small street marked "private" where the little shotguns used to be home to racetrack jockeys (and maybe they still are, I don't know). We turned onto another one-way street and headed back toward Esplanade. I stopped the car in the middle of the street so Big Man could feast his eyes on a hidden wonder of New Orleans -- the old Luling Plantation house, now called the Luling Mansion. It is a giant pile of a place, its front door facing the yard and not the street (when it was built, there was no street), its plaster walls innocent of paint for who knows how long. It is gorgeous in its semi-decay, its decadent elegance. Big Man was amazed, and was hanging out the window of the van to get an even better look at it. A group of young people walked by on the sidewalk, their faces agape with wonder, and one young man turned to us and exclaimed, "I've lived here my whole life and didn't know this was here!" He was just as amazed as if the Luling Mansion were some kind of Mid-City Brigadoon, disappearing and appearing at will.
Just the other day, Big Man and I were walking in the French Quarter, heading to the Louisiana Music Factory to get some new music books, and we passed a man and a woman standing on the street talking. As we went by, we overheard the woman say, "...So, I've been going around, trying to get a million dollar donation from each one." We did not learn who or what "each one" meant, and we hoped she was having good luck with that.
Big Man and I ate a delicious lunch one recent Saturday at Deanie's, a favorite Bucktown seafood restaurant, the kind swarming with locals. We overheard two great comments while there. A woman at a nearby table was telling her friends about finally ending a dysfunctional relationship, and she declaimed a little loudly, "...And so, I walked in there, and told him, 'The party's over, the show is closed, and the monkey's dead.'" He had to have gotten the message.
At another table, a diner inquired of his waitress if the dish in question is spicy enough, and she replied, "Me, I like my food spicy. If I'm not sweatin' and don't lose my tastebuds for a little bit, it idn't hot enough." Now, that's a New Orleanian's idea of spicy!
Big Man and I ran into a musican acquaintance of his while waiting in line at the drugstore. This woman, who is white, told us, "I played in this club in the 7th Ward last night, and around 2 a.m. they were callin' me 'White Chocolate.'" She grinned as if to say, "See?" and we laughed back. The 7th Ward is big Creole territory. It was a compliment, and we were suitably impressed.
A parishioner of mine heard from a friend who is doing relief work in poor neighborhoods in the city, helping people fill out the myriad forms they need to submit for Road Home, insurance, and so on. An older black lady came in, and he dutifully took down her information -- name, social security number. Then he asked, "Could I have your address please, ma'am?" She relied, "I live at
Big Man and I went shopping at Terranova's on Esplanade, in our eternal quest for good homemade sausage. When we were done, I took us down a little-known street and drove all the way down to the racetrack, where the street ended, and turned down a small street marked "private" where the little shotguns used to be home to racetrack jockeys (and maybe they still are, I don't know). We turned onto another one-way street and headed back toward Esplanade. I stopped the car in the middle of the street so Big Man could feast his eyes on a hidden wonder of New Orleans -- the old Luling Plantation house, now called the Luling Mansion. It is a giant pile of a place, its front door facing the yard and not the street (when it was built, there was no street), its plaster walls innocent of paint for who knows how long. It is gorgeous in its semi-decay, its decadent elegance. Big Man was amazed, and was hanging out the window of the van to get an even better look at it. A group of young people walked by on the sidewalk, their faces agape with wonder, and one young man turned to us and exclaimed, "I've lived here my whole life and didn't know this was here!" He was just as amazed as if the Luling Mansion were some kind of Mid-City Brigadoon, disappearing and appearing at will.
Just the other day, Big Man and I were walking in the French Quarter, heading to the Louisiana Music Factory to get some new music books, and we passed a man and a woman standing on the street talking. As we went by, we overheard the woman say, "...So, I've been going around, trying to get a million dollar donation from each one." We did not learn who or what "each one" meant, and we hoped she was having good luck with that.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Topsy-Turvy World
Since the storm, things are a little mixed-up in the Crescent City. (Not like things were "normal" before, but still...) In this newly topsy-turvy world, certain values and expectations are turned upside-down, sometimes in a good way, sometimes not.
