Big Man's older sister and her husband arrived on Sunday from Pennsylvania for the husband's business conference downtown at the Convention Center (the annual "Corrosion Conference" whatever that is). We picked them up that morning at the airport and drove them to their hotel, giving them the quickie tour along the way, showing both damage and progress since Katrina. (Newcomers never get it about the progress, they're too blown away by all the damage they can still see 2 1/2 years later.) We made a date to pick C up on Monday to give her the "full treatment."
Monday was warm and muggy and while not a picture postcard kind of day, at least it was way better than the bitter cold winter it still is in Philadelphia, so C was appreciative. We drove down St. Charles Avenue, pointing out the sights, and recommending the streetcar both for diversion and transportation. We turned into the Garden District and slowly went round and round the blocks, C's head swiveling from left to right as she exclaimed over the gorgeous houses and the full-blown gardens, showing off Japanese magnolias, azaleas, irises, lilies, snap dragons, petunias, camellias and gardenias. At lunchtime we stopped at the newly-reopened Copeland's Cheescake Bistro and enjoyed their enormous portions and good food (that crawfish, lump crabmeat, artichoke heart and 3-cheese dip is *unbelievable*!) We took C to our house (we had cleaned up for the visit) and then to my sister L's house Uptown, with its $100,000 kitchen renovation (they had to do something with the insurance money from my brother-in-law's drowned Lakeview house). We pointed out some restaurants off the beaten path we recommended, and then parked on our favorite stretch of Magazine Street (between Felicity and Jackson -- I've written about this section of the Street of Dreams in this blog before).
We popped into several shops (including one with no one inside, the door unlocked), checked out our favorite antique stores (in the warehouse behind one we found an intact ancient pharmacy, counters, cabinets with multiple drawers and glass fronts, jars with calligraphy labels, and a chopping block with a worn top. Dunno how much it was -- probably negotiable -- but it made me dream of opening a spa or beauty boutique, and having these beauties as my store fixtures. We cruised through a couple of dress shops, House of Lounge's incredible collection of delectable undies, and Aidan Gill for Men. We showed her the old movie theater that is now an antique rug shop, and we looked into windows of places being renovated.
Then we took her into Prince Michael's Chocolates, and we all almost lost our minds. C bought 2 of everything, and I had to taste the marzipan-stuffed fig dipped in dark chocolate. Big Man and I also had to split another one of those *incredible* dark chocolate truffles with cinnamon and chipotle. (We had to see if the first one we ate was a fluke -- it wasn't. Just as amazing the second time.)
On the way back to C's hotel, we drove past Congo Square, and Big Man explained all about it, the enslaved people with their drums, the Native Americans, how the French came to see it and didn't forbid it, how ALL American music was born there, and his own powerful emotional/spiritual reaction to the place on his first visit.
C then exclaimed, "Why, this is the heart of America! And I never knew it before! You are so lucky to live here!" Yes, we said, it is truly and really the heart of America, and we are lucky to live here.
Showing posts with label NOLA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NOLA. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
St. Joe's, St. Pat's, and Super Sunday
Big Man says the New Orleans Tourist Commission should have a slogan like, "Another festival every weekend!" Maybe so. The last two weekends prove it.
Saturday, March 8, was designated by the Catholic Archdiocese as the evening for the St. Joseph's Parade through the French Quarter by the Italian-American Association. (The Feast Day of St. Joseph is, of course, March 19th, but local Catholic authorities juggled the dates of both St. Joseph's and St. Patrick's, so as not to interfere with Holy Week.) Big Man and I arrived early, intending to drop off his trumpet at the Blues Club, enjoy the parade, have dinner, and then he could go straight to work on Bourbon Street. However, a glitch occurred in our best-laid plans when I clumsily slipped/tripped on a piece of broken pavement on Canal Street, and went down HARD, my left foot folding under me in a way it's not supposed to go, my left knee boinking the sidewalk, my left elbow as well. Big Man solicitously helped me up (hauled me up?), and I gingerly tried stepping down on my left side. I was worried about my left ankle, weak since I broke it so badly in 2001, but it seemed fine. The pain was all in my toes and my left knee. I was pretty sure I had broken at least one toe (turned out to be two) and possibly sprained my knee. Do you think this prevented me from enjoying the St. Joseph's Day Parade? Ha! No more than pouring rain stopped me from seeing a Carnival parade a month ago. Big Man was mighty concerned, and more than willing to drive me right back home and put ice all over my left leg, but I insisted I was fine. Priorities, you know. I hadn't seen a St. Joseph's Parade in over 15 years, and I wasn't going to miss this one.
So, limping a bit, and leaning on Big Man for support, we walked down Bourbon to the club and dropped off his gig bag with the trumpet in it, saying Hi to club employees as we passed in and out. We went down to the next corner just in time to see an impromptu little walking parade apparently in honor of George Rodrigue's Blue Dog. (Now, don't get me started on that damn Blue Dog, and how great an artist Rodrigue was before his stupid dog died and he had to go putting old Tiffany into every single painting and print for the rest of his life. Give it a rest, George! Dump the Blue Dog! You are better than that!) The little second-line parade had 2 brass bands, and costumed people walking with beads and throws, and a few people in a little carriage. Tourists hollered for beads and stuff and when it passed, one man said to us, "So that was the parade?" We scoffed. "That was nothin' -- the real parade hasn't even started yet."
