I have written in this blog before about the New Orleans tendency to do something once, and then declare it a yearly tradition. Last year, there was a Po Boy Preservation Festival held on Oak Street (subtitled deliciously, "Save Our Sandwich!") and it was the first time it had ever been held, so of course it was immediately dubbed "1st Annual Po Boy Preservation Festival." That makes Sunday's iteration of the festival the 2nd Annual -- so now it's permanent, a regular tradition, and we gotta hold one every year. Yeah you right.
The first po boy fest was a victim of its own gigantic success -- approximately 100,000 people smushed into a few blocks of Oak Street -- so this year, the festival's physical length was extended all the way to Joliet and beyond (the second stage was at least a block beyond Joliet), and was broadened onto a half-block of several cross streets. In addition, logistics were improved by providing barricaded-off areas to stand in line without clogging up the flow on Oak Street. More food and drink booths were added to improve wait time.
Big Man and I arrived shortly before 2 pm; the fest had begun at 12 noon. (We had a meeting at church that prevented our getting there right at opening.) The line for charbroiled oysters -- not, strictly speaking,a po boy, but they did give you French bread to soak up the amazing juices -- was really long, so we decided to fortify ourselves before tackling that. This year's fest had an additional innovation to encourage grazing -- tasting-size portions for only $2-$3. Great idea!
We started with tasting sizes of the hot sausage, melted cheese and special sauce po boys (mmm, what was in that sauce??), and shared a plate of what was advertised (correctly, as it turned out) "serious stuffed shrimp." We moved on to crawfish sausage po boys, which we munched on while waiting in the charbroiled oyster line, which actually moved faster than we had feared. (Drago's had prepared well, and had boxes filled with trays of already-shucked oysters, ready to lay on the hot grill while one grill man dotted them with garlic butter and another threw handfuls of grated cheese at them.) We stood on the sidewalk and people-watched the throngs teeming by in both directions as we let the oysters cool enough to eat without burning our tongues and palates, and shared a conversation with a couple from New York, who were marveling at all of it -- the day, the gorgeous weather, the incredible food, the music, the way people here talk so easily to strangers and think nothing of it.
As we stood there, reveling in the oysters and the ambience, we heard brass band music, and soon we could see the top of a shiny tuba above the heads of the crowd. The Pinstripe Brass Band made their way slowly through the big crowd in the middle of the street, and (amazingly!) a large group of secondliners, waving familiar paper-wrapped loaves of Leidenheimer's po boy bread in the air instead of handkerchieves. (There was an actual Leidenheimer's booth up Oak Street that we hadn't seen yet.) It was so cool and so funny, people all around us were laughing and taking pictures with cameras and cell phones. Now, I've seen everything, I thought to myself.
Music was terrific at the fest, as if someone had thought that the fabulous food would not be enough to bring people in. One stage held Rebirth Brass Band, blowing their hearts out, a big crowd of folks of all colors and all ages dancing hard in front of the stage. At the other end of the street, at the Carrollton corner, young Amanda Shaw was charming and sweet and powerful and sexy as all get out. It was impossible at either stage to keep your head from nodding and your feet from tapping, if you weren't already dancing. Great stuff.
We came to a booth that said "Original One-Handed BBQ Shrimp Po Boy" and that sounded so intriguing we had to stop. Turns out they had sliced a po boy loaf in half horizontally, and then scooped out most of the soft white part from the inside of the uncut half. Then they took fresh hot BBQ shrimp -- already peeled. of course -- and stuffed that inside the 1/2 loaf, the juices from the spicy "BBQ sauce" (it's not THAT kind of BBQ sauce, those of you folks reading this from "away") soaking into the surrounding bread, but not so much that it fell apart. You could, as we did, quite literally walk away, holding the BBQ shrimp po boy with only one hand and not lose a drop of the sauce or one single shrimp. It was one of those brilliant ideas that makes you say to yourself, "Why didn't *I* think of that??"
At about this point, we were feeling pretty stuffed, so it was with chagrin that we came to a booth staffed by attractive Vietnamese-New Orleans women, whose sign advertised "Vietnamese meatball po boy." Wow! The marriage of 2 cultures! Our favorite! We loved both the idea and the look of it, but we were way too full by then to eat any. (Next year!) But it is so good to know that the familiar and traditional New Orleans po boy is being enriched and expanded by these New Orleanians of Vietnamese descent.
