No one says it better than Chris Rose. Check out:
blog.nola.com/chrisrose/2008/02/letters_from_the_center_of_the.html#more">
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sign Evolution
I was having lunch today (at Bud's Broiler -- yum!) with a parishioner, and as we spoke together about life in the "new" New Orleans, he pointed out something to me that I had noticed but not taken conscious note of (if you get the distinction). He said he was enjoying how the small signs on wire stands on the neutral grounds around the city had changed, and I realized he was not only right, but he was onto something.
When I first returned to New Orleans immediately after the Storm, in late September/early October 2005, the signs on the neutral ground were all about gutting and demolishing houses and remediating mold. (One guy, calling himself "Mold Man," had signs all over the place. I dunno how effective that was, I just know I wouldn't want to be known by that appellation.) Then, when I came back again for Mardi Gras, in late February '06, the neutral ground signs advertised tree cutting and house leveling.
The next year's Mardi Gras brought signs for handymen ("No job too big or too small") and assorted contractors, electricians, and carpenters. When Big Man and I came back in spring '07 for Jazz Fest (and his 50th birthday!), the signs promoted neighborhood meetings about the levees, and attorneys and consultants who said they could help with the paperwork associated with Road Home, home owners' insurance, and ITC. And there was a time this fall (which I've already written about in this blog) when the signs excitedly let us know that the streetcars were on their way back.
Today, the signs on the neutral ground are mostly for various charter schools, and some that advertise farmers' markets and arts and music festivals. You don't promote a service or a product unless you believe there is a market for it, so the signs for schools are another hopeful indication that families with children are coming back home to the city. And the signs for festivals and markets show that we are slowly moving away from recovery-mode to real-living, enjoying the delights of city life and New Orleans culture.
We're coming along, maybe incrementally and glacially slow, but still, we're coming along. Hope abounds. And one of the ways you can tell is by those signs on the neutral grounds.
When I first returned to New Orleans immediately after the Storm, in late September/early October 2005, the signs on the neutral ground were all about gutting and demolishing houses and remediating mold. (One guy, calling himself "Mold Man," had signs all over the place. I dunno how effective that was, I just know I wouldn't want to be known by that appellation.) Then, when I came back again for Mardi Gras, in late February '06, the neutral ground signs advertised tree cutting and house leveling.
The next year's Mardi Gras brought signs for handymen ("No job too big or too small") and assorted contractors, electricians, and carpenters. When Big Man and I came back in spring '07 for Jazz Fest (and his 50th birthday!), the signs promoted neighborhood meetings about the levees, and attorneys and consultants who said they could help with the paperwork associated with Road Home, home owners' insurance, and ITC. And there was a time this fall (which I've already written about in this blog) when the signs excitedly let us know that the streetcars were on their way back.
Today, the signs on the neutral ground are mostly for various charter schools, and some that advertise farmers' markets and arts and music festivals. You don't promote a service or a product unless you believe there is a market for it, so the signs for schools are another hopeful indication that families with children are coming back home to the city. And the signs for festivals and markets show that we are slowly moving away from recovery-mode to real-living, enjoying the delights of city life and New Orleans culture.
We're coming along, maybe incrementally and glacially slow, but still, we're coming along. Hope abounds. And one of the ways you can tell is by those signs on the neutral grounds.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
This Is Happiness
Saturday, February 9, 2008
So this is what happiness looks like, New Orleans-style:
I wake up early on Saturday and find that it is a beautiful day. I get dressed, putting on a light jacket, and head out to go vote in the Louisiana Primary. As I stroll down to the International School, my polling place, I notice I'm overdressed for the weather -- it's so sunny it's sparkling and warm, in the 70s. On the walk, I see azaleas and irises and camellias in bloom. And folks used to wonder, when I lived up North, why I wanted it to be Spring in February.
At the International School, I see that one of my polling commissioners is someone I've known for years, but whom I haven't seen since I moved home. I was delighted by this small coincidence, just another example of New Orleans as a small town. After voting (don't ask, it's private!), I walked with Ellen as far as the totally-fabulous Surrey's, where she would be taking her lunch break. (There was a big crowd on the sidewalk, waiting to get in. If you're going to eat there on a Saturday or a Sunday, get there EARLY.) She told me that normally she doesn't work on Saturdays, it being Shabbas, but that serving as a poll commissioner seemed like a spiritual exercise to her. I smiled at that.