We continued on to Chartres Street, and caught the very beginning of the parade, with the celebrity Grand Marshals, stars of "The Sopranos." (Folks were hollering their characters' names.) We watched the Queen's float and her court of Italian-American beauties, some of whose last names reflected intermarriage with other New Orleans ethnic groups: French, German, Yugoslav. A float depicting a St. Joseph altar went by (sponsored by local grocery chain Rouse's) and Big Man was mighty impressed, until I said that it was a small representation of the real thing. Old Italian guys went by in motorized vehicles, and then dozens and dozens of Italian men in walking groups, in fancy tuxes with green-white-red sashes and giant walking sticks studded with flowers. I was a little concerned that I was beyond the age where I could attract the kisses and flowers of such marchers, but, whether out of kindness, blindness, being so much older than me that I looked young, OR being so much younger than me that I looked like their mamas, I collected a small bouquet as the parade went by.
We kept to our plan to eat in the Quarter, and I had suggested the good ol' Alpine (where my sister L had once wrangled a discount, on the grounds that we were locals and they should treat us better than they do tourists), but as we turned a corner, we came upon a little place with a nondescript sign that listed as its specialties Cuban, Mexican, and steaks. Something for almost everyone. We went in -- it was a tiny little place, decorated in cheesy south-of-the-border style (the usual dingy-looking piñatas and several strings of lit-up parrots) and dominated by a long and obviously old bar. The ceiling was the original pressed tin, painted bright red, and the place smelled really good. A pretty Latina (Cubana?) led us to a table, and we ordered off their extensive menu. We could hardly believe from the prices that we were still in the Quarter, everything was so reasonable. (One sangria, a diet soda, a shared fried calamari appetizer, a big steak for the Big Man, and a plate of ropa vieja for me all came to less than $40, with tip!) Afterwards, Big Man insisted on driving his crippled spouse home before he went back to the nightclub to retrieve his horn and blow his heart out. (At home I was glad to soak my poor foot in epsom salts and wrap up the whole injured thing in an ace bandage. Next day, I had to preach from crutches!)
Later that week, I took Eric around to several of the St. Joseph's altars around town -- St. Mary's Assumption Church in the Irish Channel, where we viewed the artifacts in the Blessed Father Seelos shrine (his tiny cast-iron coffin! the little collar of thorns he wore! his breviary!), AND ate a helluva Italian lunch for only $5 each, then St. Joseph's Church on Tulane. It was fun comparing all the different methods of making those fabulous Italian fig cookies (Big Man said, "So fig newtons are just a poor bastardization of these, huh?"), watching Big Man feast his eyes on the gorgeous displays of culinary-religious art (my favorite: the Lamb of God cakes covered in soft coconut "wool."), making our little petitions to St. Joseph, and receiving the obligatory lucky fava beans and St. Joseph holy cards. Big Man was amazed at the tradition, which, despite his extensive contacts with Italian-Americans in the Northeast, he had never seen before. I tried to convey to him that even the most elaborate of the altars we were seeing could not compare to the ones of my childhood, with their enormous bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, and giant trays of lasagna, and stuffed artichokes as big as basketballs. Still, he was blown away, and enjoyed, as always, the church tour. (Big Man may not be conventionally religious, but he sure loves an elaborate church.)
The next weekend, Saturday, March 15th, I was awakened by the sounds of voices and cars through the open dormer window in our bedroom. Normally, our neighborhood is pretty quiet, so I got up to see what was going on. To my surprise, the St. Patrick's Day Parade was lining up on the corner of our street! I had read that the parade started at Magazine and Felicity, and has assumed that meant the parade lined up on Felicity, but instead, here they were. Folks in green costumes were laughing and calling to each other as they hauled bags of cabbages and potatoes and beads and trinkets up to the floats. The street swirled with discarded cardboard boxes and plastic bags -- which all miraculously disappeared after the parade, when the sanitation crews came through.
Big Man got up around 11 am, and we headed out to the parade route on Magazine, looking for brunch and the best spot to see the parade. The day was absolutely gorgeous -- not a cloud in the sky, the sun brightly shining (later that day, we'd see a number of lobster-red people who should've worn sunblock), a light wind blowing. As we walked past the floats, parade riders greeted us and some threw beads. We walked all the way to Jackson, and got sandwiches at Stein's Deli (Big Man got a Philly-style hoagie and I got corned beef in honor of the day). The parade was just rounding the corner of Magazine and Jackson when we emerged. (The owner of the deli had gone outside to check on parade progress, and had come back into the shop, telling his employees, "If y'all wanna go out and see the parade, go ahead." Only in New Orleans.)
I had brought a big canvass bag to hold our throws, since I was counting on lots of cabbages, potatoes and carrots for Irish stew, and we filled the bag to such a point that I started giving cabbages away as we walked. We declined most of the beads thrown to us (like we don't have enough already), and I gave the moonpies I caught to kids along the route. We walked all the way back home, and there were still floats on our corner, dying to throw to us. When we arrived at our porch, Big Man said to me, "I can't wait to tell people this was a normal day in our neighborhood" and so it was.
But the festivities weren't over yet. On Sunday, March 16, after a meeting at church, we went to the traditional corner of LaSalle and Washington to watch the Mardi Gras Indians parade through the neighborhood. The people-watching was totally great, and local entrepreneurs had set up their little businesses: snow balls, cold water and beer and soft drinks, several people barbequeing on the backs of their trucks, one guy with a full bar on display on top of the cab of his truck, and Ms. Linda's home-made gumbo and ya ca mein. Big Man got a BBQ pork chop sandwich, and I, full of nostalgia and at a loss how to explain to it to Big Man, ordered the shrimp and beef ya ca mein, as Ms. Linda told me about her booth at Jazz Fest. The food was great, the pork chop smoky and charred but juicy on the inside, and the ya ca mein so hearty and spicy and filled with both protein and carbs (shrimp, lots of roast beef, and the traditional hard-boiled egg in a rich spiced broth over noodles), that it's clear why it had always been thought a hangover remedy back in the day.