One obvious example would be great big piles of debris and trash. Anywhere else in this country, or even here before Katrina, giant heaps of broken stuff on the curb would be cause for concern, a sign that something is wrong. Here, it is a signal of hope, a sign that work is finally being done on a house or a building. Instead of driving by and thinking, "How awful!", New Orleanians drive by and think, "Yes! They're back! Thank God!" We greet these former eyesores the way winter-weary Yankees welcome signs of Spring. (One enterprising local candy shop actually invented a new confection of pretzel sticks, coconut shreds, raisins, and nuts drizzled over with chocolate, called "trash piles.")
Pre-K (as we say here), the antics of incompetent and/or dishonest elected officials were the stuff of jokes, the cause for world-weary amusement. Show us another awful thing done by a governor or a mayor or a legislator, and we'd shrug and give a wry smile, or even top the story with another one. Nowadays, we've been through too much to find it funny. (As Paul Simon sings, "I don't find this stuff amusing any more.") Governor Blanco is not considered a sort of folk hero as Edwin Edwards once was (apparently still is, to some people, judging by the Letters to the Editor to let the "poor man" out of prison), and we're way past finding the inane (insane?) remarks of Mayor Nagin something to laugh about. And don't even get us started with District Attorney Jordan, who seems even more mortifyingly embarrassing than even Big Jim Garrison back in the day. Every day, you hear calls for some elected official or other (sadly, too many to list here) to resign and let us get someone/anyone better to serve in their place. You never used to hear that years ago.
On the other hand, one way New Orleanians cope with all they have to cope with is a savage irony married to a graceful gallantry. Example #1: Discovering that the mayor spent close to a half million dollars on "bomb-proof" tiny trashcans that were too small to be used and thus were going to be quietly (read: secretly) disposed of, the local satirical paper "The Levee" (motto: "We don't hold anything back") announced that the police department was going to be given the cans for use as bullet-proof vests. Example #2: The Bourbon St. band that Big Man plays with was named The Levee Board before the hurricane. After the storm, they discovered there was too much negative connotation to that name, so they changed their name. To Category 5 -- which I guess had a better impact on the public. Example #3: Hand-painted sign seen inside Crabby Jack's (arguably some of the absolute best po-boys in the area) -- "Save da Parish." Gee, before The Thing, who would've supported "saving" St. Bernard Parish, except for those who lived there, who probably wouldn't be eating in Crabby Jack's anyway? Example #4: Printed sign in a yard in formerly flooded Broadmoor -- "I'm not leaving, and they can't make me." Example #5 (really, and then I'll stop, since there are too many): In any poster or T-shirt shop in the city, you can find approximately 2-3 dozen (I'm not exaggerating, for once) different Katrina-related designs of varying levels of artistry and black humor.
The fleur de lis has been on the flag of the City of New Orleans for a long time, and has been the symbol of the Saints NFL football team for several decades. Before the storm, that was about it. We never thought much about it. Now, the fleur de lis is ubiquitous, and is an unspoken and unofficial symbol of love for and commitment to New Orleans. One bumper sticker even says, "I )I( NEW ORLEANS" with a fleur de lis where in other places a heart graphic would be. Fleur de lis float from banners and flags draped on St. Charles Avenue mansions and newly-gutted brick ranchers in Lakeview; one flag notably is a take-off of the stars and stripes, with fleur de lis as stars on a field of purple, green and gold (of course). They appear on T-shirts and backpacks and are woven into silk jacquard for neckties. There's even a polo-style shirt with an embroidered fleur de lis where the polo pony used to be. Candidates for office put fleur de lis on their campaign material. Fleur de lis as decorative hooks for installing in your home and as ornaments to be hung from windows and on walls fly off the retail shelves. Giant fleur de lis painted and decorated by local artists are installed around town in public places -- my favorite is the fleur de lis which has been transformed into a portrait of Chief of Chiefs Tootie Montana. It wouldn't surprise me at all to see folks dressed as fleur de lis at Carnival -- it's become the emblem of the grit and spirit of New Orleanians, and our love for this crazy-wonderful place.
One obvious example would be great big piles of debris and trash. Anywhere else in this country, or even here before Katrina, giant heaps of broken stuff on the curb would be cause for concern, a sign that something is wrong. Here, it is a signal of hope, a sign that work is finally being done on a house or a building. Instead of driving by and thinking, "How awful!", New Orleanians drive by and think, "Yes! They're back! Thank God!" We greet these former eyesores the way winter-weary Yankees welcome signs of Spring. (One enterprising local candy shop actually invented a new confection of pretzel sticks, coconut shreds, raisins, and nuts drizzled over with chocolate, called "trash piles.")