We found the crowd to be really large and really friendly, and very navigable, except for the block of Oak Street that holds the Maple Leaf, where a clump of people had stopped in front of the bar and thus impeded the flow of the traffic. The longest line was the one for the charbroiled oysters, and it moved pretty fast. We did not have any real trouble getting around, but then, neither of us is crowd-averse or get panic attacks from claustrophobia, so maybe you can't judge from Big Man and me. The craft booths looked good but I don't know if they made any money -- seemed like most folks were there to Save Our Sandwich and not buy stuff they couldn't eat or drink.
As we walked back to the car, we passed a hibiscus bush in full glorious scarlet bloom, and we agreed that we'd always want to live in this magical place where tropical flowers bloom and pretty girls wear sundresses past mid-November, and where a major street festival can be held to save the sacred tradition of our local sandwich.
Preserve our po boys! Save our sandwich! And see you there next year.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Mirliton Festival
(That title should be read phonetically: "melli-tohn" festival.)
Who knew there were, or even could be, so many ways to eat mirliton? That beautiful, pear-shaped, light green vegetable of the squash family, called chayote in other parts of the country, but beloved as the humble "mellitohn" here in New Orleans. When my sister L informed me last Saturday that she, her husband, and some friends were heading out to the Bywater Mirliton Festival and Arts Show, I knew immediately what Big Man and I were going to do for our time together. ("Our time together" on a Saturday means the time from whenever Big Man wakes up from the gig the night before to whenever he has to leave for that night's gig -- I usually write my sermons while he's at the nightclub.) I came home and announced, "We're going to the Mirliton Festival!" and he told me about a television program he saw when he lived Up North, long before we met, when he didn't even fantasize about living in belle NOLA, that was all about the many different food festivals we have in South Louisiana, and he had thought to himself, "Those people are CRAZY!" Crazy or not, we were going to the 2008 Mirliton Festival.
It was another gorgeous day, and I've described enough of them that you know exactly what I mean. When we got out of the car, Big Man said, "You gotta love a place where you can get sunburned in November!" And it was true that you needed a both sunhat and some good sunblock to combat the brightness of that cloudless sunny sky. It was kind of hot, too, low 80s.
The crowd was well mixed -- black and white, young families, older people, Baby Boomers, kids running around -- and not overwhelming in numbers. There were booths set up all over the playground in Bywater that hosts not only the annual Mirliton Festival, but also the monthly Bywater Art Market. (It would have been almost unthinkable in previous times, but Bywater is now a hotbed of creative artist types, opening foundries, studios, and galleries in converted factories, grocery stores, and houses.) The booths housed drinks, crafts, art work, baked goods and produce (fresh mirlitons, naturally), a children's play area, and food, most of which featured mirliton in some way as an ingredient.
My mother used to make two kinds of stuffed mirliton for us when I was little, chopped shrimp and ground meat. In either case, you bake or boil or steam the mirliton, and mash the pulp with sauteed holy trinity (onions, celery, and bell pepper of course), spices and bread crumbs, and then add whatever you're using, like the chopped shrimp or the ground beef, then you bake the whole thing with seasoned bread crumbs as a crust on top. That's basically how we ate it. So I was surprised to find such entrees as gumbo with mirliton, shrimp chowder with mirliton, Indonesian curried mirliton, slices of brisket on paneed mirliton, and of course stuffed mirliton with crabmeat, shrimp, sausage, and/or ground beef. All of this is well and good, and while it was new to me, it did not freak me out.
What freaked me out was the dessert mirliton. Yes, that's right -- dessert mirliton. I went over to the booth that was selling the concoction (along with some very nice gourmet coffee) and asked them about the unusual dish. "Try it!" they wheedled, "just TRY it!" From their tone, I judged that a lot of people were freaking out. I asked them about the dish, got all the details, and I just shook my head in disbelief. "Y'all," I said, "my mama is rolling over in her grave." (That was just a figure of speech, as my mother was cremated, at her wish, after her death. But still, I was thinking that my mother would have just gone crazy at the idea.)
So here's what caused all the consternation: It was a square of puff pastry, covered in a rich and dark home-made fudge sauce, and topped with a mirliton marshmallow, toasted to a golden brown. Yes, don't look at it like I'm the one who's crazy -- a MIRLITON MARSHMALLOW!! They had followed a recipe for home-made marshmallow, added slivers of cooked mirliton to the batch, and then toasted it to a golden color before cutting it into little squares.
I hate to be a chicken, and I pride myself on at least tasting "new food." So we bought one, and the thing was absolutely delicious, although wildly improbable. (A little while later, over at the Phoenix Recycling booth, we were raving about it to a young woman and she exclaimed, "I feel like I've been punked! I just had a brownie for dessert!" Before we left, we caught her over at the mirliton marshmallow booth, rectifying her situation.)
