Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Farewell to Marva Wright

On Tuesday, March 23, Marva Wright, blues belter extraordinaire, died from complications of two strokes suffered earlier. She was only 62 years old. Her "real job" was elementary school secretary and thousands of New Orleans schoolkids revered "Miss Marva" as the secretary whose wonderful singing voice could make you happy (or at least almost happy) you were called to the principal's office.

Late in life she took up singing full time, after consulting with her friend Jo "Cool" Davis about the propriety of moving from church singing to blues singing. Since that had been Jo's path as well, he encouraged her. In no time at all, she was shouting and screaming into microphones all over the city, meeting (and impressing) national celebrities. She was a hard-working woman with a strict work ethic, requiring her band to be on time and always giving 100%. (Indeed, there are some -- and Big Man is among them -- who feel that Marva's second stroke was brought on at least in part by her returning to work so soon after the first one.)

Those of us who reveled in her performances will never forget her inimitable style, her wardrobe of wigs, her professionalism, her complete dedication to putting a song across. Her long-time gig was in a club on Bourbon Street just down from where Big Man plays 5 nights a week. Often when he got off from his regular gig, Big Man would walk over and sit in with Marva. "Hey, Horn Man!" she would call to him as he entered the club, and call him up to the stage. She enjoyed his playing, though I'm sure she could not call his name. She was some lady, believe you me.

My sister L and I talked about it, the loss, and how "young" she was. (Hey, you get to be in your late 50s and suddenly early 60s seems REAL young to you!) L worried that memorial tributes to Marva might occur after she and her husband left on Wednesday to see their grandchild in Austin, Texas. When WWOZ announced that Marva Wright would lie "in state" in historic Gallier Hall on Tuesday afternoon, we were glad and made our plans.

Big Man, L, and I drove downtown around 3:30 pm and found a legal parking space on the street (probably because Big Man was with us -- he generally has excellent parkma). In the afternoon light, we strolled through Lafayette Square to the gray granite steps of the old ornate city hall, passing the open pocket doors past the life-size bronze sculptures of male and female figures into the front hallway. Tables filled the entrance way, staffed by 4 elegant Creole ladies who greeted us and offered us guestbooks to sign. To the right, we could see one of the reception rooms set up with chairs in rows and a stage with a drum set and bristling with microphones, where I guess the actual service was to be that evening.

Then we went to our left into the main double parlors of the Hall, where Miss Marva was laid out in a shiny mahogany and brass casket. There were floral arrangements aplenty, including a tall microphone and stand made of chrysanthemums from the Jazz and Heritage Foundation, a lovely arrangement of hot pink lilies from Marva's long-time guitarist Benny, a giant bunch of white roses and white and green baby orchids from Marva's husband and children, an NOPD badge formed of flowers from the department's Sex Abuse Division (??), a stand of roses from Harrah's, and another arrangement from the Ritz Carlton. There was also a mystery arrangement with a card that simply said, "From a Friend."

Marva looked GOOD. Whoever the undertaker was had done a terrific job on her makeup, very lifelike. She was wearing a spangly silver and white dress that she used to perform in, and was completely accessorized with bling -- tiara-like headband, necklace, bracelets, earrings and rings. In her hands was tucked an immaculate white linen and lace handkerchief. She was sporting one of her characteristic wigs -- but not the one she's often pictured in, the one with the big fat Shirley-Temple corkscrew curls.

Around the casket on easels were poster collages of photographs of Marva on stage, Marva in concert, Marva with John Goodman, Marva being kissed by Paul Shaeffer, Marva at Jazz Fest, Marva with her band, Marva with her husband and her children, and on and on. We looked carefully at all the pictures, remembering. We were glad we had come, and L was especially glad it happened before she left town.