When I got home, in an excellent mood, Big Man was up and dressed, and more than ready to eat. I told him it was a perfect Magazine Street day, and he readily agreed. (We'd been talking for months about taking a day where we just walked Magazine.) I ditched the jacket I had on, and we left the house and began walking the 2 blocks to Magazine. The sun was so bright I regretted not putting on any sunblock or a hat, but I thought a little sunburn would be a good price to pay for such a day.
We decided to eat at J'Anita's, whose sign outside said "Breakfast-BBQ-Beer." But it was too late in the day for breakfast, so we ordered coffee and lunch -- the excellent barbequed beef brisket. We loved the feel of the place, the little history on the menu (telling how the owners, a married couple, had run a barbeque trailer in Mid-City after Katrina and had ended up with this little place, named after the husband's parents), the local art on the walls, the tiny courtyard in the back. The owner, Craig, came out and passed some time with us, very friendly and personable. The check was amazingly cheap and we overpaid. In a good mood, we continued down Magazine.
We popped into every antique store we passed (Big Man enjoys this as much as I do, so don't think he was forcing himself), class to kitsch, vast hodgepodges of real antiques, semi-antiques, used furniture, and absolute junk in prices from the affordable to the astronomical. Shopkeepers were friendly and chatty. We all agreed that this weather, this kind of day, was one of the best reasons to live in New Orleans. (On this trip, we skipped all the dress shops -- that's going to have to be another Magazine Street day with my sister.)
At Jackson Avenue, we crossed the street and headed back in the direction of our house. We went into Stein's Deli at the corner of Jackson and Magazine, and got some good ol' Philly-style Italian cold cuts and cheese and reminisced with the counter men about good times on 9th Street in the Philadelphia Italian Market -- one of the things we miss most. Swigging from a bottle of Italian soda water, we continued on the other side of Magazine. We came upon a little store called Prince Michael's Chocolates, which I had heard about, so we went in. A small glass counter held handmade chocolate truffles, including a plate labelled "Chipotle Cinnamon Truffle." A youngish woman was in the back, working on something, and called out to greet us. I said I had heard good things about her shop, and that we wanted to try the chipotle chocolates. She laughed. "I'm making more of them right now," she said. "Here, try them" and she held out in cocoa-encrusted hands two halves, one for each of us, and we opened our mouths and took them straight from her hands, like communion.
First there was a burst of intense and rich dark chocolate flavor, then the taste of cinnamon arose, then it finished with the heat of the chipotle pepper. "Oh-my-God," breathed Big Man, when we could finally speak. "I bet you hear that more often than a Bourbon Street hooker," he told the owner, and she laughed again. "I do, I really do." We purchased 2 of the heavenly little truffles and, noticing that she made her iced coffee with COFFEE ICE CUBES, ordered that as well. (Why hasn't anyone else thought of that?? It's brilliant!) While the owner made our coffees, we chatted with her. She told us that the shop was a lifetime dream for her and her brother, Michael, but that he had died before it opened, and in his honor, she had decided to name the shop after his nickname. We offered our sympathy, complimented her on the beautiful shop and her wonderful wares, said we'd be back, and headed back out into the sunshine, armed with fabulous iced coffee.
A stop at a bank-turned art gallery revealed wonderful colorful works by a local black artist, portraits of Mardi Gras Indians, jazz musicians, and perky fleur de lis (of course!). We visited tiny Sophie Wright Park, admiring the statue by New Orleans artist Enrique Alvarez. Since we both needed a restroom, and being across the street from J'Anita's, where we had started the walk, we crossed over. While Big Man headed to the restroom, I ordered a beer -- and got a long explanation from the young waitress about not having a liquor license yet, but she could let me have one of the owner's beers for a "donation." I got a nice cold Abita draft, and license to use the rest room. Craig, the owner, came out and saw us, and we had a long conversation about music and food -- 2 of New Orleanians' favorite subjects.
Beer and conversation finished, we crossed back over to the world-famous Jim Russell Music store and spent a very pleasant half-hour browsing through stacks and stacks of vinyl and cassettes and CDs (and even 8-tracks!). The current owner sat on a stool near the front door, near a big glass jar labeled "Jim Russell Roof Fund." She told us that Katrina had damaged the roof of the building, revealing something that no one had known: that there had been a fire some time in the 1800s, and that instead of actually repairing it, in those days they had just created another roof on top of the fire-damaged one. Katrina's winds blew holes in the second roof, revealing the damaged roof beneath. She said she had leaks all over the place. Even though we didn't buy anything (on THAT trip!), Big Man put some bills in the jar.