We watched as several Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs and individual and small groups of Indians marched and danced by with their brass bands (including Rebirth), on their way to -- where? A few inquiries led to the realization that A.L. Davis Park (formerly Shakespeare Park, after a long-ago mayor thus named, not the bard) was no longer the gathering place. We went back to our car and headed to Taylor Park, now Marcus Garvey Park, behind the Rex den on Claiborne (kind of ironic -- a giant Mardi Gras Indian gathering in such close proximity to the headquarters of the floats of the white King of Carnival), which was filled with families and kids and booths and a stage. The air was filled with the scent of boiling crawfish and barbequeing meats, and the sounds of tambourines and hand drums and voices singing and chanting ('Liza Jane, Shallow Water, Shoo Fly, Tu-way Pocky Way, Indian Red -- all the classics). The day had started cool, but the afternoon was warm and sunny, with a nice breeze.
And the suits! My God, the suits were amazing. (Please, don't ever call what Mardi Gras Indians wear "costumes"!) The plumes, the feather, the ribbons, the shredded and gathered satin! The sun glinting off the glass beads and sequins was almost blinding, and the colors just glowed in the bright light. There were traditional designs and new, creative take-offs. Black, soft pink, hot pink, baby blue, lime green, hunter green, orange, yellow, pure white, buttercream, multi-colors, African-themes in earth tones and multi-brights, and beaded panels showing Native Americans at work, at play, at war. The craftsmanship was off-the-hook, and I couldn't help but wish that there could be some way for Indians to make a living with their artistry. (Big Man said, "If you went to some other city, and suggested that young and middle-aged black men could design and sew and publicly wear these outfits, and that it would be a very masculine, prideful thing, they'd think you were nuts.") An amazing afternoon. At one point, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of my first Uptown Super Sunday in over 15 years, I began to cry with happiness and Big Man held me close, stroking my hair, murmuring, "It's good to be home, huh?"
So the week after this is Easter, and there will be another parade, this time in Marigny, and the week after that, the Downtown Indians will hold their Super Sunday on Bayou St. John. "Another festival every weekend!" indeed. You gotta feel sorry for folks who have to live elsewhere.
Saturday, March 8, was designated by the Catholic Archdiocese as the evening for the St. Joseph's Parade through the French Quarter by the Italian-American Association. (The Feast Day of St. Joseph is, of course, March 19th, but local Catholic authorities juggled the dates of both St. Joseph's and St. Patrick's, so as not to interfere with Holy Week.) Big Man and I arrived early, intending to drop off his trumpet at the Blues Club, enjoy the parade, have dinner, and then he could go straight to work on Bourbon Street. However, a glitch occurred in our best-laid plans when I clumsily slipped/tripped on a piece of broken pavement on Canal Street, and went down HARD, my left foot folding under me in a way it's not supposed to go, my left knee boinking the sidewalk, my left elbow as well. Big Man solicitously helped me up (hauled me up?), and I gingerly tried stepping down on my left side. I was worried about my left ankle, weak since I broke it so badly in 2001, but it seemed fine. The pain was all in my toes and my left knee. I was pretty sure I had broken at least one toe (turned out to be two) and possibly sprained my knee. Do you think this prevented me from enjoying the St. Joseph's Day Parade? Ha! No more than pouring rain stopped me from seeing a Carnival parade a month ago. Big Man was mighty concerned, and more than willing to drive me right back home and put ice all over my left leg, but I insisted I was fine. Priorities, you know. I hadn't seen a St. Joseph's Parade in over 15 years, and I wasn't going to miss this one.
So, limping a bit, and leaning on Big Man for support, we walked down Bourbon to the club and dropped off his gig bag with the trumpet in it, saying Hi to club employees as we passed in and out. We went down to the next corner just in time to see an impromptu little walking parade apparently in honor of George Rodrigue's Blue Dog. (Now, don't get me started on that damn Blue Dog, and how great an artist Rodrigue was before his stupid dog died and he had to go putting old Tiffany into every single painting and print for the rest of his life. Give it a rest, George! Dump the Blue Dog! You are better than that!) The little second-line parade had 2 brass bands, and costumed people walking with beads and throws, and a few people in a little carriage. Tourists hollered for beads and stuff and when it passed, one man said to us, "So that was the parade?" We scoffed. "That was nothin' -- the real parade hasn't even started yet."
We continued on to Chartres Street, and caught the very beginning of the parade, with the celebrity Grand Marshals, stars of "The Sopranos." (Folks were hollering their characters' names.) We watched the Queen's float and her court of Italian-American beauties, some of whose last names reflected intermarriage with other New Orleans ethnic groups: French, German, Yugoslav. A float depicting a St. Joseph altar went by (sponsored by local grocery chain Rouse's) and Big Man was mighty impressed, until I said that it was a small representation of the real thing. Old Italian guys went by in motorized vehicles, and then dozens and dozens of Italian men in walking groups, in fancy tuxes with green-white-red sashes and giant walking sticks studded with flowers. I was a little concerned that I was beyond the age where I could attract the kisses and flowers of such marchers, but, whether out of kindness, blindness, being so much older than me that I looked young, OR being so much younger than me that I looked like their mamas, I collected a small bouquet as the parade went by.
