From Monday, June 22, until Monday, June 29, I will be attending the general convention of my religious denomination up in Salt Lake City, Utah (where it promises to be cooler, espcially at night). Since this blog was set up as a response to moving home to New Orleans, and reporting on life and love and conditions, good and bad, in the Crescent City since Katrina, I'll have nothing to post until I get back.
So this blog is going inactive until around the first of July. See y'all then.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
"Vieux To Do" -- Three Fests in One
The weekend of June 13 and 14 featured the three French Market Festivals which had been so much fun for Big Man and me last year: the creole Tomato Festival, the Louisiana Seafood Festival, and the Cajun and Zydeco Festival. It was also a very busy weekend for us, with our hosting a gathering at our home for new church members on that Sunday afternoon, and thus having to clean the first floor of the house prior to the little reception (we don't clean up upstairs unless we think folks will have a reason to go up there!), so the only day we could go was Saturday.
Last year, one of the festivals (or part of the three festivals, I'm not sure sure how they organized it) was held on the grounds of the Old Mint on Esplanade, and there was lots of shade and grass to help cope with the heat. This year, it was not only hotter and not as cloudy (it rained a bit last year, which we thought was a blessing), but for whatever crazy reason, the Mint was closed off for renovations -- which of course were NOT going on on the weekend! -- and the entire complex of three festivals was now jammed up in the French Market and Dutch Alley. No trees. No grass. Just acres of concrete and hordes of sweaty people crammed into a smaller space.
I will say that the music was good at both of the stages we saw (weren't there *three* stages last year??), but it was SO HOT and the stages were set up in such a way that to be in front of the stage was to have the sun beat unmercifully on your head, so that you had to be more than a little crazy to hang there. (A parishioner of mine reported that a friend of hers had been dancing at the festival, and she commented, "She must have lost her mind.") It was so hot you couldn't think, your brain just boiled. And, unlike at Jazz Fest, there was no "mist tent" to duck into to try to cool off; unlike Phoenix, Arizona, no restaurant or shop blew cold air out into the crowd. It was just miserable hot, crazy-making hot, brain-boiling hot.
Three things added to our disappointment: the charbroiled oysters weren't as good as last year (different vendor), there were no comfortable tables and chairs set up in the shade as last year (no room, I guess, with the new set-up), and WE COULD NOT FIND THE HEIRLOOM TOMATO GUY!! We had brought a canvas bag just for the purpose of taking those babies safe home with us, and we were determined, but it was a fruitless (and tomato-less) quest. We walked and walked, sweating up and down the length of the festival area *three times* and asked every person connected to the festival we could find. (One answered, "I don't even know what an heirloom tomato IS." How bad is that??) Since that had been our absolute favorite thing at last year's festival, despite the good music and the good food we ate, and the wonderfully refrsing hand-made limeade, and the carton of (regular) Creole tomatoes we brought home, the festival was a bust to us.
Next year, go back to the Old Mint! Or move the three festivals to Waldenburg Park! (Or the air-conditioned Morial Convention Center!) No grass and no trees and no place to sit makes for one hot and uncomfortable festival.
Last year, one of the festivals (or part of the three festivals, I'm not sure sure how they organized it) was held on the grounds of the Old Mint on Esplanade, and there was lots of shade and grass to help cope with the heat. This year, it was not only hotter and not as cloudy (it rained a bit last year, which we thought was a blessing), but for whatever crazy reason, the Mint was closed off for renovations -- which of course were NOT going on on the weekend! -- and the entire complex of three festivals was now jammed up in the French Market and Dutch Alley. No trees. No grass. Just acres of concrete and hordes of sweaty people crammed into a smaller space.
I will say that the music was good at both of the stages we saw (weren't there *three* stages last year??), but it was SO HOT and the stages were set up in such a way that to be in front of the stage was to have the sun beat unmercifully on your head, so that you had to be more than a little crazy to hang there. (A parishioner of mine reported that a friend of hers had been dancing at the festival, and she commented, "She must have lost her mind.") It was so hot you couldn't think, your brain just boiled. And, unlike at Jazz Fest, there was no "mist tent" to duck into to try to cool off; unlike Phoenix, Arizona, no restaurant or shop blew cold air out into the crowd. It was just miserable hot, crazy-making hot, brain-boiling hot.