Pre-K (as we say here), the antics of incompetent and/or dishonest elected officials were the stuff of jokes, the cause for world-weary amusement. Show us another awful thing done by a governor or a mayor or a legislator, and we'd shrug and give a wry smile, or even top the story with another one. Nowadays, we've been through too much to find it funny. (As Paul Simon sings, "I don't find this stuff amusing any more.") Governor Blanco is not considered a sort of folk hero as Edwin Edwards once was (apparently still is, to some people, judging by the Letters to the Editor to let the "poor man" out of prison), and we're way past finding the inane (insane?) remarks of Mayor Nagin something to laugh about. And don't even get us started with District Attorney Jordan, who seems even more mortifyingly embarrassing than even Big Jim Garrison back in the day. Every day, you hear calls for some elected official or other (sadly, too many to list here) to resign and let us get someone/anyone better to serve in their place. You never used to hear that years ago.
On the other hand, one way New Orleanians cope with all they have to cope with is a savage irony married to a graceful gallantry. Example #1: Discovering that the mayor spent close to a half million dollars on "bomb-proof" tiny trashcans that were too small to be used and thus were going to be quietly (read: secretly) disposed of, the local satirical paper "The Levee" (motto: "We don't hold anything back") announced that the police department was going to be given the cans for use as bullet-proof vests. Example #2: The Bourbon St. band that Big Man plays with was named The Levee Board before the hurricane. After the storm, they discovered there was too much negative connotation to that name, so they changed their name. To Category 5 -- which I guess had a better impact on the public. Example #3: Hand-painted sign seen inside Crabby Jack's (arguably some of the absolute best po-boys in the area) -- "Save da Parish." Gee, before The Thing, who would've supported "saving" St. Bernard Parish, except for those who lived there, who probably wouldn't be eating in Crabby Jack's anyway? Example #4: Printed sign in a yard in formerly flooded Broadmoor -- "I'm not leaving, and they can't make me." Example #5 (really, and then I'll stop, since there are too many): In any poster or T-shirt shop in the city, you can find approximately 2-3 dozen (I'm not exaggerating, for once) different Katrina-related designs of varying levels of artistry and black humor.
The fleur de lis has been on the flag of the City of New Orleans for a long time, and has been the symbol of the Saints NFL football team for several decades. Before the storm, that was about it. We never thought much about it. Now, the fleur de lis is ubiquitous, and is an unspoken and unofficial symbol of love for and commitment to New Orleans. One bumper sticker even says, "I )I( NEW ORLEANS" with a fleur de lis where in other places a heart graphic would be. Fleur de lis float from banners and flags draped on St. Charles Avenue mansions and newly-gutted brick ranchers in Lakeview; one flag notably is a take-off of the stars and stripes, with fleur de lis as stars on a field of purple, green and gold (of course). They appear on T-shirts and backpacks and are woven into silk jacquard for neckties. There's even a polo-style shirt with an embroidered fleur de lis where the polo pony used to be. Candidates for office put fleur de lis on their campaign material. Fleur de lis as decorative hooks for installing in your home and as ornaments to be hung from windows and on walls fly off the retail shelves. Giant fleur de lis painted and decorated by local artists are installed around town in public places -- my favorite is the fleur de lis which has been transformed into a portrait of Chief of Chiefs Tootie Montana. It wouldn't surprise me at all to see folks dressed as fleur de lis at Carnival -- it's become the emblem of the grit and spirit of New Orleanians, and our love for this crazy-wonderful place.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Farewell for Kerwin James
After all the controversy over the arrests in Treme during the traditional secondline farewell after the death of Kerwin James, noted tuba player for the New Birth Brass Band, we knew that we had to show solidarity and respect by attending his funeral on Saturday, October 6. That morning, I put on my kente cloth minister’s stole over a black summer dress, and we headed out.
We arrived before the start time of 10 am, but the little church was already packed with mourners. I signed the guestbook in the vestibule and then we waited in the street with a crowd of other folks, black and white, young and old. One guy had parked a giant wood-burning barbeque rig (looked like it was made from an old boiler) on the corner and was starting to grill burgers, hot dogs, and sausages – the smell wafted through the neighborhood, making mouths water. Several people were selling bottles of water and soft drinks from ice chests in wheelbarrows or on the beds of pick-up trucks. A few people had cameras, but most seemed like they were there to participate, not to observe and take pictures.