We kept to our plan to eat in the Quarter, and I had suggested the good ol' Alpine (where my sister L had once wrangled a discount, on the grounds that we were locals and they should treat us better than they do tourists), but as we turned a corner, we came upon a little place with a nondescript sign that listed as its specialties Cuban, Mexican, and steaks. Something for almost everyone. We went in -- it was a tiny little place, decorated in cheesy south-of-the-border style (the usual dingy-looking piñatas and several strings of lit-up parrots) and dominated by a long and obviously old bar. The ceiling was the original pressed tin, painted bright red, and the place smelled really good. A pretty Latina (Cubana?) led us to a table, and we ordered off their extensive menu. We could hardly believe from the prices that we were still in the Quarter, everything was so reasonable. (One sangria, a diet soda, a shared fried calamari appetizer, a big steak for the Big Man, and a plate of ropa vieja for me all came to less than $40, with tip!) Afterwards, Big Man insisted on driving his crippled spouse home before he went back to the nightclub to retrieve his horn and blow his heart out. (At home I was glad to soak my poor foot in epsom salts and wrap up the whole injured thing in an ace bandage. Next day, I had to preach from crutches!)
Later that week, I took Eric around to several of the St. Joseph's altars around town -- St. Mary's Assumption Church in the Irish Channel, where we viewed the artifacts in the Blessed Father Seelos shrine (his tiny cast-iron coffin! the little collar of thorns he wore! his breviary!), AND ate a helluva Italian lunch for only $5 each, then St. Joseph's Church on Tulane. It was fun comparing all the different methods of making those fabulous Italian fig cookies (Big Man said, "So fig newtons are just a poor bastardization of these, huh?"), watching Big Man feast his eyes on the gorgeous displays of culinary-religious art (my favorite: the Lamb of God cakes covered in soft coconut "wool."), making our little petitions to St. Joseph, and receiving the obligatory lucky fava beans and St. Joseph holy cards. Big Man was amazed at the tradition, which, despite his extensive contacts with Italian-Americans in the Northeast, he had never seen before. I tried to convey to him that even the most elaborate of the altars we were seeing could not compare to the ones of my childhood, with their enormous bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, and giant trays of lasagna, and stuffed artichokes as big as basketballs. Still, he was blown away, and enjoyed, as always, the church tour. (Big Man may not be conventionally religious, but he sure loves an elaborate church.)
The next weekend, Saturday, March 15th, I was awakened by the sounds of voices and cars through the open dormer window in our bedroom. Normally, our neighborhood is pretty quiet, so I got up to see what was going on. To my surprise, the St. Patrick's Day Parade was lining up on the corner of our street! I had read that the parade started at Magazine and Felicity, and has assumed that meant the parade lined up on Felicity, but instead, here they were. Folks in green costumes were laughing and calling to each other as they hauled bags of cabbages and potatoes and beads and trinkets up to the floats. The street swirled with discarded cardboard boxes and plastic bags -- which all miraculously disappeared after the parade, when the sanitation crews came through.
Big Man got up around 11 am, and we headed out to the parade route on Magazine, looking for brunch and the best spot to see the parade. The day was absolutely gorgeous -- not a cloud in the sky, the sun brightly shining (later that day, we'd see a number of lobster-red people who should've worn sunblock), a light wind blowing. As we walked past the floats, parade riders greeted us and some threw beads. We walked all the way to Jackson, and got sandwiches at Stein's Deli (Big Man got a Philly-style hoagie and I got corned beef in honor of the day). The parade was just rounding the corner of Magazine and Jackson when we emerged. (The owner of the deli had gone outside to check on parade progress, and had come back into the shop, telling his employees, "If y'all wanna go out and see the parade, go ahead." Only in New Orleans.)
I had brought a big canvass bag to hold our throws, since I was counting on lots of cabbages, potatoes and carrots for Irish stew, and we filled the bag to such a point that I started giving cabbages away as we walked. We declined most of the beads thrown to us (like we don't have enough already), and I gave the moonpies I caught to kids along the route. We walked all the way back home, and there were still floats on our corner, dying to throw to us. When we arrived at our porch, Big Man said to me, "I can't wait to tell people this was a normal day in our neighborhood" and so it was.
But the festivities weren't over yet. On Sunday, March 16, after a meeting at church, we went to the traditional corner of LaSalle and Washington to watch the Mardi Gras Indians parade through the neighborhood. The people-watching was totally great, and local entrepreneurs had set up their little businesses: snow balls, cold water and beer and soft drinks, several people barbequeing on the backs of their trucks, one guy with a full bar on display on top of the cab of his truck, and Ms. Linda's home-made gumbo and ya ca mein. Big Man got a BBQ pork chop sandwich, and I, full of nostalgia and at a loss how to explain to it to Big Man, ordered the shrimp and beef ya ca mein, as Ms. Linda told me about her booth at Jazz Fest. The food was great, the pork chop smoky and charred but juicy on the inside, and the ya ca mein so hearty and spicy and filled with both protein and carbs (shrimp, lots of roast beef, and the traditional hard-boiled egg in a rich spiced broth over noodles), that it's clear why it had always been thought a hangover remedy back in the day.
We watched as several Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs and individual and small groups of Indians marched and danced by with their brass bands (including Rebirth), on their way to -- where? A few inquiries led to the realization that A.L. Davis Park (formerly Shakespeare Park, after a long-ago mayor thus named, not the bard) was no longer the gathering place. We went back to our car and headed to Taylor Park, now Marcus Garvey Park, behind the Rex den on Claiborne (kind of ironic -- a giant Mardi Gras Indian gathering in such close proximity to the headquarters of the floats of the white King of Carnival), which was filled with families and kids and booths and a stage. The air was filled with the scent of boiling crawfish and barbequeing meats, and the sounds of tambourines and hand drums and voices singing and chanting ('Liza Jane, Shallow Water, Shoo Fly, Tu-way Pocky Way, Indian Red -- all the classics). The day had started cool, but the afternoon was warm and sunny, with a nice breeze.