So thanks to the creative folks who dreamed up such an innovation, and thanks to the weather gods for the lovely day. I may not ever make mirliton marshmallows at home myself, but at least I can say I've tried 'em.
Who knew there were, or even could be, so many ways to eat mirliton? That beautiful, pear-shaped, light green vegetable of the squash family, called chayote in other parts of the country, but beloved as the humble "mellitohn" here in New Orleans. When my sister L informed me last Saturday that she, her husband, and some friends were heading out to the Bywater Mirliton Festival and Arts Show, I knew immediately what Big Man and I were going to do for our time together. ("Our time together" on a Saturday means the time from whenever Big Man wakes up from the gig the night before to whenever he has to leave for that night's gig -- I usually write my sermons while he's at the nightclub.) I came home and announced, "We're going to the Mirliton Festival!" and he told me about a television program he saw when he lived Up North, long before we met, when he didn't even fantasize about living in belle NOLA, that was all about the many different food festivals we have in South Louisiana, and he had thought to himself, "Those people are CRAZY!" Crazy or not, we were going to the 2008 Mirliton Festival.
It was another gorgeous day, and I've described enough of them that you know exactly what I mean. When we got out of the car, Big Man said, "You gotta love a place where you can get sunburned in November!" And it was true that you needed a both sunhat and some good sunblock to combat the brightness of that cloudless sunny sky. It was kind of hot, too, low 80s.
The crowd was well mixed -- black and white, young families, older people, Baby Boomers, kids running around -- and not overwhelming in numbers. There were booths set up all over the playground in Bywater that hosts not only the annual Mirliton Festival, but also the monthly Bywater Art Market. (It would have been almost unthinkable in previous times, but Bywater is now a hotbed of creative artist types, opening foundries, studios, and galleries in converted factories, grocery stores, and houses.) The booths housed drinks, crafts, art work, baked goods and produce (fresh mirlitons, naturally), a children's play area, and food, most of which featured mirliton in some way as an ingredient.
My mother used to make two kinds of stuffed mirliton for us when I was little, chopped shrimp and ground meat. In either case, you bake or boil or steam the mirliton, and mash the pulp with sauteed holy trinity (onions, celery, and bell pepper of course), spices and bread crumbs, and then add whatever you're using, like the chopped shrimp or the ground beef, then you bake the whole thing with seasoned bread crumbs as a crust on top. That's basically how we ate it. So I was surprised to find such entrees as gumbo with mirliton, shrimp chowder with mirliton, Indonesian curried mirliton, slices of brisket on paneed mirliton, and of course stuffed mirliton with crabmeat, shrimp, sausage, and/or ground beef. All of this is well and good, and while it was new to me, it did not freak me out.
What freaked me out was the dessert mirliton. Yes, that's right -- dessert mirliton. I went over to the booth that was selling the concoction (along with some very nice gourmet coffee) and asked them about the unusual dish. "Try it!" they wheedled, "just TRY it!" From their tone, I judged that a lot of people were freaking out. I asked them about the dish, got all the details, and I just shook my head in disbelief. "Y'all," I said, "my mama is rolling over in her grave." (That was just a figure of speech, as my mother was cremated, at her wish, after her death. But still, I was thinking that my mother would have just gone crazy at the idea.)
So here's what caused all the consternation: It was a square of puff pastry, covered in a rich and dark home-made fudge sauce, and topped with a mirliton marshmallow, toasted to a golden brown. Yes, don't look at it like I'm the one who's crazy -- a MIRLITON MARSHMALLOW!! They had followed a recipe for home-made marshmallow, added slivers of cooked mirliton to the batch, and then toasted it to a golden color before cutting it into little squares.
I hate to be a chicken, and I pride myself on at least tasting "new food." So we bought one, and the thing was absolutely delicious, although wildly improbable. (A little while later, over at the Phoenix Recycling booth, we were raving about it to a young woman and she exclaimed, "I feel like I've been punked! I just had a brownie for dessert!" Before we left, we caught her over at the mirliton marshmallow booth, rectifying her situation.)
So thanks to the creative folks who dreamed up such an innovation, and thanks to the weather gods for the lovely day. I may not ever make mirliton marshmallows at home myself, but at least I can say I've tried 'em.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Beautiful Green Sky
I spent Election Night at the home of a parishioner -- ironically, the same parishioner at whose home I watched the election returns 16 years ago -- surrounded by a group of folks from the church. A HUGE widescreen TV had been set up, covering up half the room, and a bountiful spread of refreshments and adult and child-friendly beverages had been laid out.