Our last visit was to the Bali Shop in the fabulous tropical triangle building at the junction of Magazine and Sophie Wright Place. The shop was filled with furniture and accessories and sculptures from Bali and Indonesia, beautiful stuff. Big Man noticed a wondrous carved bed and as we walked to it, the owner came out of a little office. I asked her, "Is that an opium bed?" (I had heard about them and read about them, but I don't think I've seen one before.) "Yes, yes!" she said delightedly, "Opium bed! Yes! It's beautiful, come see!" She was so enthusiastic about her lovely merchandise, we were charmed. We looked at everything and wished we had a place for a $43,000 carved and painted opium bed.
We walked home from there, a little tired, a little sunburned, sated and happy. When we sank down on the couch in the living room, we looked at each other and said, "Wasn't that great??" And Big Man said, "I am so happy we live here" and I had to agree.
So that's what happiness looks like, on an early Spring day in New Orleans.
So this is what happiness looks like, New Orleans-style:
I wake up early on Saturday and find that it is a beautiful day. I get dressed, putting on a light jacket, and head out to go vote in the Louisiana Primary. As I stroll down to the International School, my polling place, I notice I'm overdressed for the weather -- it's so sunny it's sparkling and warm, in the 70s. On the walk, I see azaleas and irises and camellias in bloom. And folks used to wonder, when I lived up North, why I wanted it to be Spring in February.
At the International School, I see that one of my polling commissioners is someone I've known for years, but whom I haven't seen since I moved home. I was delighted by this small coincidence, just another example of New Orleans as a small town. After voting (don't ask, it's private!), I walked with Ellen as far as the totally-fabulous Surrey's, where she would be taking her lunch break. (There was a big crowd on the sidewalk, waiting to get in. If you're going to eat there on a Saturday or a Sunday, get there EARLY.) She told me that normally she doesn't work on Saturdays, it being Shabbas, but that serving as a poll commissioner seemed like a spiritual exercise to her. I smiled at that.
When I got home, in an excellent mood, Big Man was up and dressed, and more than ready to eat. I told him it was a perfect Magazine Street day, and he readily agreed. (We'd been talking for months about taking a day where we just walked Magazine.) I ditched the jacket I had on, and we left the house and began walking the 2 blocks to Magazine. The sun was so bright I regretted not putting on any sunblock or a hat, but I thought a little sunburn would be a good price to pay for such a day.
We decided to eat at J'Anita's, whose sign outside said "Breakfast-BBQ-Beer." But it was too late in the day for breakfast, so we ordered coffee and lunch -- the excellent barbequed beef brisket. We loved the feel of the place, the little history on the menu (telling how the owners, a married couple, had run a barbeque trailer in Mid-City after Katrina and had ended up with this little place, named after the husband's parents), the local art on the walls, the tiny courtyard in the back. The owner, Craig, came out and passed some time with us, very friendly and personable. The check was amazingly cheap and we overpaid. In a good mood, we continued down Magazine.
We popped into every antique store we passed (Big Man enjoys this as much as I do, so don't think he was forcing himself), class to kitsch, vast hodgepodges of real antiques, semi-antiques, used furniture, and absolute junk in prices from the affordable to the astronomical. Shopkeepers were friendly and chatty. We all agreed that this weather, this kind of day, was one of the best reasons to live in New Orleans. (On this trip, we skipped all the dress shops -- that's going to have to be another Magazine Street day with my sister.)
At Jackson Avenue, we crossed the street and headed back in the direction of our house. We went into Stein's Deli at the corner of Jackson and Magazine, and got some good ol' Philly-style Italian cold cuts and cheese and reminisced with the counter men about good times on 9th Street in the Philadelphia Italian Market -- one of the things we miss most. Swigging from a bottle of Italian soda water, we continued on the other side of Magazine. We came upon a little store called Prince Michael's Chocolates, which I had heard about, so we went in. A small glass counter held handmade chocolate truffles, including a plate labelled "Chipotle Cinnamon Truffle." A youngish woman was in the back, working on something, and called out to greet us. I said I had heard good things about her shop, and that we wanted to try the chipotle chocolates. She laughed. "I'm making more of them right now," she said. "Here, try them" and she held out in cocoa-encrusted hands two halves, one for each of us, and we opened our mouths and took them straight from her hands, like communion.