And the suits! My God, the suits were amazing. (Please, don't ever call what Mardi Gras Indians wear "costumes"!) The plumes, the feather, the ribbons, the shredded and gathered satin! The sun glinting off the glass beads and sequins was almost blinding, and the colors just glowed in the bright light. There were traditional designs and new, creative take-offs. Black, soft pink, hot pink, baby blue, lime green, hunter green, orange, yellow, pure white, buttercream, multi-colors, African-themes in earth tones and multi-brights, and beaded panels showing Native Americans at work, at play, at war. The craftsmanship was off-the-hook, and I couldn't help but wish that there could be some way for Indians to make a living with their artistry. (Big Man said, "If you went to some other city, and suggested that young and middle-aged black men could design and sew and publicly wear these outfits, and that it would be a very masculine, prideful thing, they'd think you were nuts.") An amazing afternoon. At one point, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of my first Uptown Super Sunday in over 15 years, I began to cry with happiness and Big Man held me close, stroking my hair, murmuring, "It's good to be home, huh?"
So the week after this is Easter, and there will be another parade, this time in Marigny, and the week after that, the Downtown Indians will hold their Super Sunday on Bayou St. John. "Another festival every weekend!" indeed. You gotta feel sorry for folks who have to live elsewhere.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
What It's Like Here, Part 2
There's 2 sides to everything, I guess, and there's certainly 2 sides to New Orleanians feeling like this beloved old city, battered as she is, is the "center of the universe" as Chris Rose writes. The other side is that post-Katrina New Orleanians, across almost all the categories of race and class and gender, are hurting.
A friend of mine who used to live here (and who moved away before Katrina) alerted me that her former landlady was deeply depressed and agoraphobic, and on top of her own worries had an adult son who was apparently "drinking himself to death." Agoraphobia is rampant in the city right now, and some folks do indeed have the full-fledged deal, stuck in their house or trailer, unable to go outside. But a lot of people in New Orleans seem to have a milder form, kind of partial agoraphobia, meaning they can go to work, to the job they need to live on, but then they go back in their shell, and stay holed up and away from other people til the weekend's over.
A great deal of my ministry right now is just pastoral care, finding resources for people, referring them to what few counseling/social work/psychiatric/psychological services we actually have right now. Resources are scarce, plus there's that inertia and agoraphobia, so people are self-medicating big time with alcohol and other substances, legal and illegal. Big Man, who is in AA (sober since 1990, yay!), has been out on a number of AA-related intervention calls in the 6 months since we've been here, more than the 4 years we lived together in the Philadelphia area.
We don't like to talk about it, especially not in the media, since it just leads to copy-catting, but suicide is endemic here. Almost every person in the city is connected, either directly or indirectly, to someone who has committed suicide. The jail is our biggest mental-health facility these days. In addition to agoraphobia and suicide, there's also recurrent nightmares, chronic, clinical and subclinical depression, anger issues galore, and weird traffic accidents. You wouldn't believe the number of light poles and traffic lights lying on the ground as a result of being hit by cars -- every day there's more. It's strains credulity to believe all these hits are random, folks have to be *aiming* at the poles, perhaps self-destructively, perhaps without realizing that the poles are designed to break off and away from the vehicle striking them. (It would be VERY difficult to kill yourself hitting a light pole or traffic light pole, but maybe folks don't know that.)
Plus there's the general paranoia, which, after all, is based on having people *really* out to get you and do you harm. The Army Corps of Engineers, the Levee Boards, FEMA, your homeowner's or renter's insurance company, your car insurance company, the SBA, the Road Home, the ITC, the New Orleans Recovery Association, HUD -- who's to say they're NOT trying to hurt us? Isn't it at least a little bit sensible to walk around suspicious?
Then, there's the relationships crashing. In a congregation officially less than 90 adults, I know of 3 divorces/split ups; there may even be more than I'm not yet aware of. One couple in my church, long-time members, are planning to live at least 6 months away from the city, having purchased a house out of state. The wife is traumatized and can't take it here any more; she doesn't feel safe. A New Orleans attorney, friend of mine for close to 30 years, says that right after Katrina it was the men who went crazy while the women held things together; 2 years later, the men are doing OK and the women are dropping like flies. My friend says that periodically his wife brings up leaving the city -- and they go round and round for a while, talking about where they might live, and in the end, they come to the conclusion, Where would we go? How could we live anywhere else?
How could we? How could we live anywhere else? Living someplace else would mean having to explain yourself all the time, why you are the way you are, translating the weird things you say into English, trying to fit in a world less wonderful than the one you left. I happen to know all this is true, having lived away from the city for close to 15 years, I can testify that New Orleanians do NOT easily fit in elsewhere. We have likes and dislikes and preferences and expectations that do not fit in a "normal" place.
My attorney friend and I agreed tearfully that living with everything we have to deal with in a broken and wounded New Orleans was better than living somewhere else clean and efficient and safe, where we could not be ourselves.
There is some help out there, but you have to be able to reach for it. As I constantly stress to my poor hard-working, dedicated parishioners, I have access to some therapists and counselors, and I can help fill out the Red Cross forms for anyone affected by Katrina to get money for counseling. My church has started an every Monday Buddhist meditation group, free and open to anyone. A neighborhood group approached me today about starting something in the church for people who just want to talk about how the Storm and the aftermath are affecting them; kind of a self-run help group, like Katrina-Anonymous.