We channel-surfed among NBC, CBS, ABC, MSNBC, and CNN (for some reason, skipping past the Fox Channel!), comparing and contrasting the differing points of view, coverage perspective and commentary. Every time a channel went to commercial, someone shouted for the channel to be switched. We were all a little tense, a little anxious, and when 9 o'clock rolled around, we were relieved to ask for the Comedy Channel. We laughed and laughed at the antics of Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart, gleefully spoofing the staid coverage on the "straight" networks. We were really enjoying the routines, and then, about an hour after we had switched, the two co-hosts solemnly called the election for Obama.
"Change the channel! Change the channel! Go to a 'real' channel!" screamed several folks in a near-panic as the poor host scrambled for the remote. Reaching NBC, we were all amazed to see that the network, using polling data combined with actual returns, had declared Obama the next president. (We learned later that the Comedy Channel had gotten the information that the networks had called it, and had fed it immediately to their co-hosts so they could make their announcement.)
Oh my God what a moment -- what a delicious, emotional, spiritual moment! We screamed and hollered, we laughed and cried, we jumped up and down, we hugged each other. And then the moment got even better, as more and more electoral votes were added to Obama's column. We could hardly believe our eyes. Our emotions swung from incredulity to exhaltation, from joy to stunned amazement, from near-hysterical laughter to tears and sobs. Nearly everyone in the room whipped out their cell phones and called faraway loved ones -- adult children, spouses, siblings, friends -- needing to expand the circle of happiness and excitement.
More and more votes resulted in more and more screams and shouts and exclamations, and more happy tears. By the time of McCain's concession speech (a good speech, which he should have given earlier in the campaign, and it was sad to hear so many of his riled-up supporters booing even the mention of the new president's name, a natural result of the ugly campaign they had run), and Obama's great speech later, at midnight, we were all pretty well wrung out, drained and yet still strangely exhilarated.
As I drove home at about 1 am, I had a mad desire to blow my horn, or even to run up to the doors of people I didn't know and ring their doorbells, just to blow off steam and share with the world my sense of excitement. I didn't, of course, but still, it was hard to wind down. I went to bed about 2 am, exhausted but still feeling the tingle that something wonderful had happened.
I woke the next morning with a sore throat (!) and a strange intuitive sense that everything, everything, had changed in some fundamental way -- as if I could go to the window and see a brand-new sky, as though the sky was going to be a gorgeous shade of green from now on. Later that day, all over New Orleans, white and black folks were just glowing with the newness, the joy of it all. A musician friend of mine said to me at a celebration in the Marigny last night, "I feel like a new man, I really do. I feel like I could do anything."
So here's to wonderful new beginnings, dawning new days, the ability to do anything, and of course to beautiful green skies.
We channel-surfed among NBC, CBS, ABC, MSNBC, and CNN (for some reason, skipping past the Fox Channel!), comparing and contrasting the differing points of view, coverage perspective and commentary. Every time a channel went to commercial, someone shouted for the channel to be switched. We were all a little tense, a little anxious, and when 9 o'clock rolled around, we were relieved to ask for the Comedy Channel. We laughed and laughed at the antics of Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart, gleefully spoofing the staid coverage on the "straight" networks. We were really enjoying the routines, and then, about an hour after we had switched, the two co-hosts solemnly called the election for Obama.
"Change the channel! Change the channel! Go to a 'real' channel!" screamed several folks in a near-panic as the poor host scrambled for the remote. Reaching NBC, we were all amazed to see that the network, using polling data combined with actual returns, had declared Obama the next president. (We learned later that the Comedy Channel had gotten the information that the networks had called it, and had fed it immediately to their co-hosts so they could make their announcement.)
Oh my God what a moment -- what a delicious, emotional, spiritual moment! We screamed and hollered, we laughed and cried, we jumped up and down, we hugged each other. And then the moment got even better, as more and more electoral votes were added to Obama's column. We could hardly believe our eyes. Our emotions swung from incredulity to exhaltation, from joy to stunned amazement, from near-hysterical laughter to tears and sobs. Nearly everyone in the room whipped out their cell phones and called faraway loved ones -- adult children, spouses, siblings, friends -- needing to expand the circle of happiness and excitement.