Three things added to our disappointment: the charbroiled oysters weren't as good as last year (different vendor), there were no comfortable tables and chairs set up in the shade as last year (no room, I guess, with the new set-up), and WE COULD NOT FIND THE HEIRLOOM TOMATO GUY!! We had brought a canvas bag just for the purpose of taking those babies safe home with us, and we were determined, but it was a fruitless (and tomato-less) quest. We walked and walked, sweating up and down the length of the festival area *three times* and asked every person connected to the festival we could find. (One answered, "I don't even know what an heirloom tomato IS." How bad is that??) Since that had been our absolute favorite thing at last year's festival, despite the good music and the good food we ate, and the wonderfully refrsing hand-made limeade, and the carton of (regular) Creole tomatoes we brought home, the festival was a bust to us.
Next year, go back to the Old Mint! Or move the three festivals to Waldenburg Park! (Or the air-conditioned Morial Convention Center!) No grass and no trees and no place to sit makes for one hot and uncomfortable festival.
D-Day Commemoration
On Sunday afternoon, June 7, Big Man and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves at the D-Day Commemoration at the D-Day Museum. (We discovered the festival quite by accident, since we parked around the corner from there for the meal-service our church was involved in with two other churches of our denomination at Ozanam Inn, which is about a block away from the museum.) We felt lucky to have stumbled upon it, and went straight there after helping to serve the meal at Ozanam. We noticed that food and drink tents had been set up in the museum parking lot, adjacent to the Contemporary Art Center, but we had already eaten before getting to Ozanam Inn, so we passed straight through.
The day was hot and sunny, but not so uncomfortable that we didn't want to join the families and individuals across the street from the main museum complex where a group of World War II equipment (a typical GI tent complete with weapons, cot and personal items; a doctor's jeep; a German missile launcher; and an American tank, with wooden "Hershey chocolate" boxes lashed to the outside) had been set up with docents costumed in World War II garb. Very interesting, especially to small boys, their dads, and of course to Big Man. We spent some quality time there (me sweating bullets -- it was so hot and the sun beat down so hard, I took Big Man's straw hat away from him and wore it myself) before going inside the museum (blessedly air-conditioned).
To our delight, the big open atrium of the museum, with the World War II planes hanging from wires down from the ceiling, had been turned into a concert space, with folding chairs set up in rows. A big band was playing World War II music, from the theme songs of all the military services ("The Marine Hymn," "Anchors Aweigh," and so on), to the favorite dance music of GIs and their girls. Each song was introduced with a lot of information and hints, and those in the audience who shouted out the title were rewarded with -- what else? -- Hershey bars. It was all the songs you'd expect: "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree," "Over There," "Little Brown Jug," "String of Pearls," "Pennsylvania 65000," "In the Mood," "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" and on and on. Big Man kept exclaiming over the high musicianship and great arrangements of the band, made up almost exclusively of older guys.
The emcee pointed out the big open area in front of the band and told everyone it was a dance floor, and meant to be used. The crowd needed little encouragement, and stepped out to dance in the old way. There were young couples dressed in their interpretation of World War II civvy-style: the young women had on hair snoods and strappy chunky shoes, and the young men sported fedoras and loud sport shirts.
But it wasn't only young people dancing. WWII vets and their wives glided around the dance floor, gracefully following each other's rhythmic moves as they had been doing for a lifetime. My favorite was an Italian-looking older man with a silver pompadour and a sport shirt and slacks set in butter yellow trimmed in black, and his wife, with her lacquered hair and pastel pantsuit, expertly making their moves on the dance floor. At the end of each dance, they kissed. So sweet. (Big Man and I danced too, but we were not as expert and graceful in those old dances as the old folks were.)
Figuring we weren't staying that long on that particular day (but we're definitely going back for an extended visit of several hours to do the place justice), we did not buy tickets for the museum itself. But we did enjoy several exhibits on view in the main area where the concert was, and just off it in the hallways to the gift shop (of course we have to go in the gift shop!) and the coffee shop at the back.