More people kept arriving, and it was starting to get pretty hot. We had left the house without getting coffee and the lack of caffeine was starting to tell. We left our spot in front of the church and walked to a little neighborhood bar on the corner, thinking we’d get coffee there. They opened the door for us (it’s one of those places where they keep the door locked and they have to buzz you in or let you in) and who should we see right off but Kermit Ruffins, for once without a kerchief on his head, dressed in a sharp black suit, his trumpet resting on the bar. His wife sat next to him, and there were 2 young white women next to them. Otherwise, except for the bar’s owner and employees, the place was empty.
I was kindly directed to the scrupulously clean Men’s Room, as the Women’s Room was out of service. Big Man ordered our coffees, although everyone else in the place was drinking beer. They said they would make a pot just for us. We waited, and were soon served 2 steaming plastic cups of strong New Orleans coffee with little containers of half & half. “How much?” asked Big Man, reaching in his pocket. “It’s on the house,” smiled the owner. We thanked him profusely, and tipped the barmaid as we left.
About 11:30 am, the service was over, and mourners began to spill out from the church. The street was packed with musicians – there were 6 or 8 tuba players, about 8 or so trumpet players, including Kermit, several ‘bones, and multiple drummers. A sigh went up from the gathered crowd as the casket was carried out, the pall bearers seemingly struggling with the weight of it. The slow strains of “Closer Walk” were taken up by all the musicians (Big Man was wishing he had brought his horn), and the casket was brought down the short flight of steps to the street. The crowd was massed around the pall bearers shoulder-to-shoulder, and from where we were standing, you couldn’t see the coffin any more. Suddenly, in time with the music, the bearers swung the casket high, and then down and around, as if dancing with it. They did this several times. It was an amazing moment – powerful, emotional, spiritual. I wiped away tears with my handkerchief, and I wasn’t the only one.
The coffin was eventually gently placed in the hearse. A thrown-together band with members I recognized from Rebirth, New Birth, and several other brass bands, plus Kermit, and other musicians, got in front, and a group of secondliners fell into place behind them. Then came the hearse, then another band, then the family and official mourners. Big Man and I took our place in the group immediately in front of the hearse behind the first band, and soon, a passionate version of “I’ll Fly Away” soared up. (Literally – most of the horn players were directing the bells of their horns straight up to heaven, a la Buddy Bolden.) At the chorus, many in the crowd lifted their voices: "I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away."
As the funeral parade made its way slowly toward Esplanade, people in the neighborhood came out onto their porches and stoops, many of them shimmying in the traditional secondline step. One man climbed on top of a parked van, and danced his heart out up there. As we crossed over Esplanade Avenue, a respectful police motorcycle escort held up traffic so we could cross – so different from the way the police acted earlier in the week, when 2 musicians in the memorial secondline were arrested for “disturbing the peace” and “parading without a permit.”
Folks came out of Lil Dizzy’s Café to watch as the parade passed by. Some held baseball caps over their hearts; some waved handkerchiefs. A group of employees came out the back door from the kitchen and danced hard on the sidewalk.
It was a good send-off for Kerwin, a fitting tribute. I thought to myself, "This is how we New Orleanians lay someone to rest -- this is how we honor their life and celebrate who they were," and despite the obvious storm damage in Treme, as elsewhere in the city, I was proud of the strength and beauty of my beloved hometown, and I felt glad, once again, to be finally home.
We arrived before the start time of 10 am, but the little church was already packed with mourners. I signed the guestbook in the vestibule and then we waited in the street with a crowd of other folks, black and white, young and old. One guy had parked a giant wood-burning barbeque rig (looked like it was made from an old boiler) on the corner and was starting to grill burgers, hot dogs, and sausages – the smell wafted through the neighborhood, making mouths water. Several people were selling bottles of water and soft drinks from ice chests in wheelbarrows or on the beds of pick-up trucks. A few people had cameras, but most seemed like they were there to participate, not to observe and take pictures.