First there was a burst of intense and rich dark chocolate flavor, then the taste of cinnamon arose, then it finished with the heat of the chipotle pepper. "Oh-my-God," breathed Big Man, when we could finally speak. "I bet you hear that more often than a Bourbon Street hooker," he told the owner, and she laughed again. "I do, I really do." We purchased 2 of the heavenly little truffles and, noticing that she made her iced coffee with COFFEE ICE CUBES, ordered that as well. (Why hasn't anyone else thought of that?? It's brilliant!) While the owner made our coffees, we chatted with her. She told us that the shop was a lifetime dream for her and her brother, Michael, but that he had died before it opened, and in his honor, she had decided to name the shop after his nickname. We offered our sympathy, complimented her on the beautiful shop and her wonderful wares, said we'd be back, and headed back out into the sunshine, armed with fabulous iced coffee.
A stop at a bank-turned art gallery revealed wonderful colorful works by a local black artist, portraits of Mardi Gras Indians, jazz musicians, and perky fleur de lis (of course!). We visited tiny Sophie Wright Park, admiring the statue by New Orleans artist Enrique Alvarez. Since we both needed a restroom, and being across the street from J'Anita's, where we had started the walk, we crossed over. While Big Man headed to the restroom, I ordered a beer -- and got a long explanation from the young waitress about not having a liquor license yet, but she could let me have one of the owner's beers for a "donation." I got a nice cold Abita draft, and license to use the rest room. Craig, the owner, came out and saw us, and we had a long conversation about music and food -- 2 of New Orleanians' favorite subjects.
Beer and conversation finished, we crossed back over to the world-famous Jim Russell Music store and spent a very pleasant half-hour browsing through stacks and stacks of vinyl and cassettes and CDs (and even 8-tracks!). The current owner sat on a stool near the front door, near a big glass jar labeled "Jim Russell Roof Fund." She told us that Katrina had damaged the roof of the building, revealing something that no one had known: that there had been a fire some time in the 1800s, and that instead of actually repairing it, in those days they had just created another roof on top of the fire-damaged one. Katrina's winds blew holes in the second roof, revealing the damaged roof beneath. She said she had leaks all over the place. Even though we didn't buy anything (on THAT trip!), Big Man put some bills in the jar.
Our last visit was to the Bali Shop in the fabulous tropical triangle building at the junction of Magazine and Sophie Wright Place. The shop was filled with furniture and accessories and sculptures from Bali and Indonesia, beautiful stuff. Big Man noticed a wondrous carved bed and as we walked to it, the owner came out of a little office. I asked her, "Is that an opium bed?" (I had heard about them and read about them, but I don't think I've seen one before.) "Yes, yes!" she said delightedly, "Opium bed! Yes! It's beautiful, come see!" She was so enthusiastic about her lovely merchandise, we were charmed. We looked at everything and wished we had a place for a $43,000 carved and painted opium bed.
We walked home from there, a little tired, a little sunburned, sated and happy. When we sank down on the couch in the living room, we looked at each other and said, "Wasn't that great??" And Big Man said, "I am so happy we live here" and I had to agree.
So that's what happiness looks like, on an early Spring day in New Orleans.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Mardi Gras Report: Normal for Us
Ash Wednesday 2008
Today I had a conversation with Big Man that sort of underscored a truism about New Orleans. He was going on and on about something he's recently discovered about life in the city (doesn't matter what, it could be almost *anything*), and my reaction was something like, "Yeah, that's normal for us." And Big Man exclaimed, "That happens all the time! I mention something about New Orleans that is unusual or wonderful or crazy, and some New Orleanian always says with a shrug, 'That's normal.' " This Mardi Gras we all got back to "normal for us" or, as my son's parain the poet likes to say, "back to abnormal."
A week or so ago, the humor columnist for the Times-Picayune reported that the guy who delivers his bottled water had left him a printed card, detailing the parade, float, side and location he -- the water delivery man -- would be on. Since the card was printed, you have to assume that the water guy left this same info all over his route to all his other water customers -- which means that he had to be prepared for dozens and dozens of people hollering his name on the parade route, expecting to be showered with Carnival booty. Gee, spending extra hundreds, even thousands, of dollars so that you can throw to even more people than you already were going to? Normal for us.
Going back several days ago, on the Friday before Mardi Gras, I accompanied my sister, her stepson and his wife, and a friend of theirs to a T-shirt shop Uptown on Magazine Street that they knew about but we didn't. (They had apparently found it on the Internet.) The T-shirts were all New Orleans-themed, but with a twist -- they were certainly NOT your normal tourist fare. There was a shirt that promoted "Ruffins for Mayor" and one with a silhouette of a Venetian gondelier with the logo "New Orleans -- we're not going anywhere." There was a white shirt that was dyed to look as if stained a dirty brown halfway down, with a red arrow saying "It was up to here." (Check them out yourself at "http://dirtycoast.com") All the T-shirts were self-referential (self being New Orleans, of course) with a great deal of wit, and good design as well. They also sell doormats/floormats that are replicas of the beloved New Orleans Sewerage and Water Board meter covers in various colors, which we all oohed over. Normal for us.