So this too, is what it's like here. We're all a little crazy, including me. We WANT to live here, and we love this place, but we must deal, somehow, with all that is going wrong, all that hasn't been fixed, all the crazy plans the Powers That Be have to make us into something we're not, all the fears, anxieties, and nightmares that we're not safe, that IT could happen again. But, over and over, we come to the conclusion that the craziness here is better than sanity elsewhere.
A friend of mine who used to live here (and who moved away before Katrina) alerted me that her former landlady was deeply depressed and agoraphobic, and on top of her own worries had an adult son who was apparently "drinking himself to death." Agoraphobia is rampant in the city right now, and some folks do indeed have the full-fledged deal, stuck in their house or trailer, unable to go outside. But a lot of people in New Orleans seem to have a milder form, kind of partial agoraphobia, meaning they can go to work, to the job they need to live on, but then they go back in their shell, and stay holed up and away from other people til the weekend's over.
A great deal of my ministry right now is just pastoral care, finding resources for people, referring them to what few counseling/social work/psychiatric/psychological services we actually have right now. Resources are scarce, plus there's that inertia and agoraphobia, so people are self-medicating big time with alcohol and other substances, legal and illegal. Big Man, who is in AA (sober since 1990, yay!), has been out on a number of AA-related intervention calls in the 6 months since we've been here, more than the 4 years we lived together in the Philadelphia area.
We don't like to talk about it, especially not in the media, since it just leads to copy-catting, but suicide is endemic here. Almost every person in the city is connected, either directly or indirectly, to someone who has committed suicide. The jail is our biggest mental-health facility these days. In addition to agoraphobia and suicide, there's also recurrent nightmares, chronic, clinical and subclinical depression, anger issues galore, and weird traffic accidents. You wouldn't believe the number of light poles and traffic lights lying on the ground as a result of being hit by cars -- every day there's more. It's strains credulity to believe all these hits are random, folks have to be *aiming* at the poles, perhaps self-destructively, perhaps without realizing that the poles are designed to break off and away from the vehicle striking them. (It would be VERY difficult to kill yourself hitting a light pole or traffic light pole, but maybe folks don't know that.)
Plus there's the general paranoia, which, after all, is based on having people *really* out to get you and do you harm. The Army Corps of Engineers, the Levee Boards, FEMA, your homeowner's or renter's insurance company, your car insurance company, the SBA, the Road Home, the ITC, the New Orleans Recovery Association, HUD -- who's to say they're NOT trying to hurt us? Isn't it at least a little bit sensible to walk around suspicious?
Then, there's the relationships crashing. In a congregation officially less than 90 adults, I know of 3 divorces/split ups; there may even be more than I'm not yet aware of. One couple in my church, long-time members, are planning to live at least 6 months away from the city, having purchased a house out of state. The wife is traumatized and can't take it here any more; she doesn't feel safe. A New Orleans attorney, friend of mine for close to 30 years, says that right after Katrina it was the men who went crazy while the women held things together; 2 years later, the men are doing OK and the women are dropping like flies. My friend says that periodically his wife brings up leaving the city -- and they go round and round for a while, talking about where they might live, and in the end, they come to the conclusion, Where would we go? How could we live anywhere else?
How could we? How could we live anywhere else? Living someplace else would mean having to explain yourself all the time, why you are the way you are, translating the weird things you say into English, trying to fit in a world less wonderful than the one you left. I happen to know all this is true, having lived away from the city for close to 15 years, I can testify that New Orleanians do NOT easily fit in elsewhere. We have likes and dislikes and preferences and expectations that do not fit in a "normal" place.
My attorney friend and I agreed tearfully that living with everything we have to deal with in a broken and wounded New Orleans was better than living somewhere else clean and efficient and safe, where we could not be ourselves.
There is some help out there, but you have to be able to reach for it. As I constantly stress to my poor hard-working, dedicated parishioners, I have access to some therapists and counselors, and I can help fill out the Red Cross forms for anyone affected by Katrina to get money for counseling. My church has started an every Monday Buddhist meditation group, free and open to anyone. A neighborhood group approached me today about starting something in the church for people who just want to talk about how the Storm and the aftermath are affecting them; kind of a self-run help group, like Katrina-Anonymous.
So this too, is what it's like here. We're all a little crazy, including me. We WANT to live here, and we love this place, but we must deal, somehow, with all that is going wrong, all that hasn't been fixed, all the crazy plans the Powers That Be have to make us into something we're not, all the fears, anxieties, and nightmares that we're not safe, that IT could happen again. But, over and over, we come to the conclusion that the craziness here is better than sanity elsewhere.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Topsy-Turvy World
Since the storm, things are a little mixed-up in the Crescent City. (Not like things were "normal" before, but still...) In this newly topsy-turvy world, certain values and expectations are turned upside-down, sometimes in a good way, sometimes not.
One obvious example would be great big piles of debris and trash. Anywhere else in this country, or even here before Katrina, giant heaps of broken stuff on the curb would be cause for concern, a sign that something is wrong. Here, it is a signal of hope, a sign that work is finally being done on a house or a building. Instead of driving by and thinking, "How awful!", New Orleanians drive by and think, "Yes! They're back! Thank God!" We greet these former eyesores the way winter-weary Yankees welcome signs of Spring. (One enterprising local candy shop actually invented a new confection of pretzel sticks, coconut shreds, raisins, and nuts drizzled over with chocolate, called "trash piles.")