Rest in peace, Marva, we love you.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

St. Bernard Crawfish Festival

On Sunday after church, Big Man and I headed to my old stomping grounds of Chalmette for the annual Crawfish Festival. Chalmette, the St. Bernard Parish working-class suburb of New Orleans, is where my parents moved right after World War II, just as tomato fields of that parish were transformed into new housing developments for returning GIs. I grew up there, from kindergarten and elementary school at Our Lady of Prompt Succor, to high school at Andrew Jackson (the year it first opened).

Going back for the Crawfish Festival allows us to see what progress has been made on rebuilding St. Bernard since Katrina, and the truth is, it's not great. While a new Big Lots and new Walmart and new Lowe's have opened, there are still whole swaths of the Parish, residential and commercial, that display destruction and desolation. It's heart-breaking, really. So many people unable or unwilling to come back, generations of neighborhoods left empty where there had been neighbors, connections, relationships. Who knows how long it will take for St. Bernard to return to its pre-Katrina population levels?

Judging from the giant crowd at the festival, it seems clear that lots of St. Bernardians return from wherever they live now on this occasion, as well as drawing at least a few people from other parishes. Hard to judge exactly how many were there on Sunday, but sure seemed like at least ten thousand. A band was set up on the far end of the fest toward the Goodchildren side, and carny rides and booths were on the lake side of the fest grounds, which was the area all around the St. Bernard Civic Center.

How many ways can you fix crawfish? A lot, apparently. There was boiled crawfish, fried crawfish (including my especial favorite, fried *softshell* crawfish), crawfish pie, crawfish etouffé, crawfish creole, crawfish bisque, crawfish bread (giant line there), crawfish sauce poured over catfish, over french fries, over fried eggplant. Crawfish wasn't all there was, either -- any kind of seafood you wanted (including lobster!), sausages made of pork and alligator (and crawfish!), even lamb or beef gyros (I guess this was in case anyone was allergic or something). There were things called "potato ribbons" which were continuous sheer strips of potatoes flash-fried and potatoes fried with onions and potatoes boiled with the crawfish. (Face it, there were no low-calorie options at this fest!)

We ate our fill, enjoyed looking at the people and the crafts. I was sure there were people all around us that I had gone to grade school or high school with, without any of us recognizing each other. The day was really beautiful, sun shining brightly (I was glad to have a sunhat on). We will definitely be back again next year, when we hope to see more progress in recovery for St. Bernard Parish.

Ponchatoula Strawberries & Madisonville Seafood

Saturday was SUCH a gorgeous day -- clear blue sky, temperatures in the low 70s, and a light breeze -- that after my pastoral errands and meetings, which took all morning, Big Man and I decided to take the drive to Ponchatoula to get some strawberries. It wasn't the Strawberry Festival or anything, we just wanted the drive and the berries. So we packed Keely into the car and drove over the Bonne Carré Spillway in the gorgeous weather. Along the way, we saw lots of egrets (but no eagles or pelicans as we have on previous drives). At Pass Manchac, the sun glittered beautifully off both Lake Maurepas and Lake Pontchatrain.

Ponchatoula was sleepy and quiet and quaint (not like it'll be the weekend of the festival!). We went to the very same young man with a truck full of strawberry flats at the junction of the highway and the main street that we bought from last year. Big Man thought we only wanted half a flat but I insisted on a whole one, since I figured we could unload the other half with my sister L (which turned out to be the case). The strawberries looked almost UNREAL, they were so deep red, so perfect in shape, so fresh. We immediately ate several, straight from the box.

We had noticed a produce stand as we came into town, so we put Keely on a leash and walked over there. (I was a little worried about whether they'd let Keely inside, but they were cool about it.) The open-air but covered stand had lots and lots of goodies -- fresh vegetables and fruit, refrigerated perishables like delicate lettuces, rows of home-made preserves, jams, jellies, pickles and sauces, hot items such as several kinds of boudin, boiled peanuts, and crawfish etouffée, an area where they put together gift baskets of produce and stuff, and an alcove with pottery stuff from Mexico. (If you go, this produce stand is just to the left of the main highway into town that you get on from the first Ponchatoula exit off Interstate 55.)