That night, there were four parades, counting the one that had gotten rained out from a few nights before. It was also the night of my sister's Cook-Off Party, which this year was a gumbo contest instead of red beans. (My sister says that after 20 years, she's over every possible permutation of red beans.) I spent part of that afternoon helping her glue representations of gumbo pots onto her old red beans trophies to use for the winner and runner-up. People started arriving about 4:30 pm, and with all the parades and so on, the party did not end until 2 am. As we sank exhausted into chairs and sofas, we all agreed that four parades in one night was just too much. However, agreeing on that did not mean that we did not feel obligated to be out there, hollering and jumping and waving our arms, and then hauling away bags and bags of beads and stuffed animals and god knows what all. Normal for us.
One of that night's parades was Muses (rescheduled from rainy Wednesday), and my favorite float paid tribute to the way we New Orleanians have now embraced the fleur de lis as the sign of our rebirth and renaissance. This year's Muses' theme ("Muses Night Fever") took old disco tunes and rewrote them for the Crescent City today, and this float was covered with large and small flashing fleur de lis, and was entitled "We Are Fleur de Lis." Sung to the tune of "We Are Family," the next line was "I got all my symbols with me." The riders threw various permutations of fleur de lis (stuffed, jeweled, glittered, blinking, on beads, as medallions, etc.), and the crowd went wild trying to catch them, because we're all about fleur de lis now. My son's parain caught a gorgeous fleur de lis necklace and refused to trade with me, despite my offer of 10 to 1. But when the parade was over and we walked back to my sister's, he handed it to me. Fight over and beg for throws, refuse to give them up, and then just as easily, pass them on. Normal for us.
The next day, Saturday, I was driving back to my house from seeing the day parades Uptown at my sister's, using back streets to avoid the traffic and the ongoing parades. As I got to the traffic light at the corner of Jackson Avenue and Carondelet Street, the light changed and I stopped. It was another warm and lovely Carnival day, and my windows were rolled down; through the air came the sounds of traditional Mardi Gras songs from somebody's outdoor speakers. Bobbing my head to the music, I looked around and saw, catty-corner across the street, 2 little black kids, a girl about 10-12 and a boy about 6-8, probably her little brother, each of them holding toy spears, the kind often handed down from parade floats, especially to kids. To the sounds of the music, they alternately were marching, as if in a band, and then dancing, boogeying down hard, shaking their little booties almost down to the sidewalk, and then straightening up and marching again, all in time to the music. Practicing to be in a parade. It made me smile, and I wondered if this could be happening anywhere else. Normal for us, though.
Big Man and I attended the MOMs Ball Saturday night (MOMs stands for Mystics, Orphans, and Misfits) after last year's forced absence. I will not go into great detail here about that ball (I think I need a lot more anonymity for that!), but I will say that the requirements for costuming at that event are indeed strict. Big Man and I are never at risk, but three stories emerged concerning this year's MOMs. My sister (who was in the court this year as one of her close friends, a local attorney, was king) witnessed a young couple's despondency on being refused admittance to the ball. They had been told that the young man was not wearing a costume -- he had on a top hat and a tux jacket over shorts and running shoes. (The young lady was not in jeopardy, as she had on a spangled top, a tutu skirt, fishnet tights, a mask and a feathered headdress.) My sister eyeballed them, instantly assessed the situation, and pronounced judgment, directing the girl to give her tutu to the boy. Voila! Instant costume, and the couple got in. A local newspaper columnist reports in this morning's Times-Picayune that he saw a young man in a "lame cowboy outfit" get refused entrance that same night; that young man's problem was solved by simply removing his pants, whereupon he was allowed in. The third situation concerned a young man we saw who was completely naked, except for black body paint (the MOMs theme for Groundhog Day was "Show Us Your Shadow"); apparently being naked in body paint IS a costume, and he was let in. Normal for us.