More people kept arriving, and it was starting to get pretty hot. We had left the house without getting coffee and the lack of caffeine was starting to tell. We left our spot in front of the church and walked to a little neighborhood bar on the corner, thinking we’d get coffee there. They opened the door for us (it’s one of those places where they keep the door locked and they have to buzz you in or let you in) and who should we see right off but Kermit Ruffins, for once without a kerchief on his head, dressed in a sharp black suit, his trumpet resting on the bar. His wife sat next to him, and there were 2 young white women next to them. Otherwise, except for the bar’s owner and employees, the place was empty.
I was kindly directed to the scrupulously clean Men’s Room, as the Women’s Room was out of service. Big Man ordered our coffees, although everyone else in the place was drinking beer. They said they would make a pot just for us. We waited, and were soon served 2 steaming plastic cups of strong New Orleans coffee with little containers of half & half. “How much?” asked Big Man, reaching in his pocket. “It’s on the house,” smiled the owner. We thanked him profusely, and tipped the barmaid as we left.
About 11:30 am, the service was over, and mourners began to spill out from the church. The street was packed with musicians – there were 6 or 8 tuba players, about 8 or so trumpet players, including Kermit, several ‘bones, and multiple drummers. A sigh went up from the gathered crowd as the casket was carried out, the pall bearers seemingly struggling with the weight of it. The slow strains of “Closer Walk” were taken up by all the musicians (Big Man was wishing he had brought his horn), and the casket was brought down the short flight of steps to the street. The crowd was massed around the pall bearers shoulder-to-shoulder, and from where we were standing, you couldn’t see the coffin any more. Suddenly, in time with the music, the bearers swung the casket high, and then down and around, as if dancing with it. They did this several times. It was an amazing moment – powerful, emotional, spiritual. I wiped away tears with my handkerchief, and I wasn’t the only one.
The coffin was eventually gently placed in the hearse. A thrown-together band with members I recognized from Rebirth, New Birth, and several other brass bands, plus Kermit, and other musicians, got in front, and a group of secondliners fell into place behind them. Then came the hearse, then another band, then the family and official mourners. Big Man and I took our place in the group immediately in front of the hearse behind the first band, and soon, a passionate version of “I’ll Fly Away” soared up. (Literally – most of the horn players were directing the bells of their horns straight up to heaven, a la Buddy Bolden.) At the chorus, many in the crowd lifted their voices: "I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away."
As the funeral parade made its way slowly toward Esplanade, people in the neighborhood came out onto their porches and stoops, many of them shimmying in the traditional secondline step. One man climbed on top of a parked van, and danced his heart out up there. As we crossed over Esplanade Avenue, a respectful police motorcycle escort held up traffic so we could cross – so different from the way the police acted earlier in the week, when 2 musicians in the memorial secondline were arrested for “disturbing the peace” and “parading without a permit.”
Folks came out of Lil Dizzy’s Café to watch as the parade passed by. Some held baseball caps over their hearts; some waved handkerchiefs. A group of employees came out the back door from the kitchen and danced hard on the sidewalk.
It was a good send-off for Kerwin, a fitting tribute. I thought to myself, "This is how we New Orleanians lay someone to rest -- this is how we honor their life and celebrate who they were," and despite the obvious storm damage in Treme, as elsewhere in the city, I was proud of the strength and beauty of my beloved hometown, and I felt glad, once again, to be finally home.
Night-Blooming Jasmine & Other Reasons for Tears
There are many joys to returning home to the Crescent City. For this long-time exile, most of them bring tears to my eyes. Some of it may seem silly or trivial, especially to outsiders, but even the tiniest evocation of what it means to be a New Orleanian chokes me up.
The first time happened the end of the week we were in New Orleans to find a place to live. My husband and I were filling up the van with gas, and noticed that the gas station had a little take-out place. Big Man went in to check out the goods, to see if there was anything we’d want for the road food for our trip back north. He came out with 2 paper bags, which we tore open in the van, to reveal steaming hot fried chicken livers and a plate of homemade spaghetti and sauce. The chicken livers were like butter, melt-in-your -mouth wonderful, perfectly fried, only lightly covered in batter. The spaghetti was old-fashioned comfort food, tasting “just like Mama used to make.” Big Man said to me, “I can’t wait to live here if this is the food you get in gas stations.” I was so proud of my hometown’s culinary excess that I got tears in my eyes – which recurred every time my spouse bragged to someone up North about the fabulous food available in New Orleans gas stations, let alone the restaurants.