More and more votes resulted in more and more screams and shouts and exclamations, and more happy tears. By the time of McCain's concession speech (a good speech, which he should have given earlier in the campaign, and it was sad to hear so many of his riled-up supporters booing even the mention of the new president's name, a natural result of the ugly campaign they had run), and Obama's great speech later, at midnight, we were all pretty well wrung out, drained and yet still strangely exhilarated.
As I drove home at about 1 am, I had a mad desire to blow my horn, or even to run up to the doors of people I didn't know and ring their doorbells, just to blow off steam and share with the world my sense of excitement. I didn't, of course, but still, it was hard to wind down. I went to bed about 2 am, exhausted but still feeling the tingle that something wonderful had happened.
I woke the next morning with a sore throat (!) and a strange intuitive sense that everything, everything, had changed in some fundamental way -- as if I could go to the window and see a brand-new sky, as though the sky was going to be a gorgeous shade of green from now on. Later that day, all over New Orleans, white and black folks were just glowing with the newness, the joy of it all. A musician friend of mine said to me at a celebration in the Marigny last night, "I feel like a new man, I really do. I feel like I could do anything."
So here's to wonderful new beginnings, dawning new days, the ability to do anything, and of course to beautiful green skies.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
All Saints, All Souls, and The Day After
Once again, the Saturday of November 1st, the Feast of All Saints, dawned as another gorgeous day in the Crescent City -- perfectly clear blue skies, light breeze, warm temperatures, low humidity. I joked to Big Man, "This is getting boring!" but it really isn't, it's wonderful. (I can remember All Saints Days when heavy coats were in order, so this weather was a blessing indeed.)
Our first errand on All Saints Day was to purchase the pots of chrysanthemums. This year, I wanted purple, and these were easily and quickly obtained from our locally-owned grocery store, right in the front of the store. (But it wasn't quite like the old days, when starting on October 30th, the grocery stores would set up tents in the parking lot to sell the mums to you so conveniently, you practically didn't have to get out of your car, and could just head to the cemeteries.) We got 6 pots, for, as you will see, we had a lot of stops to make.
Our first cemetery visit was to historic Cypress Grove, in the old cemetery neighborhood at the lake end of Canal Street. (Our drive took us past The Mortuary, a stately hundred year old former mortuary that is now a seasonal haunted house with many special effects and scary happenings. We have plans to go next weekend, during its final offering of the Halloween season. Big Man and I love that sort of thing and were big devotees of the haunted Eastern State Prison, former home to Al Capone, in Philadelphia.)
We had pots of mums for our founding ministers, Theodore Clapp and Sylvester Larned, who are buried together in the crypt for the Volunteer Fire Fighters, in the gated right corner of Cypress Grove as you enter through the giant Egyptian-inspired entrance. Luckily, the gate was unlocked and we went inside, placing our mums on the ground in front of their names. I spent a little time asking for their blessings on my congregation -- er, their, OUR congregation -- knowing that they'd understand our challenges, having themselves faced quite a lot (epidemics, wars, bankruptcy) during their ministries here. Their tomb was well-kept and needed no clean-up or trimming of weeds. We spent just a little time there, visiting a few of our favorite tombs, such as the Chinese-American Association vault, which combines elements of Christianity and Buddhism. (Inside the arched vault, it smelled strongly of recent incense.) Very few other tombs at Cypress Grove were decorated or seemed to have been visited.
The next stop was one of the oldest burying grounds in the city, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. Two pots here too, for we came to honor two black Creoles who have had, in their respective times, enormous influence on New Orleans. Members of either the diocese or the cemetery preservation group had set up a table at the entrance, with books and pamphlets to sell, and when they saw Big Man and me carrying in pots of mums, they thanked us for coming. That felt funny to me -- I wasn't bringing the flowers to be thanked, or for recognition by living people. But I'm sure they meant it in good spirit. (Maybe I just should have said, "You're welcome" but I didn't, since it didn't feel right.)
We cut around their table and made a hard right a few tombs in. (This path is so familiar to me I could probably do it in my sleep, or blindfolded.) This brought us right in front of the tomb of Mayor "Dutch" Morial, and of course there were already mums there, a beautiful bright orange, probably brought by Morial family members. I put my purple mums on the other side of the ledge, and placed my hand on the "Keep the Drive Alive" inscription in the shiny granite. "Dutch," I whispered, "you would be so excited right now, this presidential election. Looks like it's really going to happen, and even if it doesn't, nobody's ever come this far before. You'd be proud." (Although I did have to wonder to myself if it would have bothered Dutch that it was somebody else getting this historic first.)