Near the restrooms, there was an exhibit of photographs and other material about American GIs in German POW camps. There were the shots you'd expect, of gaunt men standing in rows to be inspected, of the flimsy huts in which they lived out their captivity, of a Red Cross visit to a camp bringing extra rations, and so on. There was also a letter from the War Department to a family, letting them know their loved one had been confirmed as a POW in German hands, and a graphic layout of such a camp. But there was also a hauntingly strange and beautiful black and white photo of a scene from a musical, as put on by American prisoners in a POW camp. One young man was dressed as the heroine in what looked like a straw wig, and was leaning over the railing of the stage set (stage set?) toward the hero. We could hardly tear ourselves away from it.
There was another free exhibit just outside the theater that shows the museum's special films (such as "The War in the Pacific" which we saw that afternoon), with art work by a man who had lied about his age to get into the army and thus came to war and combat at the tender age of 16. The paintings were raw and graphic and colorful, and extremely powerful and affecting -- and hard to look at.
We definitely recommend the D-Day Museum, and next year will schedule the D-Day Commemoration festival on our calendar!
The day was hot and sunny, but not so uncomfortable that we didn't want to join the families and individuals across the street from the main museum complex where a group of World War II equipment (a typical GI tent complete with weapons, cot and personal items; a doctor's jeep; a German missile launcher; and an American tank, with wooden "Hershey chocolate" boxes lashed to the outside) had been set up with docents costumed in World War II garb. Very interesting, especially to small boys, their dads, and of course to Big Man. We spent some quality time there (me sweating bullets -- it was so hot and the sun beat down so hard, I took Big Man's straw hat away from him and wore it myself) before going inside the museum (blessedly air-conditioned).
To our delight, the big open atrium of the museum, with the World War II planes hanging from wires down from the ceiling, had been turned into a concert space, with folding chairs set up in rows. A big band was playing World War II music, from the theme songs of all the military services ("The Marine Hymn," "Anchors Aweigh," and so on), to the favorite dance music of GIs and their girls. Each song was introduced with a lot of information and hints, and those in the audience who shouted out the title were rewarded with -- what else? -- Hershey bars. It was all the songs you'd expect: "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree," "Over There," "Little Brown Jug," "String of Pearls," "Pennsylvania 65000," "In the Mood," "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" and on and on. Big Man kept exclaiming over the high musicianship and great arrangements of the band, made up almost exclusively of older guys.
The emcee pointed out the big open area in front of the band and told everyone it was a dance floor, and meant to be used. The crowd needed little encouragement, and stepped out to dance in the old way. There were young couples dressed in their interpretation of World War II civvy-style: the young women had on hair snoods and strappy chunky shoes, and the young men sported fedoras and loud sport shirts.
But it wasn't only young people dancing. WWII vets and their wives glided around the dance floor, gracefully following each other's rhythmic moves as they had been doing for a lifetime. My favorite was an Italian-looking older man with a silver pompadour and a sport shirt and slacks set in butter yellow trimmed in black, and his wife, with her lacquered hair and pastel pantsuit, expertly making their moves on the dance floor. At the end of each dance, they kissed. So sweet. (Big Man and I danced too, but we were not as expert and graceful in those old dances as the old folks were.)
Figuring we weren't staying that long on that particular day (but we're definitely going back for an extended visit of several hours to do the place justice), we did not buy tickets for the museum itself. But we did enjoy several exhibits on view in the main area where the concert was, and just off it in the hallways to the gift shop (of course we have to go in the gift shop!) and the coffee shop at the back.
Near the restrooms, there was an exhibit of photographs and other material about American GIs in German POW camps. There were the shots you'd expect, of gaunt men standing in rows to be inspected, of the flimsy huts in which they lived out their captivity, of a Red Cross visit to a camp bringing extra rations, and so on. There was also a letter from the War Department to a family, letting them know their loved one had been confirmed as a POW in German hands, and a graphic layout of such a camp. But there was also a hauntingly strange and beautiful black and white photo of a scene from a musical, as put on by American prisoners in a POW camp. One young man was dressed as the heroine in what looked like a straw wig, and was leaning over the railing of the stage set (stage set?) toward the hero. We could hardly tear ourselves away from it.
There was another free exhibit just outside the theater that shows the museum's special films (such as "The War in the Pacific" which we saw that afternoon), with art work by a man who had lied about his age to get into the army and thus came to war and combat at the tender age of 16. The paintings were raw and graphic and colorful, and extremely powerful and affecting -- and hard to look at.