We picked up a beautiful glossy eggplant, a head of lettuce, some nice tomatoes, a package of prepared angel food cake (to have with the strawberries), and a jar of bread-and-butter pickles with pineapple and jalapeno peppers (really, who could resist that??) and a jar of strawberry fig steak sauce (wow!). After giving Keely a quickie little walk-around, we found places for everything in the car, the inside of which already smelled like strawberries. (I said to Big Man, "This smells so good -- they should make a perfume that smells like strawberries." And he says, "They do, it's for 8-year-olds.")

By now, we're both pretty hungry, and get back to the car for another drive. I had picked out a place in Madisonville that I had heard advertised on the radio that was supposed to have good seafood. Madisonville is the next little town over from Ponchatoula, an easy drive along the main street of Ponchatoula that becomes a state highway as it heads east. As we drove, it was interesting to see how much both little towns had grown over the years, with housing developments of McMansions popping up, despite the rural setting. (It always amazes me how far some people are willing to commute, to either New Orleans or Baton Rouge.) The day was fine, and the air smelled sweet, like strawberries and flowers and spring greenery (but we didn't sneeze!).

Friends Coastal Restaurant turns out to be situated right on the Tchefuncte River in Madisonville, in the "main" part of town, along with late 19th and early 20th century houses, many with tin roofs. The parking lots was full and there was clearly a waiting line, but when we walked in (poor Keely in the car in the shade with the windows rolled partly down), we were told if we were willing to eat *inside* we could get a table right away. The hostess led us, past all kinds of nautical décor, to a table that overlooked the deck on the river. It was the next best thing to eating outside, and it was wonderful to view the river, the boats, and the fancy-shmancy houses on the other side of the river (clearly the new construction side). They even had live music on the deck, a guy on guitar who was not bad.

Friends has a great menu, full of stuff you want to eat, and it took us a while to choose. In the end, we ordered the king crab as our shared appetizer, I got the puppy drum-fresh spinach wrap with a balsamic vinaigrette sauce (yum!), and Big Man got the lobster-andouille pasta (very high on the OMG scale). We also ordered little cups of their crawfish-corn chowder -- mmm, rich! Everything was fantastic, and while we hadn't actually intended to go out and have a $50 lunch, we were not at all sorry.

After lunch, we walked Keely around the little marina, admiring the gorgeous old boats (Madisonville is the home of the Wooden Boat Festival every October). We took that same highway back to the Causeway. Corrugated clouds had gathered over the lake but it was still beautiful and sunny. We agreed that Friends Coastal was well worth the drive and vowed to return soon.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Wednesdays at the Square #1: Trombone Shorty

The first of the free Wednesday evening concerts at Lafayette Square kicked off yesterday. with Trombone Shorty and his band Orleans Avenue. It was a cloudy, somewhat chilly and windy late afternoon, but no rain was forecast -- it wouldn't have mattered if it had rained, since the concerts go on rain or shine. I didn't get home from the church until 5:30 pm, so we had already missed the beginning of the opening act, and with the usual delays in getting started (plus a conversation about whether or not to take our dog Keely), we didn't get there until close to 6 pm.

We parked in the office building adjacent to the Square, a nice bargain at $5, and rode down the elevator to the street. The elevator was filled with people, and as we got in, a black man in the back of the car called out, "Hey, Trumpet Man!" and he and Big Man greeted each other. Turned out it was James Andrews, Troy's (Shorty's) older brother, coming to sit in on his lil bro's gig on his trumpet. Big Man and James have run into each other quite a bit on Frenchman Street, where Big Man will often run after his regular gig is over. We exchanged a few words with him as the elevator went down.