Then we turned to our right, where Marie Laveau's tomb sit neighborly next to Dutch's. Her tomb was marked, as always, with myriad triple Xs, and had laid out in front of it the diverse and various offerings of Mam'selle's diverse and varied followers and fans -- Mardi Gras beads, lots of dimes, glasses and bottles and cups of alcoholic beverages, flowers real and silk, notes from petitioners, food items, cigarettes. (This time, there were no marijuana joints as I have seen in the past.) A Creole Voodoo priestess dressed all in white and with a white tignon on her head was answering questions from a tour group, ironically standing next to the rather new metal sign declaring it a crime to mark or deface any tomb. (As if that would stop anybody!)
Big Man and I put the Lady's flowers on the side of the tomb, next to all the assorted stuff, and I pressed my forehead to the left side of her tomb. I thanked her for bringing us home, for finding Big Man a musical job so fast, for the well-bring of my family and church. I asked for her future care, not really as a petition to her, just to be kept on her mind. Then I made my way to the other 3 sides, repeating the prayers in the traditional "4 Corners" ritual, ending in front. People were arriving, most of them the curious, but we ignored them. We pushed a little to get past them, and got to the exit gate, where we quickly turned and walked out backwards (so as not to turn our backs to Mam'selle). Whether the ladies at the table there thought that was strange or not we can't say.
The next cemetery was St. Vincent de Paul, in the upper Ninth Ward, my father's family tomb, where my grandparents, one uncle and one aunt -- my father's older sister who died as a teenager in the great flu epidemic in the early 20th century -- are all buried. My father's ashes were not interred there -- in fact, we scattered them at City Park, on the golf course where he spent so many happy hours after his retirement -- but being there always brings him to mind since the All Saints ritual was something we used to do together, along with my son when he was little. To my disappointment, the face of the family tomb was marred by some black substance (mold?), some ugly discoloration of the aging white marble. I told Big Man we'd have to come back with cleaning supplies in a few days. The black gunk was so thick on the little triangular plinth that marked Daddy's sister, engraved "Our Beatrice" (pronounced the New Orleans way, "be-ATT-triss") that it was unreadable. This would not do. I felt badly about having to leave it in that condition, but was reassured that we'd be back soon. Big Man stood on a concrete vase to place the pot of mums up on the shelf in front of the family tomb. (We had to remove the full bottle of beer from it in order for him to use it as a boost, but we were careful to replace the grave offering when we were done.)
Two days later, we were back, with a step stool and cleaning brushes and some cleaning solvent, hopefully strong enough to remove the gunk without harming the marble. Unfortunately, we couldn't get high enough, and had to tip-toe to reach as far as we could to scrub the discoloration off. We made some progress, but we found that the marble face plate was loose and so the whole effort was precarious. Big Man handed down to me Beatrice's little marker and I scrubbed it hard, so it was readable, if not totally pristine. Since we had extra cleaning water, we did a few of the other graves around the family, just to be neighborly.
Last errand of this year's All Saints/All Souls was Lakelawn Metairie, to pay our respects to music legend Louis Prima, who in a way was responsible for bringing Big Man and me together. With exquisite courtesy, an elderly lady employee walked us around the combined funeral home/office building, til we got to the person who could give us a map and directions. He marked the map for us, and asked us if we knew what was the inscription on Louis's tomb. In unison, Big Man and I both replied, "Just a Gigolo," and the funeral director smiled.
We found Louis, with the angel Gabriel on top, blowing a trumpet. Big Man called an Italian friend back in Jersey, a GIANT Prima fan, and we took pictures, and vowed to come back soon. We noted that Louis's last wife Gia had apparently "expunged" Louis's previous family, had with Keely Smith, and the list of children did not include any of Keely and Louis's kids.
Interestingly enough, the Prima tomb is located in what could be called an Italian neighborhood in Metairie cemetery -- Louis was surrounded by several Italian societies, and tombs of all kinds of folks with Italian surnames. I was tickled to find his next-neighbor was the Brocato family, better known in New Orleans as the Moran family of Moran's Restaurant fame. Diamond Jim and his older son Jimmy. Wow. Brought back all kinds of memories of the alredo made at your table on chafing dishes, and the gigantic, "diamond-studded" meatballs they were so famous for.