On Sunday I spoke to my son in Atlanta. He was, of course, miserable homesick -- it's a hard weekend for a New Orleanian to be away, even if they love where they live, as my son does. He related to me that he and some friends had eaten Saturday night at a new New Orleans-style restaurant that had opened in his neighborhood. Like all children of the Crescent City, he was a little leery of a restaurant so far away from home proclaiming itself to be "New Orleans-style." He told me, "But then, Mom, I saw on the menu right under the listing of their po-boys, it said, 'We only use Leidenheimer's French bread.' Mom, I was so happy I wanted to cry." I understood that, although apparently his friends didn't. REAL bread from home, from the good folks whose old commercials used to say "Leidenheimer's -- that's French for bread!" Of course that could make you choke up. Normal for us.
Mardi Gras dawned early for Big Man, who got home from the Bourbon Street nightclub about 3 am and then had to leave 6:15 am to get to the Irish Channel Corner Club for the Mardi Gras morning march. It was a great honor that he was asked to march with the Paulin Brother Brass Band in this 90-year-old Carnival tradition; an honor for any newcomer musician to the city, but especially for a white musician. As it was, for Big Man to be the only white player in a brass band called the Paulin BROTHERS is quite a sight and caused a great deal of comment as they marched and meandered around the Channel before taking their place behind Zulu and in front of Rex. Big Man says they were feted in old Irish Channel bars that didn't even look open but were perfectly viable neighborhood establishments. No outside signs, of course. Normal for us.
Being thus left alone on Mardi Gras, I got up around 8 am and dressed in my costume and mask. I filled my folding grocery basket with parade supplies: sandwiches, sausage slices, cheese, Zapp's potato chips, potato salad, olives, ice gel packs, napkins and plastic cutlery, toilet paper in a ziplock bag, bottles of hand sanitizer, plastic grocery bags to use for trash and throws, purse with wallet and lipstick. I made myself a tall ICED Irish coffee (it was hot and muggy, though thank goodness the wind was blowing) and walked down to St. Charles, approximately 6 or so blocks from my house. I admit I was feeling a little blue about it, having to spend Mardi Gras Day by myself. Little did I know.
When I got to the corner of Euterpe and St. Charles, Zulu was going by. (I had already missed Pete Fountain's Half-Fast Marching Club.) Euterpe was blocked by a line of trucks, the one closest to St. Charles filled with a black family, the young matrons of which were wearing two bras -- one underneath and then another over the top of their tank tops. It was a look. They were New Orleanians, living since Katrina in Dallas; as I would later discover, they had to work the next day back in Texas, and had worked all day Monday. They had driven like fiends through the night to get to this spot to watch Zulu and spend Carnival Day at home where they belonged, and right after Zulu they had to make a mad dash back. Another family had to leave before the trucks after Rex, since the father had to work in Mississippi that evening, but they had made the trip to enjoy as much of Mardi Gras as they could. Normal for us.
The area around us was all families, black and white and Latino, most with full ice chests, many with barbeque pits and smokers (and one giant propane grill), almost all with various kinds of chairs. I was immediately welcomed, and given a place for my chair and rolling basket. As the day went on and the parades rolled, I was offered food and drinks. I proffered what I had brought, and we all shared the throws that showered down on us. Somebody noticed I didn't catch a Zulu coconut and then made sure I got one. (I was a big hit with my bottles of hand sanitizer, since you can't wash your hands on a parade route.) I have spent too many Mardi Gras days with family and people I already know -- I had almost forgotten the warm and wonderful instant community that springs up for Carnival. My new friends cheered with me as Big Man went by with the Corner Club and the Paulin Brothers. I was NOT alone on Mardi Gras -- I was with friends who took care of me and spent quality time with me. Normal for us.
This morning's news reports on TV and in the newspaper tell us that it was not just a good post-Katrina Mardi Gras-- it was a great Mardi Gras, surpassing those of the pre-storm years. Mardi Gras is officially back to normal -- normal for us, that is. And that's not just a good thing, it's a blessing.
Today I had a conversation with Big Man that sort of underscored a truism about New Orleans. He was going on and on about something he's recently discovered about life in the city (doesn't matter what, it could be almost *anything*), and my reaction was something like, "Yeah, that's normal for us." And Big Man exclaimed, "That happens all the time! I mention something about New Orleans that is unusual or wonderful or crazy, and some New Orleanian always says with a shrug, 'That's normal.' " This Mardi Gras we all got back to "normal for us" or, as my son's parain the poet likes to say, "back to abnormal."