We had decided to give Keely her inaugural Wednesday at the Square and brought her leash and some treats, but perhaps if we had known exactly how crowded it was going to be, we might have rethought it. Wow! What a crowd! The announcer on stage thanked everyone for the "biggest first Wednesday we've ever had," and I could believe it. Keely was by no means the only dog there -- in fact, there were dogs of every possible description: teeny-tiny, middle-sized, lanky, stocky, shaggy, sleek, and giant. Keely was happy to sniff all the dogs who would let her (a few were too barky and snappy to be friendly) and in a few cases, rolled around on the ground with.

Before we had finished getting food and drinks (we both got the absolutely yummy duck po-boys with Creole cole slaw, but only Big Man got something to drink, since the alcohol lines were way too long), the charismatic young Mr. Andrews took the stage. And I do mean "took the stage" -- Trombone Shorty strides on like he owns the stage, confident, cocky even (although is it cocky if you really have the goods?), a far, far cry from the diffident, shy young man Big Man and I met at the Clifford Brown Jazz Festival in Wilmington, Delaware, in the months after Katrina. Touring with Lenny Kravitz has really given him stage presence, stage craft, and show-biz know-how. (And I say this with approval. Too many New Orleans musicians sniff at working a crowd, having a rapport with the audience, using stage craft of any kind. You can take the whole relating to the folks thing too far -- witness the antics of Jeremy Davenport, which drains the songs of all emotional impact -- but you can also be too stand-offish (Irvin Mayfield and Terence Blanchard, are you listening?). It seems to me that Shorty has the balance just right.

All of the musicians on stage with Troy were great. Big Man commented that the rhythm section were "locked into" each other, not only playing perfectly together, but even moving physically together. The two saxophonists were terrific too, and Shorty was doing a good job making sure each man had room to shine. Shorty started off the first part of the set on the 'bone, and he was breathtaking -- I mean, literally. Big Man and I found ourselves gasping at his skill, his artistry, his immense talent and musicality. At one point, someone in the crowd around us said, "I didn't know you could DO that on a trombone," and someone else replied, "Nobody else can." The way he did "American Woman" (a standard on the Lenny Kravitz set list) was just amazing. Troy called his brother on stage and James came out and did a great solo with the band.

While Keely had been a tremendous hit with the crowd -- especially among pretty young women and little kids -- between the loud music and the large number of people, she became anxious. She lay down, her ears back, and you could see she was trembling. Well, we couldn't stay where we were if Keely was in distress, so we took a walk around the Square. Big Man thought he'd get a sausage on a stick, but it was by now about 7 pm (the concerts are supposed to end at 7:30 pm) and the sausage man was sadly sold out. He told us he intended to have a larger stock next week. We headed over to another line of food booths, and Big Man dithered between the barbeque, the shrimp and grits, and the Cajun pasta. The pasta won, since it had the shortest line, but in the end, we were very happy with our choice, for the pasta was chock-full of sausage, chicken AND shrimp, and was spicy delicious besides.

Just around now, Shorty switched to his Monette trumpet and was blowing his head off. He went into an extremely cool version of "Let's Get It On" that really riled up the crowd (and me!). What a talent! Trombone, trumpet, vocals, stage presence -- Troy Andrews, AKA Trombone Shorty, has it all. We left completely satisfied (and perhaps resolving NOT to bring Miss Keely next week.)

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Happy St. Joseph's Day

Warm and lovely, St. Joseph's Day came once again to New Orleans and the challenge was to visit as many altars as possible. With an early-morning pastoral care issue I had to deal with that went til after 1:30 pm, Big Man and I did not get rolling until midafternoon, but we did not let that dampen our spirits.

Our first visit was within our own neighborhood: the beautiful St. Mary's Assumption Church in the Irish Channel, the historic German-Catholic church across the street from the Irish St. Alphonsus Catholic Church (in those days, Catholic congregations were usually segregated by ethnicity and/or language, even though the masses were said entirely in Latin). On our way inside, we admired the fine old brickwork. Big Man said, "One of these days, we have to take some time to do a Gorgeous Old New Orleans Church tour." We agreed that such a thing would take more than one day.