We did a little touring around, which you have to do while you're there, there's just so much to see. The Civil War monuments, Mrs. Moriarity, the exquisite and heart-breaking Hyman memorial, with the beautifully carved marble angel collapsed in grief, the many mini-mausoleums with artistic stained glass, the numerous historic families and individuals. The founding family of the old New Orleans newspaper, The Picayune, has a bronze newspaper on their elaborate tomb. Two famous New Orleans hotelier families, the Grunewalds and the Monteleones, buried side by side. By chance we came upon the family tomb of the Chinese Lee family and saw, in addition to the name of Jefferson Parish Sheriff Harry Lee, Mort Sahl Jr., listed as "beloved son, grandson, nephew." I had completely forgotten that comedian Mort Sahl had been briefly married to Playboy Playmate China Lee, who was Harry's sister. One of those strange only-in-New-Orleans things.
Since we love to poke around in historic cemeteries so much, we know we'll be back to all four in the days to come. But we felt good about doing our duty for All Saints. The traditions must be observed!
Our first errand on All Saints Day was to purchase the pots of chrysanthemums. This year, I wanted purple, and these were easily and quickly obtained from our locally-owned grocery store, right in the front of the store. (But it wasn't quite like the old days, when starting on October 30th, the grocery stores would set up tents in the parking lot to sell the mums to you so conveniently, you practically didn't have to get out of your car, and could just head to the cemeteries.) We got 6 pots, for, as you will see, we had a lot of stops to make.
Our first cemetery visit was to historic Cypress Grove, in the old cemetery neighborhood at the lake end of Canal Street. (Our drive took us past The Mortuary, a stately hundred year old former mortuary that is now a seasonal haunted house with many special effects and scary happenings. We have plans to go next weekend, during its final offering of the Halloween season. Big Man and I love that sort of thing and were big devotees of the haunted Eastern State Prison, former home to Al Capone, in Philadelphia.)
We had pots of mums for our founding ministers, Theodore Clapp and Sylvester Larned, who are buried together in the crypt for the Volunteer Fire Fighters, in the gated right corner of Cypress Grove as you enter through the giant Egyptian-inspired entrance. Luckily, the gate was unlocked and we went inside, placing our mums on the ground in front of their names. I spent a little time asking for their blessings on my congregation -- er, their, OUR congregation -- knowing that they'd understand our challenges, having themselves faced quite a lot (epidemics, wars, bankruptcy) during their ministries here. Their tomb was well-kept and needed no clean-up or trimming of weeds. We spent just a little time there, visiting a few of our favorite tombs, such as the Chinese-American Association vault, which combines elements of Christianity and Buddhism. (Inside the arched vault, it smelled strongly of recent incense.) Very few other tombs at Cypress Grove were decorated or seemed to have been visited.
The next stop was one of the oldest burying grounds in the city, St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. Two pots here too, for we came to honor two black Creoles who have had, in their respective times, enormous influence on New Orleans. Members of either the diocese or the cemetery preservation group had set up a table at the entrance, with books and pamphlets to sell, and when they saw Big Man and me carrying in pots of mums, they thanked us for coming. That felt funny to me -- I wasn't bringing the flowers to be thanked, or for recognition by living people. But I'm sure they meant it in good spirit. (Maybe I just should have said, "You're welcome" but I didn't, since it didn't feel right.)
We cut around their table and made a hard right a few tombs in. (This path is so familiar to me I could probably do it in my sleep, or blindfolded.) This brought us right in front of the tomb of Mayor "Dutch" Morial, and of course there were already mums there, a beautiful bright orange, probably brought by Morial family members. I put my purple mums on the other side of the ledge, and placed my hand on the "Keep the Drive Alive" inscription in the shiny granite. "Dutch," I whispered, "you would be so excited right now, this presidential election. Looks like it's really going to happen, and even if it doesn't, nobody's ever come this far before. You'd be proud." (Although I did have to wonder to myself if it would have bothered Dutch that it was somebody else getting this historic first.)
Then we turned to our right, where Marie Laveau's tomb sit neighborly next to Dutch's. Her tomb was marked, as always, with myriad triple Xs, and had laid out in front of it the diverse and various offerings of Mam'selle's diverse and varied followers and fans -- Mardi Gras beads, lots of dimes, glasses and bottles and cups of alcoholic beverages, flowers real and silk, notes from petitioners, food items, cigarettes. (This time, there were no marijuana joints as I have seen in the past.) A Creole Voodoo priestess dressed all in white and with a white tignon on her head was answering questions from a tour group, ironically standing next to the rather new metal sign declaring it a crime to mark or deface any tomb. (As if that would stop anybody!)