Pre-K (as we say here), the antics of incompetent and/or dishonest elected officials were the stuff of jokes, the cause for world-weary amusement. Show us another awful thing done by a governor or a mayor or a legislator, and we'd shrug and give a wry smile, or even top the story with another one. Nowadays, we've been through too much to find it funny. (As Paul Simon sings, "I don't find this stuff amusing any more.") Governor Blanco is not considered a sort of folk hero as Edwin Edwards once was (apparently still is, to some people, judging by the Letters to the Editor to let the "poor man" out of prison), and we're way past finding the inane (insane?) remarks of Mayor Nagin something to laugh about. And don't even get us started with District Attorney Jordan, who seems even more mortifyingly embarrassing than even Big Jim Garrison back in the day. Every day, you hear calls for some elected official or other (sadly, too many to list here) to resign and let us get someone/anyone better to serve in their place. You never used to hear that years ago.
On the other hand, one way New Orleanians cope with all they have to cope with is a savage irony married to a graceful gallantry. Example #1: Discovering that the mayor spent close to a half million dollars on "bomb-proof" tiny trashcans that were too small to be used and thus were going to be quietly (read: secretly) disposed of, the local satirical paper "The Levee" (motto: "We don't hold anything back") announced that the police department was going to be given the cans for use as bullet-proof vests. Example #2: The Bourbon St. band that Big Man plays with was named The Levee Board before the hurricane. After the storm, they discovered there was too much negative connotation to that name, so they changed their name. To Category 5 -- which I guess had a better impact on the public. Example #3: Hand-painted sign seen inside Crabby Jack's (arguably some of the absolute best po-boys in the area) -- "Save da Parish." Gee, before The Thing, who would've supported "saving" St. Bernard Parish, except for those who lived there, who probably wouldn't be eating in Crabby Jack's anyway? Example #4: Printed sign in a yard in formerly flooded Broadmoor -- "I'm not leaving, and they can't make me." Example #5 (really, and then I'll stop, since there are too many): In any poster or T-shirt shop in the city, you can find approximately 2-3 dozen (I'm not exaggerating, for once) different Katrina-related designs of varying levels of artistry and black humor.
The fleur de lis has been on the flag of the City of New Orleans for a long time, and has been the symbol of the Saints NFL football team for several decades. Before the storm, that was about it. We never thought much about it. Now, the fleur de lis is ubiquitous, and is an unspoken and unofficial symbol of love for and commitment to New Orleans. One bumper sticker even says, "I )I( NEW ORLEANS" with a fleur de lis where in other places a heart graphic would be. Fleur de lis float from banners and flags draped on St. Charles Avenue mansions and newly-gutted brick ranchers in Lakeview; one flag notably is a take-off of the stars and stripes, with fleur de lis as stars on a field of purple, green and gold (of course). They appear on T-shirts and backpacks and are woven into silk jacquard for neckties. There's even a polo-style shirt with an embroidered fleur de lis where the polo pony used to be. Candidates for office put fleur de lis on their campaign material. Fleur de lis as decorative hooks for installing in your home and as ornaments to be hung from windows and on walls fly off the retail shelves. Giant fleur de lis painted and decorated by local artists are installed around town in public places -- my favorite is the fleur de lis which has been transformed into a portrait of Chief of Chiefs Tootie Montana. It wouldn't surprise me at all to see folks dressed as fleur de lis at Carnival -- it's become the emblem of the grit and spirit of New Orleanians, and our love for this crazy-wonderful place.
One obvious example would be great big piles of debris and trash. Anywhere else in this country, or even here before Katrina, giant heaps of broken stuff on the curb would be cause for concern, a sign that something is wrong. Here, it is a signal of hope, a sign that work is finally being done on a house or a building. Instead of driving by and thinking, "How awful!", New Orleanians drive by and think, "Yes! They're back! Thank God!" We greet these former eyesores the way winter-weary Yankees welcome signs of Spring. (One enterprising local candy shop actually invented a new confection of pretzel sticks, coconut shreds, raisins, and nuts drizzled over with chocolate, called "trash piles.")
Pre-K (as we say here), the antics of incompetent and/or dishonest elected officials were the stuff of jokes, the cause for world-weary amusement. Show us another awful thing done by a governor or a mayor or a legislator, and we'd shrug and give a wry smile, or even top the story with another one. Nowadays, we've been through too much to find it funny. (As Paul Simon sings, "I don't find this stuff amusing any more.") Governor Blanco is not considered a sort of folk hero as Edwin Edwards once was (apparently still is, to some people, judging by the Letters to the Editor to let the "poor man" out of prison), and we're way past finding the inane (insane?) remarks of Mayor Nagin something to laugh about. And don't even get us started with District Attorney Jordan, who seems even more mortifyingly embarrassing than even Big Jim Garrison back in the day. Every day, you hear calls for some elected official or other (sadly, too many to list here) to resign and let us get someone/anyone better to serve in their place. You never used to hear that years ago.
On the other hand, one way New Orleanians cope with all they have to cope with is a savage irony married to a graceful gallantry. Example #1: Discovering that the mayor spent close to a half million dollars on "bomb-proof" tiny trashcans that were too small to be used and thus were going to be quietly (read: secretly) disposed of, the local satirical paper "The Levee" (motto: "We don't hold anything back") announced that the police department was going to be given the cans for use as bullet-proof vests. Example #2: The Bourbon St. band that Big Man plays with was named The Levee Board before the hurricane. After the storm, they discovered there was too much negative connotation to that name, so they changed their name. To Category 5 -- which I guess had a better impact on the public. Example #3: Hand-painted sign seen inside Crabby Jack's (arguably some of the absolute best po-boys in the area) -- "Save da Parish." Gee, before The Thing, who would've supported "saving" St. Bernard Parish, except for those who lived there, who probably wouldn't be eating in Crabby Jack's anyway? Example #4: Printed sign in a yard in formerly flooded Broadmoor -- "I'm not leaving, and they can't make me." Example #5 (really, and then I'll stop, since there are too many): In any poster or T-shirt shop in the city, you can find approximately 2-3 dozen (I'm not exaggerating, for once) different Katrina-related designs of varying levels of artistry and black humor.