The St. Joseph altar was set up in front of the statue of St. Joseph, just as you entered at the side door of the church. It seemed to me to be smaller than previous years, but was laden with all the classic accoutrements of a traditional St. Joseph altar: stuffed artichokes, Italian breads shaped as shepherd's crooks and crosses, the Lamb of God cake covered in shredded coconut "wool." bakery-style cakes in the shape of books with a holy card on one side and "St. Joseph Pray for Us" inscribed in icing on the other, plates of Italian cookies, bottles of Italian wine, fresh fruit and greenery, vases of green palm fronds, and small bowls filled with fava beans. There were also a few localisms, such as the breads shaped like a snapping turtle and a gator. As we admired the display, one of the women by the altar admired my Italian-American medallion beads, which I caught at St. Joseph's Parade either last year or the year before. I was glad I had made sure to put them on before leaving the house.

Along the communion rail of the main altar of the church, there were plates of cucidati (wonderful iced fig cookies) and reginas (hard biscuits covered in sesame seeds), meringues, and those really hard Italian cookies that could break a tooth. Over by the door to the Blessed Father Seelos shrine, they had a table with the little brown bags of cookies adorned with holy pictures of St. Joseph. I was careful to choose a holy card of St. Joseph at work, because right now Big Man is going through a work issue. I figured a little intercession by St. Joseph the Worker might help, and certainly couldn't hurt. (I also made a petition to Blessed Father Seelos -- in for a penny, and so on.) We greeted a parishioner of mine who was coming in from the church's backyard, where the big St. Joseph's lunch was being served; it looked great, but we had already eaten. (We ate there 2 years ago and it was both cheap and fantastic. A small family of parakeets lives in one of the tall palm trees back there, and it was fun to watch them flying around.)

We strolled the church afterwards, carefully perusing each stained glass, Big Man checking out all the German names and dedications. The stained glass, the ornate ribbing and corbels and vaulting -- St. Mary's is truly impressive and inspiring, especially once you know the story of those immigrant German families banding together to raise the money and physically help build the church.

Next, we headed to the massive St. Joseph Church near Tulane and South Claiborne, that so many many cars pass by unknowingly on the interstate. After we parked, we walked around the side of the church. As we approached the front door, Big Man asked wonderingly, "This is just a church? It's not a cathedral?" I assured him it was just a parish church -- but you did have to say it had to have once been a VERY prosperous parish indeed to have erected such a behemoth. Once Inside, some nice church ladies handed us slips of paper for prayer petitions, which we filled out using golf pencils. We walked down a side aisle, enjoying the recorded music (a soprano singing hymns in Italian). It was then that I noticed that the plywood panels had been removed from the stained glass windows on the interstate-Claiborne side of the church. The last time we had been there was 2 St. Joseph's ago, so some time in that interval the post-K repairs had been completed, and all the beautiful windows were on display, the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through.

The altar was much bigger and more elaborate than at St. Mary's, with more of everything and giant floral displays and candles available for purchase on the cross-shaped table arrangement. I took a picture with my iPhone, respectfully waiting til the devout had finished their prayers kneeling at the rail. A basket big enough to hold laundry sat on the step, filled with yellow and orange prayer petitions, and we added ours to the pile. St. Joseph, pray for us!

We sat for a while in prayer in the old wooden pews, and walked slowly down the center aisle, "reading" the story of Jesus's life being told in the stained glass windows. We were a little disappointed that there were no give-away bags of cookies at this altar (but apparently there had been a luncheon by donation at the Rebuild Center directly behind the church following the Mass for St. Joseph that had been held at 12:15 pm), and to tell the truth, I had already scarfed up nearly all the cookies we got from St. Mary's. So we decided to head to Brocato's on Carrollton for serious-sized bags of St. Joseph's goodies.