Soon after we had settled into our new home in the lower Lower Garden District, we were “making groceries” at the A & P on Magazine Street. We turned into an aisle and were faced with row upon row of different brands of hot sauce, 5 different labels of Cajun-injector, seemingly endless displays of New Orleans and Louisiana spice mixes, and all the Blue Plate mayonnaise you could ever want. I couldn’t help it, I got all teary, and said to my husband, “Look at all this – we never have to have groceries shipped to us again!”
Big Man and I attended a free concert (the city is awash in free concerts) at Washington Square Park in the Marigny, to see our friends the Pfister Sisters perform. The day was warm, with one or two small gray clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. Just before the girls were supposed to go on, it began to rain lightly. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was bright blue, and one tiny little rain cloud decided to unload on us; it was funny, really, and folks in the crowd didn’t even run for cover or break out the umbrellas. We just turned our faces to the shower and let it rain gently on us while the sun shone. Then it stopped, and the Pfisters took the stage, their wonderful harmonies filling the square and our hearts. A group of little kids, aged about 2 or 3, gathered in front of the stage and danced unselfconsciously to the music, waving their chubby arms and twirling. In between songs, Holley Bendtson pointed to the little chorus line and said to the crowd, “Isn’t it great to see children again? Remember after the storm when there were no kids in the city, how awful that was? I love seeing these kids, it means so much to have kids again in New Orleans.” Her voice thickened, and people in the crowd nodded and smiled, and wiped their eyes. I teared up too.
The St. Charles streetcar has not been in operation since the storm, due to damage to the overhead power lines and to the tracks. The RTA has been working on the situation, and occasionally you can see an empty streetcar marked “Not in Service” going down St. Charles, testing the system. Drivers going by beep their car horns and wave to the streetcar driver, who generally waves back. About a week or so ago, all along the tracks, the RTA put up small purple-lettered signs that said, “We’re coming back! Look out for us!” with a little purple streetcar in one corner. I’m so far gone that actually seeing those signs made tears come to my eyes. (Interestingly, the signs began disappearing almost immediately – I suspect streetcar-missing New Orleanians are copping them as keepsakes.)
Another streetcar incident: Big Man and I were at another free concert, this time in Lafayette Square, across from old city hall. While we were grooving to the music of Paul Sanchez, 2 members of Bonerama, and Ivan Neville, a streetcar went by behind the stage. People have gotten used to the RTA testing the tracks, so no one paid any attention. But then a streetcar went by that had about a half a dozen passengers in it, and they were hanging out of the windows and waving like crazy. These were “civilians” too – they weren’t wearing RTA uniforms or anything. The crowd in the square went crazy, roaring with approval, and waving back like mad. Every streetcar that went by after that got a hand from the crowd. (I never did find out how those people got to ride the streetcar when it still wasn’t officially in service, but I sure did envy them.) Seeing a streetcar with actual people in it was touching enough, but the way the folks in the square received it really got me. You gotta love these people.
The thing that really got me, though, happened the first week I came back to my beloved home. One evening in August, as I waited for the Big Man to wrap up the rest of the move back east and get here, I was unloading a carload of stuff that had been stored for us at my sister’s. I pulled up in front of our little Creole cottage, grabbed an armload, climbed out of the air-conditioned car – and was hit in the face by the scent of night-blooming jasmine in the warm dark. My eyes welled up, and I drew in deep, ragged breaths. That seductive, familiar scent meant I was home.
Lots of things in New Orleans make me cry happy tears of homecoming. Night-blooming jasmine is just one.
The first time happened the end of the week we were in New Orleans to find a place to live. My husband and I were filling up the van with gas, and noticed that the gas station had a little take-out place. Big Man went in to check out the goods, to see if there was anything we’d want for the road food for our trip back north. He came out with 2 paper bags, which we tore open in the van, to reveal steaming hot fried chicken livers and a plate of homemade spaghetti and sauce. The chicken livers were like butter, melt-in-your -mouth wonderful, perfectly fried, only lightly covered in batter. The spaghetti was old-fashioned comfort food, tasting “just like Mama used to make.” Big Man said to me, “I can’t wait to live here if this is the food you get in gas stations.” I was so proud of my hometown’s culinary excess that I got tears in my eyes – which recurred every time my spouse bragged to someone up North about the fabulous food available in New Orleans gas stations, let alone the restaurants.