A week or so ago, the humor columnist for the Times-Picayune reported that the guy who delivers his bottled water had left him a printed card, detailing the parade, float, side and location he -- the water delivery man -- would be on. Since the card was printed, you have to assume that the water guy left this same info all over his route to all his other water customers -- which means that he had to be prepared for dozens and dozens of people hollering his name on the parade route, expecting to be showered with Carnival booty. Gee, spending extra hundreds, even thousands, of dollars so that you can throw to even more people than you already were going to? Normal for us.
Going back several days ago, on the Friday before Mardi Gras, I accompanied my sister, her stepson and his wife, and a friend of theirs to a T-shirt shop Uptown on Magazine Street that they knew about but we didn't. (They had apparently found it on the Internet.) The T-shirts were all New Orleans-themed, but with a twist -- they were certainly NOT your normal tourist fare. There was a shirt that promoted "Ruffins for Mayor" and one with a silhouette of a Venetian gondelier with the logo "New Orleans -- we're not going anywhere." There was a white shirt that was dyed to look as if stained a dirty brown halfway down, with a red arrow saying "It was up to here." (Check them out yourself at "http://dirtycoast.com") All the T-shirts were self-referential (self being New Orleans, of course) with a great deal of wit, and good design as well. They also sell doormats/floormats that are replicas of the beloved New Orleans Sewerage and Water Board meter covers in various colors, which we all oohed over. Normal for us.
That night, there were four parades, counting the one that had gotten rained out from a few nights before. It was also the night of my sister's Cook-Off Party, which this year was a gumbo contest instead of red beans. (My sister says that after 20 years, she's over every possible permutation of red beans.) I spent part of that afternoon helping her glue representations of gumbo pots onto her old red beans trophies to use for the winner and runner-up. People started arriving about 4:30 pm, and with all the parades and so on, the party did not end until 2 am. As we sank exhausted into chairs and sofas, we all agreed that four parades in one night was just too much. However, agreeing on that did not mean that we did not feel obligated to be out there, hollering and jumping and waving our arms, and then hauling away bags and bags of beads and stuffed animals and god knows what all. Normal for us.
One of that night's parades was Muses (rescheduled from rainy Wednesday), and my favorite float paid tribute to the way we New Orleanians have now embraced the fleur de lis as the sign of our rebirth and renaissance. This year's Muses' theme ("Muses Night Fever") took old disco tunes and rewrote them for the Crescent City today, and this float was covered with large and small flashing fleur de lis, and was entitled "We Are Fleur de Lis." Sung to the tune of "We Are Family," the next line was "I got all my symbols with me." The riders threw various permutations of fleur de lis (stuffed, jeweled, glittered, blinking, on beads, as medallions, etc.), and the crowd went wild trying to catch them, because we're all about fleur de lis now. My son's parain caught a gorgeous fleur de lis necklace and refused to trade with me, despite my offer of 10 to 1. But when the parade was over and we walked back to my sister's, he handed it to me. Fight over and beg for throws, refuse to give them up, and then just as easily, pass them on. Normal for us.
The next day, Saturday, I was driving back to my house from seeing the day parades Uptown at my sister's, using back streets to avoid the traffic and the ongoing parades. As I got to the traffic light at the corner of Jackson Avenue and Carondelet Street, the light changed and I stopped. It was another warm and lovely Carnival day, and my windows were rolled down; through the air came the sounds of traditional Mardi Gras songs from somebody's outdoor speakers. Bobbing my head to the music, I looked around and saw, catty-corner across the street, 2 little black kids, a girl about 10-12 and a boy about 6-8, probably her little brother, each of them holding toy spears, the kind often handed down from parade floats, especially to kids. To the sounds of the music, they alternately were marching, as if in a band, and then dancing, boogeying down hard, shaking their little booties almost down to the sidewalk, and then straightening up and marching again, all in time to the music. Practicing to be in a parade. It made me smile, and I wondered if this could be happening anywhere else. Normal for us, though.
Big Man and I attended the MOMs Ball Saturday night (MOMs stands for Mystics, Orphans, and Misfits) after last year's forced absence. I will not go into great detail here about that ball (I think I need a lot more anonymity for that!), but I will say that the requirements for costuming at that event are indeed strict. Big Man and I are never at risk, but three stories emerged concerning this year's MOMs. My sister (who was in the court this year as one of her close friends, a local attorney, was king) witnessed a young couple's despondency on being refused admittance to the ball. They had been told that the young man was not wearing a costume -- he had on a top hat and a tux jacket over shorts and running shoes. (The young lady was not in jeopardy, as she had on a spangled top, a tutu skirt, fishnet tights, a mask and a feathered headdress.) My sister eyeballed them, instantly assessed the situation, and pronounced judgment, directing the girl to give her tutu to the boy. Voila! Instant costume, and the couple got in. A local newspaper columnist reports in this morning's Times-Picayune that he saw a young man in a "lame cowboy outfit" get refused entrance that same night; that young man's problem was solved by simply removing his pants, whereupon he was allowed in. The third situation concerned a young man we saw who was completely naked, except for black body paint (the MOMs theme for Groundhog Day was "Show Us Your Shadow"); apparently being naked in body paint IS a costume, and he was let in. Normal for us.