We definitely recommend the D-Day Museum, and next year will schedule the D-Day Commemoration festival on our calendar!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Serving at Ozanam Inn
Last Sunday, members and friends of the three New Orleans-area congregations of our denomination joined together for the first-ever shared service project. In an inspired choice for more than one reason (see next blog post), it was decided that our inaugural effort would be to serve a meal to the homeless at Ozanam Inn.
Ozanam Inn has a long and distinguished history in New Orleans. You might say it started way back in 1911 by a priest who opened a facility for homeless and jobless men in a rented space in the *Lower Pontalba Building* on Jackson Square -- at a time when the French Quarter was still a neighborhood of immigrants and poor and working class people. From that beginning, it evolved into St. Vincent's Hotel and Free Labor Bureau, which had two more addresses over time: 615 Decatur and 411 North Rampart (next door to Our Lady of Guadalupe). With the deaths of its founding priests, and a shift in attention toward young men and boys (in order, it was thought, to forestall the causes of homeless and jobless men), St. Vincent's lost drive and eventually closed. Other institutions with similar purposes arose to take its place: the Baptist Mission, the Salvation Army, and the Volunteers of America.
By the early 1950s it was clear that New Orleans had not met capacity on services to the homeless in the Central Business District. In those days, both ships and trains serviced the port, and it was common for indigent men to jump ship or hop a freight to get to the warmer cities of the South. Looking for handouts, they often gravitated toward historic St. Patrick's Cathedral, which for over a hundred years was the tallest spire visible from the downtown levee. Priests at St. Patrick's daily dealt with dozens of homeless men, and Lafayette Square, across from City Hall, became filled with men sleeping under the trees and in the park benches.
In the spring of 1952, a group of some 300 Vincentians, gathered for a meeting at the Old Druids' Home at 843 Camp Street, and were challenged by one of their number to find a way to help the scores of "hungry, homeless, hapless and helpless" men they could see every day in the neighborhood. Discussion ensued, but no action was taken.
Two years later, the pastor of St. Patrick's met with the owner of rooming house just purchased at 829 Camp Street. Since its erection in 1903, the building had served as a gathering spot for officers of both the Naval and later the Marine Reserves, and in World War II had been the headquarters of the U.S. Shore Patrol. After the war, it had housed a music school. Most recently, it had been purchased by Loyola University as a possible home for its new TV studios, but it had sold the property after deciding to locate WWL in the French Quarter instead. The new owner was amenable to leasing it at low cost to the Order of St. Vincent, but it took 2 more years of negotiations to work out all the details.
When the newly refurbished inn opened in Spring of 1955, it was decided to name it after the founder of the Order of St. Vincent de Paul, Frederick Ozanam. Word spread rapidly on the streets that there was now a safe and clean place for men to stay, get a shower and hot meal, and be counseled for more productive lives. There was never a lack for clients.
In 1961, Ozanam moved into the very building where the first discussions had taken place for its founding, at the Old Druids' Home at 843 Camp Street, where it is located today. Its mission remains the same: to provide compassionate care in the form of housing, food, and counseling to those without means, without homes, often without education, even without hope.
In order to do this, Ozanam Inn seeks donations of money, food, and volunteers. Our group (made up of about two and a half dozen people representing all three congreations, plus the two ministers) was set to serve -- but not prepare -- the midday Sunday meal, which is the main meal of the day. (In the evenings, they serve the overnight residents cold sandwiches.) We arrived at 1:30 pm and were soon briefed on what needed to happen.
Many hands make light work, and there were assignments for everybody, no matter their age. Two or three greeted at the entry door and counted the people to be served using little "clickers." A group of six, including Big Man and I, stood in the serving line off the kitchen and made sure each tray had a piece of chicken, two slices of bread, a doughnut, a scoop of mac and cheese, and a scoop of carrots or salad. Two more people put out the silverware and the glasses for each tray. Then there were folks wiping down the tables, and helping to bus the tables and sweeping the floor. (And some were taking photos to record the event!) After close to two hours, more than 160 hungry people had enjoyed a hot Sunday dinner. The first person in line was an older African-American lady with an amputated leg in a wheelchair.