Soon after we had settled into our new home in the lower Lower Garden District, we were “making groceries” at the A & P on Magazine Street. We turned into an aisle and were faced with row upon row of different brands of hot sauce, 5 different labels of Cajun-injector, seemingly endless displays of New Orleans and Louisiana spice mixes, and all the Blue Plate mayonnaise you could ever want. I couldn’t help it, I got all teary, and said to my husband, “Look at all this – we never have to have groceries shipped to us again!”
Big Man and I attended a free concert (the city is awash in free concerts) at Washington Square Park in the Marigny, to see our friends the Pfister Sisters perform. The day was warm, with one or two small gray clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. Just before the girls were supposed to go on, it began to rain lightly. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was bright blue, and one tiny little rain cloud decided to unload on us; it was funny, really, and folks in the crowd didn’t even run for cover or break out the umbrellas. We just turned our faces to the shower and let it rain gently on us while the sun shone. Then it stopped, and the Pfisters took the stage, their wonderful harmonies filling the square and our hearts. A group of little kids, aged about 2 or 3, gathered in front of the stage and danced unselfconsciously to the music, waving their chubby arms and twirling. In between songs, Holley Bendtson pointed to the little chorus line and said to the crowd, “Isn’t it great to see children again? Remember after the storm when there were no kids in the city, how awful that was? I love seeing these kids, it means so much to have kids again in New Orleans.” Her voice thickened, and people in the crowd nodded and smiled, and wiped their eyes. I teared up too.
The St. Charles streetcar has not been in operation since the storm, due to damage to the overhead power lines and to the tracks. The RTA has been working on the situation, and occasionally you can see an empty streetcar marked “Not in Service” going down St. Charles, testing the system. Drivers going by beep their car horns and wave to the streetcar driver, who generally waves back. About a week or so ago, all along the tracks, the RTA put up small purple-lettered signs that said, “We’re coming back! Look out for us!” with a little purple streetcar in one corner. I’m so far gone that actually seeing those signs made tears come to my eyes. (Interestingly, the signs began disappearing almost immediately – I suspect streetcar-missing New Orleanians are copping them as keepsakes.)
Another streetcar incident: Big Man and I were at another free concert, this time in Lafayette Square, across from old city hall. While we were grooving to the music of Paul Sanchez, 2 members of Bonerama, and Ivan Neville, a streetcar went by behind the stage. People have gotten used to the RTA testing the tracks, so no one paid any attention. But then a streetcar went by that had about a half a dozen passengers in it, and they were hanging out of the windows and waving like crazy. These were “civilians” too – they weren’t wearing RTA uniforms or anything. The crowd in the square went crazy, roaring with approval, and waving back like mad. Every streetcar that went by after that got a hand from the crowd. (I never did find out how those people got to ride the streetcar when it still wasn’t officially in service, but I sure did envy them.) Seeing a streetcar with actual people in it was touching enough, but the way the folks in the square received it really got me. You gotta love these people.
The thing that really got me, though, happened the first week I came back to my beloved home. One evening in August, as I waited for the Big Man to wrap up the rest of the move back east and get here, I was unloading a carload of stuff that had been stored for us at my sister’s. I pulled up in front of our little Creole cottage, grabbed an armload, climbed out of the air-conditioned car – and was hit in the face by the scent of night-blooming jasmine in the warm dark. My eyes welled up, and I drew in deep, ragged breaths. That seductive, familiar scent meant I was home.
Lots of things in New Orleans make me cry happy tears of homecoming. Night-blooming jasmine is just one.
About Me
I’m a 50-something native New Orleanian, 5th-generation on my father’s side, which makes my family relative newcomers among real New Orleanians. I’ve been away from my home city for over a decade, serving as a parish minister in a liberal religious tradition in various locations. With my beloved spouse, Big Man, a professional musician, I have returned home to the Crescent City post-Katrina to be a part of New Orleans’s rebirth, renewal, and restoration. Together, we have an adult son, an adult daughter, and a year-old grandson, none of whom live with us, and at home we share a cat named Smokey Robinson.
Other than religion and all things New Orleans (music, food, culture, traditions), my interests include politics, reading, crossword puzzles and other word games, cooking, fashion, and travel. (And I wish I had enough money to indulge all my interests!)
Other than religion and all things New Orleans (music, food, culture, traditions), my interests include politics, reading, crossword puzzles and other word games, cooking, fashion, and travel. (And I wish I had enough money to indulge all my interests!)
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