On Sunday I spoke to my son in Atlanta. He was, of course, miserable homesick -- it's a hard weekend for a New Orleanian to be away, even if they love where they live, as my son does. He related to me that he and some friends had eaten Saturday night at a new New Orleans-style restaurant that had opened in his neighborhood. Like all children of the Crescent City, he was a little leery of a restaurant so far away from home proclaiming itself to be "New Orleans-style." He told me, "But then, Mom, I saw on the menu right under the listing of their po-boys, it said, 'We only use Leidenheimer's French bread.' Mom, I was so happy I wanted to cry." I understood that, although apparently his friends didn't. REAL bread from home, from the good folks whose old commercials used to say "Leidenheimer's -- that's French for bread!" Of course that could make you choke up. Normal for us.
Mardi Gras dawned early for Big Man, who got home from the Bourbon Street nightclub about 3 am and then had to leave 6:15 am to get to the Irish Channel Corner Club for the Mardi Gras morning march. It was a great honor that he was asked to march with the Paulin Brother Brass Band in this 90-year-old Carnival tradition; an honor for any newcomer musician to the city, but especially for a white musician. As it was, for Big Man to be the only white player in a brass band called the Paulin BROTHERS is quite a sight and caused a great deal of comment as they marched and meandered around the Channel before taking their place behind Zulu and in front of Rex. Big Man says they were feted in old Irish Channel bars that didn't even look open but were perfectly viable neighborhood establishments. No outside signs, of course. Normal for us.
Being thus left alone on Mardi Gras, I got up around 8 am and dressed in my costume and mask. I filled my folding grocery basket with parade supplies: sandwiches, sausage slices, cheese, Zapp's potato chips, potato salad, olives, ice gel packs, napkins and plastic cutlery, toilet paper in a ziplock bag, bottles of hand sanitizer, plastic grocery bags to use for trash and throws, purse with wallet and lipstick. I made myself a tall ICED Irish coffee (it was hot and muggy, though thank goodness the wind was blowing) and walked down to St. Charles, approximately 6 or so blocks from my house. I admit I was feeling a little blue about it, having to spend Mardi Gras Day by myself. Little did I know.
When I got to the corner of Euterpe and St. Charles, Zulu was going by. (I had already missed Pete Fountain's Half-Fast Marching Club.) Euterpe was blocked by a line of trucks, the one closest to St. Charles filled with a black family, the young matrons of which were wearing two bras -- one underneath and then another over the top of their tank tops. It was a look. They were New Orleanians, living since Katrina in Dallas; as I would later discover, they had to work the next day back in Texas, and had worked all day Monday. They had driven like fiends through the night to get to this spot to watch Zulu and spend Carnival Day at home where they belonged, and right after Zulu they had to make a mad dash back. Another family had to leave before the trucks after Rex, since the father had to work in Mississippi that evening, but they had made the trip to enjoy as much of Mardi Gras as they could. Normal for us.
The area around us was all families, black and white and Latino, most with full ice chests, many with barbeque pits and smokers (and one giant propane grill), almost all with various kinds of chairs. I was immediately welcomed, and given a place for my chair and rolling basket. As the day went on and the parades rolled, I was offered food and drinks. I proffered what I had brought, and we all shared the throws that showered down on us. Somebody noticed I didn't catch a Zulu coconut and then made sure I got one. (I was a big hit with my bottles of hand sanitizer, since you can't wash your hands on a parade route.) I have spent too many Mardi Gras days with family and people I already know -- I had almost forgotten the warm and wonderful instant community that springs up for Carnival. My new friends cheered with me as Big Man went by with the Corner Club and the Paulin Brothers. I was NOT alone on Mardi Gras -- I was with friends who took care of me and spent quality time with me. Normal for us.
This morning's news reports on TV and in the newspaper tell us that it was not just a good post-Katrina Mardi Gras-- it was a great Mardi Gras, surpassing those of the pre-storm years. Mardi Gras is officially back to normal -- normal for us, that is. And that's not just a good thing, it's a blessing.
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