It was a tremendous experience for our group of church folks, aged from wise elder to an outgoing boy of about 8. We felt good about contributing to this effort to bring comfort and health to men and women who spend their days on the streets and their nights in shelter (if they're lucky). We look forward to our next community outreach project.
Ozanam Inn has a long and distinguished history in New Orleans. You might say it started way back in 1911 by a priest who opened a facility for homeless and jobless men in a rented space in the *Lower Pontalba Building* on Jackson Square -- at a time when the French Quarter was still a neighborhood of immigrants and poor and working class people. From that beginning, it evolved into St. Vincent's Hotel and Free Labor Bureau, which had two more addresses over time: 615 Decatur and 411 North Rampart (next door to Our Lady of Guadalupe). With the deaths of its founding priests, and a shift in attention toward young men and boys (in order, it was thought, to forestall the causes of homeless and jobless men), St. Vincent's lost drive and eventually closed. Other institutions with similar purposes arose to take its place: the Baptist Mission, the Salvation Army, and the Volunteers of America.
By the early 1950s it was clear that New Orleans had not met capacity on services to the homeless in the Central Business District. In those days, both ships and trains serviced the port, and it was common for indigent men to jump ship or hop a freight to get to the warmer cities of the South. Looking for handouts, they often gravitated toward historic St. Patrick's Cathedral, which for over a hundred years was the tallest spire visible from the downtown levee. Priests at St. Patrick's daily dealt with dozens of homeless men, and Lafayette Square, across from City Hall, became filled with men sleeping under the trees and in the park benches.
In the spring of 1952, a group of some 300 Vincentians, gathered for a meeting at the Old Druids' Home at 843 Camp Street, and were challenged by one of their number to find a way to help the scores of "hungry, homeless, hapless and helpless" men they could see every day in the neighborhood. Discussion ensued, but no action was taken.
Two years later, the pastor of St. Patrick's met with the owner of rooming house just purchased at 829 Camp Street. Since its erection in 1903, the building had served as a gathering spot for officers of both the Naval and later the Marine Reserves, and in World War II had been the headquarters of the U.S. Shore Patrol. After the war, it had housed a music school. Most recently, it had been purchased by Loyola University as a possible home for its new TV studios, but it had sold the property after deciding to locate WWL in the French Quarter instead. The new owner was amenable to leasing it at low cost to the Order of St. Vincent, but it took 2 more years of negotiations to work out all the details.
When the newly refurbished inn opened in Spring of 1955, it was decided to name it after the founder of the Order of St. Vincent de Paul, Frederick Ozanam. Word spread rapidly on the streets that there was now a safe and clean place for men to stay, get a shower and hot meal, and be counseled for more productive lives. There was never a lack for clients.
In 1961, Ozanam moved into the very building where the first discussions had taken place for its founding, at the Old Druids' Home at 843 Camp Street, where it is located today. Its mission remains the same: to provide compassionate care in the form of housing, food, and counseling to those without means, without homes, often without education, even without hope.
In order to do this, Ozanam Inn seeks donations of money, food, and volunteers. Our group (made up of about two and a half dozen people representing all three congreations, plus the two ministers) was set to serve -- but not prepare -- the midday Sunday meal, which is the main meal of the day. (In the evenings, they serve the overnight residents cold sandwiches.) We arrived at 1:30 pm and were soon briefed on what needed to happen.
Many hands make light work, and there were assignments for everybody, no matter their age. Two or three greeted at the entry door and counted the people to be served using little "clickers." A group of six, including Big Man and I, stood in the serving line off the kitchen and made sure each tray had a piece of chicken, two slices of bread, a doughnut, a scoop of mac and cheese, and a scoop of carrots or salad. Two more people put out the silverware and the glasses for each tray. Then there were folks wiping down the tables, and helping to bus the tables and sweeping the floor. (And some were taking photos to record the event!) After close to two hours, more than 160 hungry people had enjoyed a hot Sunday dinner. The first person in line was an older African-American lady with an amputated leg in a wheelchair.
It was a tremendous experience for our group of church folks, aged from wise elder to an outgoing boy of about 8. We felt good about contributing to this effort to bring comfort and health to men and women who spend their days on the streets and their nights in shelter (if they're lucky). We look forward to our next community outreach project.