Big Man and I put the Lady's flowers on the side of the tomb, next to all the assorted stuff, and I pressed my forehead to the left side of her tomb. I thanked her for bringing us home, for finding Big Man a musical job so fast, for the well-bring of my family and church. I asked for her future care, not really as a petition to her, just to be kept on her mind. Then I made my way to the other 3 sides, repeating the prayers in the traditional "4 Corners" ritual, ending in front. People were arriving, most of them the curious, but we ignored them. We pushed a little to get past them, and got to the exit gate, where we quickly turned and walked out backwards (so as not to turn our backs to Mam'selle). Whether the ladies at the table there thought that was strange or not we can't say.
The next cemetery was St. Vincent de Paul, in the upper Ninth Ward, my father's family tomb, where my grandparents, one uncle and one aunt -- my father's older sister who died as a teenager in the great flu epidemic in the early 20th century -- are all buried. My father's ashes were not interred there -- in fact, we scattered them at City Park, on the golf course where he spent so many happy hours after his retirement -- but being there always brings him to mind since the All Saints ritual was something we used to do together, along with my son when he was little. To my disappointment, the face of the family tomb was marred by some black substance (mold?), some ugly discoloration of the aging white marble. I told Big Man we'd have to come back with cleaning supplies in a few days. The black gunk was so thick on the little triangular plinth that marked Daddy's sister, engraved "Our Beatrice" (pronounced the New Orleans way, "be-ATT-triss") that it was unreadable. This would not do. I felt badly about having to leave it in that condition, but was reassured that we'd be back soon. Big Man stood on a concrete vase to place the pot of mums up on the shelf in front of the family tomb. (We had to remove the full bottle of beer from it in order for him to use it as a boost, but we were careful to replace the grave offering when we were done.)
Two days later, we were back, with a step stool and cleaning brushes and some cleaning solvent, hopefully strong enough to remove the gunk without harming the marble. Unfortunately, we couldn't get high enough, and had to tip-toe to reach as far as we could to scrub the discoloration off. We made some progress, but we found that the marble face plate was loose and so the whole effort was precarious. Big Man handed down to me Beatrice's little marker and I scrubbed it hard, so it was readable, if not totally pristine. Since we had extra cleaning water, we did a few of the other graves around the family, just to be neighborly.
Last errand of this year's All Saints/All Souls was Lakelawn Metairie, to pay our respects to music legend Louis Prima, who in a way was responsible for bringing Big Man and me together. With exquisite courtesy, an elderly lady employee walked us around the combined funeral home/office building, til we got to the person who could give us a map and directions. He marked the map for us, and asked us if we knew what was the inscription on Louis's tomb. In unison, Big Man and I both replied, "Just a Gigolo," and the funeral director smiled.
We found Louis, with the angel Gabriel on top, blowing a trumpet. Big Man called an Italian friend back in Jersey, a GIANT Prima fan, and we took pictures, and vowed to come back soon. We noted that Louis's last wife Gia had apparently "expunged" Louis's previous family, had with Keely Smith, and the list of children did not include any of Keely and Louis's kids.
Interestingly enough, the Prima tomb is located in what could be called an Italian neighborhood in Metairie cemetery -- Louis was surrounded by several Italian societies, and tombs of all kinds of folks with Italian surnames. I was tickled to find his next-neighbor was the Brocato family, better known in New Orleans as the Moran family of Moran's Restaurant fame. Diamond Jim and his older son Jimmy. Wow. Brought back all kinds of memories of the alredo made at your table on chafing dishes, and the gigantic, "diamond-studded" meatballs they were so famous for.
We did a little touring around, which you have to do while you're there, there's just so much to see. The Civil War monuments, Mrs. Moriarity, the exquisite and heart-breaking Hyman memorial, with the beautifully carved marble angel collapsed in grief, the many mini-mausoleums with artistic stained glass, the numerous historic families and individuals. The founding family of the old New Orleans newspaper, The Picayune, has a bronze newspaper on their elaborate tomb. Two famous New Orleans hotelier families, the Grunewalds and the Monteleones, buried side by side. By chance we came upon the family tomb of the Chinese Lee family and saw, in addition to the name of Jefferson Parish Sheriff Harry Lee, Mort Sahl Jr., listed as "beloved son, grandson, nephew." I had completely forgotten that comedian Mort Sahl had been briefly married to Playboy Playmate China Lee, who was Harry's sister. One of those strange only-in-New-Orleans things.
Since we love to poke around in historic cemeteries so much, we know we'll be back to all four in the days to come. But we felt good about doing our duty for All Saints. The traditions must be observed!
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