It was, of course, packed at Brocato's. We ended up parking in the back lot of the brand-new Walgreen's at Canal and Carrollton and walking over. Brocato's had a tiny altar at the back of the store, up the one or two steps to the elevated portion of tables. As small as it was, it had a nice selection of goodies, and the Lamb of God coconut cake looked especially good (some people are chintzy with the coconut, but this little lamb was really lush). We waited in line, with varying degrees of patience (guess which one of us was the more patient!), to purchase our bags of cucidati and reginas while other folks got boxes of cannoli and pastries, cones of gelati, and little cups of expresso.

A young woman recognized me from my work with Interfaith Worker Justice and we talked a bit. She and her friend really didn't know much about St. Joseph's Day traditions, and the little altar there at Brocato's was the only one they had seen. I gave them the paper history I had picked up at St. Joseph's and recommended they go there.

We headed home, eating cookies pretty much the whole way. It was a miracle we got home with any left.

That evening, we had been invited to a home altar by our friend the jazz poet RC. It was to be my first time in many years seeing a St. Joseph's altar in a private home, and I was excited. The home was a raised cottage in Broadmoor, and parking was at a premium. A little boy, about 10 or so, was directing traffic, and saying, "Are you here for the altar? It's right there!" Looked like about 50 people, men, women, and children, old and young, were squeezed into the front porch, living room and dining room. The altar had three levels, the first being set as a dining area for the "holy family;" the second, slightly higher, with lots of food and candles and framed holy pictures, and then the third, quite high, about my eye level, with the largest display loaves of bread, tall candles, floral arrangements, and cakes.

The lady of the house went around lighting the candles as darkness fell, and the time came for the ritual. The priest from St. Patrick's Church downtown led us in the traditional St. Joseph's Blessing, asking a benediction on the food, the people who made it, the people who will eat it, and all those in the world who hunger and thirst for both nourishment and justice. There were lots of litanies, and then we ended with the Lord's Prayer (omitting the Protestant "kingdom, power and glory forever and ever"). After that, and several children were dressed in renditions of "Holy Land" costumes, with pieces of fabric over their heads, secured by satin ties, and tunics or sashes indicating Middle Eastern garb. The boy and girl portraying Joseph and Mary, Joseph bearing a large wooden staff, went from room to room, asking for a place to stay for the night, first knocking boldly with the staff. Twice they are turned away. Then, they knock a third time and are admitted and brought to the dining table to be fed. This ritual is known to Sicilian New Orleanians (of whom our friend RC is one) as the "tupa tupa."

The host announced that the altar food and the food in the next room was a "free for all," and the assembled crowd fell upon the food. Oh my god. There was a giant whole baked fish (I only got a small bite of that), a big stainless steel bowl of green salad with olives and cheese and pepperoni on top, containers of angel hair pasta, crawfish cream sauce, shrimp and mushroom sauce, traditional milanese sauce, eggplant parm, fried cauliflower and broccoli, casseroles of green beans covered with cheese, trays of fresh hot anchovy bread, meatless marinara sauce (called "red gravy" of course). There may have been more, I don't know, I kind of lost track. For dessert, one could have Lamb of God cake (covered, alas, in in curly white icing and NOT coconut), chocolate Bible cake, any kind of Italian cookie you wanted, and piles and piles of pignolata (the little sticky dough bits that are collected together to represent pine cones, said by the Sicilians to be poor Baby Jesus's only plaything). The host's mama, a gorgeous Italian-American woman of indeterminate age, but surely older than me, went around and begged people to eat more and to take food home. (I needed no more encouragement to pack a container for Big Man, who couldn't come due to his gig in the Quarter.). As I stumbled out, replete with food and wine, I was urged to come again next year. FOR SURE.