Wednesdays at the Square Concerts
The Wednesdays at the Square concert series is, sadly, coming to a close. Starting in April and ending in June, this series of free concerts in the late afternoon/early evenings on "hump day" at Lafayette Square across from Gallier Hall (and where, many years ago, my family used to spend Mardi Gras day, back before the Federal Court building was erected) brings out the wide variety of music- and food-loving New Orleanians -- black and white and brown and yellow retirees, Baby Boomers, bikers, professionals, young adults, teens, and babies in strollers (and dogs! Big Man loves to pet all the different dogs at the concerts).
The tradition of the concerts began before Katrina and seems even more popular now, as a celebration of what makes New Orleans unique and wonderful, and as an early start to the weekend. (Only in New Orleans can the weekend start on a Wednesday!) It's great for the local musicians, the concerts being early enough that the musicians can get to a night gig afterward, and thus be paid twice on the same day.
Local restaurants and caterers set up little booths and sell small portions of delicious food and drinks at reasonable prices, using tickets instead of money, and so providing a steady stream of income for the sponsors of the series, the Young Leadership Council (YLC), who took over the concerts after Katrina, when the former sponsor, the Downtown Development District, had to concentrate helping businesses to survive in the post-Storm environment. There are also arts and craft booths, selling locally-themed items such as photographs, replicas of famous or infamous New Orleans buildings and signs, fleur de lis jewelry, etc.
Some people bring chairs and blankets, other stand, some sit on improvised seats, such as the steps surrounding the statues of Lafayette and John McDonough that adorn the park; still others "cruise" the square, meeting and greeting friends and family and enjoying the people-watching (and yes, the pretty woman-watching. Big Man says that per capita New Orleans has more home-grown pretty women than any other city in America.)
There's two more concerts to go, one tonight with the big horn band the Boogie Men, and the last one next week with the double bill of the Hot 8 Brass Band and Galactic, but it'll all be somewhat anti-climatic after last week's blow-out with Trombone Shorty and his band Orleans Avenue. Now, THAT was a show! (Troy pretty much reprised his set from Jazz Fest, but it did not seem like a repeat of anything, just pure musicianship and entertainment.)
I understand the many reasons why the series has to end in June -- it gets way too hot, for one thing, and I'm sure it's very expensive to produce, and so many local musicians go on tour in the summer, to get away from the slow season. But I'm always sorry when the series draws to a close.
The tradition of the concerts began before Katrina and seems even more popular now, as a celebration of what makes New Orleans unique and wonderful, and as an early start to the weekend. (Only in New Orleans can the weekend start on a Wednesday!) It's great for the local musicians, the concerts being early enough that the musicians can get to a night gig afterward, and thus be paid twice on the same day.
Local restaurants and caterers set up little booths and sell small portions of delicious food and drinks at reasonable prices, using tickets instead of money, and so providing a steady stream of income for the sponsors of the series, the Young Leadership Council (YLC), who took over the concerts after Katrina, when the former sponsor, the Downtown Development District, had to concentrate helping businesses to survive in the post-Storm environment. There are also arts and craft booths, selling locally-themed items such as photographs, replicas of famous or infamous New Orleans buildings and signs, fleur de lis jewelry, etc.
Some people bring chairs and blankets, other stand, some sit on improvised seats, such as the steps surrounding the statues of Lafayette and John McDonough that adorn the park; still others "cruise" the square, meeting and greeting friends and family and enjoying the people-watching (and yes, the pretty woman-watching. Big Man says that per capita New Orleans has more home-grown pretty women than any other city in America.)
There's two more concerts to go, one tonight with the big horn band the Boogie Men, and the last one next week with the double bill of the Hot 8 Brass Band and Galactic, but it'll all be somewhat anti-climatic after last week's blow-out with Trombone Shorty and his band Orleans Avenue. Now, THAT was a show! (Troy pretty much reprised his set from Jazz Fest, but it did not seem like a repeat of anything, just pure musicianship and entertainment.)
I understand the many reasons why the series has to end in June -- it gets way too hot, for one thing, and I'm sure it's very expensive to produce, and so many local musicians go on tour in the summer, to get away from the slow season. But I'm always sorry when the series draws to a close.
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