Later that evening, I spoke to my sister L, who had apparently taken St. Joseph's Day by storm. I thought going to 4 altars was an achievement but it was nothing compared to L. She had been to 7 or so, and had both her lunch AND dinner at different St. Joseph's altars. (Even this can be bested -- at the home altar I visited, I ran into a woman who had done a complete novena of altars, visiting *9* AND going to a Mardi Gras Indian meeting of the chiefs Uptown besides! What a dedicated trooper!)

I ended St. Joseph's Day in a food stupor on the sofa, resolving to make an organized list and follow the examples of my sister and friend, and do MORE St. Joseph's altars next year.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Two Times St. Patrick's

On Saturday, the floats for the Irish Channel St. Patrick's Day Parade lined up once again in front of our house and down our street. This year, however, we were prepared and had no errands we needed to do in our cars -- which were of course blocked up. It was a gorgeous day, much prettier than last year's parade day. It was in the 70s with a clear blue sky, a light breeze -- a perfect day. The lovely weather encouraged St. Paddy's revelers toward green sundresses and kilts and shorts.

Around 12 noon, we left our house and walked the parade route, greeting the other celebrants and the folks on the floats as they prepared for their ride, nailing huge spikes to the sides of the floats to hold tons of beads, stowing bags of cabbages, carrots, and potatoes high up on the floats, and of course lubricating themselves with beer (some of it green, but lots of regular-colored stuff as well).

All of the Irish Channel social groups had floats (a few more than one), and there was a contingent of really good-looking New York City firemen (are they all that handsome??), whose presence at the New Orleans parade is a post-9/11 thing. There were two different bagpipe groups in kilts and high socks, a big red fire truck from Ionia, Louisiana, and an all-girl marching group, in Caledonian garb. Nearly everyone we saw, nearly everyone on the route, white, black, Latino, Asian, old, young, and in-between, was wearing shades of green in one form or other. Except for Big Man, who claimed he had nothing green in his closet.

A young woman on a float noticed his lack and clobbered him on the noggin with a felt hat in the shape of a giant mug of green beer. He gamely plunked it on his head. I think the hat helped him obtain our next throw, a large head of cabbage. Unlike last year, when we caught so many we were giving them away, this was our only cabbage.

We bought street burgers and sodas from a new place on Sophie Wright Place; the burgers were really good, and their menu was intriguing (lamb burgers??). Plus, they deliver! I folded up a menu and put it in the canvas bag I was using to stow our cabbage. That'll come in handy some time in the near future. We sat in little Sophie Wright Park at the base of the Alvarez statue of Miss Wright to eat and enjoyed watching all the people. An older man sat by us and asked if we were from the neighborhood and we said we were. He pointed across the Magazine Street and said, "See that pink building? I lived there when I was a kid. My dad owned a store on the first floor, and we lived on the second floor." I said I bet the house wasn't pink then, and he laughed and agreed. He no longer lives in the Channel, but always comes back for St. Paddy's. I imagine he isn't the only one.

At the Chinese grocery/buffet on the corner of Magazine and St. Andrew Streets, a group of young Asian-American women wearing green had gathered on the extension above the front, just below the roof. A few looked unsure of their footing; others were venturing near the edge to look down at the parade below. We figured they would have no trouble getting throws up there, and we were right. (When we saw them a little while later, they had solved the "will this hold our weight?" issue by sitting on the roof edge and dangling their legs and feet toward the street.)

After we had had our fill of sights and sounds and throws and food, we walked back home and found a group of Irish-themed men sitting on the stoop next door. Since the parade was hardly moving, they weren't bothering to crowd onto their rather tiny band wagon until they had to. They were drinking beers (of course) and politely disposing of their empties in our trash can. We offered them the use of our bathroom, but they said they were fine.

The Irish Channel St. Pat's Parade was close to an hour late getting started, and Magazine Street was blocked until about 6 pm. I don't think traffic got back to normal til even later. The neighborhood was jumping all right, and a good time was had by all the Irish-for-a-day.

Today, Wednesday, St. Patrick Day itself, dawned cloudy, but still our neighborhood filled up quickly with cars, lining our side the street, the other side, and both sides of the side streets. While we are approximately a mile from the ground-zero of New Orleans St. Patrick's Day, the famous Parasol's, there has developed another St. Pat's tradition of an "Irish" Fair at Annunciation Park to benefit St. Michael's School, and that is exactly in our neighborhood. Luckily for all the Irish and would-be Irish, the day warmed and cleared as time went on, all the better to celebrate in.

So from around 10 am to about 6 pm, once again we were surrounded by folks wearing green and celebrating the Day, making it two times St. Pat's.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

The Guys on the Claiborne Neutral Ground

It's kind of like a mystery, those guys who sit on the neutral ground in Central City, on South Claiborne near Jackson on weekends. They bring out chairs, and sometimes folding tables. (Actually, sometimes they leave the chairs there all week, waiting for the weekend.) If the weather is warmer than they expected (as on Sunday), they hang their jackets and windbreakers on the limbs of a nearby tree and lift their faces to the sun. Sometimes they are playing cards, and sometimes chess or checkers, and sometimes they are eating. Other times, they just seem to be sitting around talking, observing the passing scene.

I often wonder about them. I assume they live in the neighborhood, pretty close by. Is it a closed group? A club? Is it the same guys each time? Would they welcome newcomers? How long have they been gathering there? Is it a post-Katrina thing? Or does it pre-date the Storm?

I pass them so often that I keep getting the urge to wave. Being New Orleanians, I bet they would wave back.

Best Weather of the Year So Far

An absolutely gorgeous weekend was had in the Crescent City this past Saturday and Sunday! Pure blue skies, bright sunshine, temperatures in the low 70s (yay!), and gentle breezes carrying the scent of green shoots and flowers. Just lovely.

Saturday afternoon I performed a wedding at the church, and it couldn't have been nicer outside. (In fact, it was a tad chilly inside the church building, with the masonry walls holding in the cool air. It was much warmer outside.) When the wedding party flowed outside after the recessional, and their guests pelted them with bird seed, it was so bright and beautiful, the lovely bride had to shield her eyes from the glare (and not just from the bird seed!).

Sunday was just as good. I had a church engagement out by the lake after the service, and you could see many sailboats and motor boats taking advantage of the fine weather. On my drive back home, I drove past City Park -- bright green in buds and grass, azalea bushes blooming, the new fountain on the lagoon near Carrollton blowing fine spray, making rainbows in the air. The park was crowded with couples and families and folks with their dogs, walking along the new paved path around the lagoon, enjoying the day and each other.

Of course, then it had to rain on Monday and storm on Tuesday, but Saturday and Sunday were well worth it!

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Late Spring

With the Northeast, the Midwest, and the Northwest still blanketed in snow and nasty cold weather, it does seem mean to brag on springtime, but there you are. To us New Orleanians, this has been an unusually cold and long winter, and even Carnival was chillier than we prefer. (Yesterday, actor Tom Hanks, in town to promote the new HBO World War II drama about the war in the Pacific, teased us that he knew when temperatures go down to the 40s in the Crescent City things shut down and people go to bed with hot water bottles. He was not far wrong.)

But today the sky is bright blue and temperatures are back where they belong for this time of year, in the 60s. The forecast for this weekend, blessedly, is for it to go up to the 70s, which is even better. That's more like it!

In bloom around New Orleans right this very minute are the Japanese magnolia trees (which started around Mardi Gras, which is late for here), camellias, forsythia, and a few early azaleas. Looking ready to burst are the tulips and daffodils and other bulbs. We look forward to seeing more and more flowers, and to breathing in the intoxicating scents.

For us, it was a long time coming, but it's Spring in the Big Easy.