The fleur de lis has been on the flag of the City of New Orleans for a long time, and has been the symbol of the Saints NFL football team for several decades. Before the storm, that was about it. We never thought much about it. Now, the fleur de lis is ubiquitous, and is an unspoken and unofficial symbol of love for and commitment to New Orleans. One bumper sticker even says, "I )I( NEW ORLEANS" with a fleur de lis where in other places a heart graphic would be. Fleur de lis float from banners and flags draped on St. Charles Avenue mansions and newly-gutted brick ranchers in Lakeview; one flag notably is a take-off of the stars and stripes, with fleur de lis as stars on a field of purple, green and gold (of course). They appear on T-shirts and backpacks and are woven into silk jacquard for neckties. There's even a polo-style shirt with an embroidered fleur de lis where the polo pony used to be. Candidates for office put fleur de lis on their campaign material. Fleur de lis as decorative hooks for installing in your home and as ornaments to be hung from windows and on walls fly off the retail shelves. Giant fleur de lis painted and decorated by local artists are installed around town in public places -- my favorite is the fleur de lis which has been transformed into a portrait of Chief of Chiefs Tootie Montana. It wouldn't surprise me at all to see folks dressed as fleur de lis at Carnival -- it's become the emblem of the grit and spirit of New Orleanians, and our love for this crazy-wonderful place.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Farewell for Kerwin James
After all the controversy over the arrests in Treme during the traditional secondline farewell after the death of Kerwin James, noted tuba player for the New Birth Brass Band, we knew that we had to show solidarity and respect by attending his funeral on Saturday, October 6. That morning, I put on my kente cloth minister’s stole over a black summer dress, and we headed out.
We arrived before the start time of 10 am, but the little church was already packed with mourners. I signed the guestbook in the vestibule and then we waited in the street with a crowd of other folks, black and white, young and old. One guy had parked a giant wood-burning barbeque rig (looked like it was made from an old boiler) on the corner and was starting to grill burgers, hot dogs, and sausages – the smell wafted through the neighborhood, making mouths water. Several people were selling bottles of water and soft drinks from ice chests in wheelbarrows or on the beds of pick-up trucks. A few people had cameras, but most seemed like they were there to participate, not to observe and take pictures.
More people kept arriving, and it was starting to get pretty hot. We had left the house without getting coffee and the lack of caffeine was starting to tell. We left our spot in front of the church and walked to a little neighborhood bar on the corner, thinking we’d get coffee there. They opened the door for us (it’s one of those places where they keep the door locked and they have to buzz you in or let you in) and who should we see right off but Kermit Ruffins, for once without a kerchief on his head, dressed in a sharp black suit, his trumpet resting on the bar. His wife sat next to him, and there were 2 young white women next to them. Otherwise, except for the bar’s owner and employees, the place was empty.
I was kindly directed to the scrupulously clean Men’s Room, as the Women’s Room was out of service. Big Man ordered our coffees, although everyone else in the place was drinking beer. They said they would make a pot just for us. We waited, and were soon served 2 steaming plastic cups of strong New Orleans coffee with little containers of half & half. “How much?” asked Big Man, reaching in his pocket. “It’s on the house,” smiled the owner. We thanked him profusely, and tipped the barmaid as we left.
About 11:30 am, the service was over, and mourners began to spill out from the church. The street was packed with musicians – there were 6 or 8 tuba players, about 8 or so trumpet players, including Kermit, several ‘bones, and multiple drummers. A sigh went up from the gathered crowd as the casket was carried out, the pall bearers seemingly struggling with the weight of it. The slow strains of “Closer Walk” were taken up by all the musicians (Big Man was wishing he had brought his horn), and the casket was brought down the short flight of steps to the street. The crowd was massed around the pall bearers shoulder-to-shoulder, and from where we were standing, you couldn’t see the coffin any more. Suddenly, in time with the music, the bearers swung the casket high, and then down and around, as if dancing with it. They did this several times. It was an amazing moment – powerful, emotional, spiritual. I wiped away tears with my handkerchief, and I wasn’t the only one.
The coffin was eventually gently placed in the hearse. A thrown-together band with members I recognized from Rebirth, New Birth, and several other brass bands, plus Kermit, and other musicians, got in front, and a group of secondliners fell into place behind them. Then came the hearse, then another band, then the family and official mourners. Big Man and I took our place in the group immediately in front of the hearse behind the first band, and soon, a passionate version of “I’ll Fly Away” soared up. (Literally – most of the horn players were directing the bells of their horns straight up to heaven, a la Buddy Bolden.) At the chorus, many in the crowd lifted their voices: "I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away."
As the funeral parade made its way slowly toward Esplanade, people in the neighborhood came out onto their porches and stoops, many of them shimmying in the traditional secondline step. One man climbed on top of a parked van, and danced his heart out up there. As we crossed over Esplanade Avenue, a respectful police motorcycle escort held up traffic so we could cross – so different from the way the police acted earlier in the week, when 2 musicians in the memorial secondline were arrested for “disturbing the peace” and “parading without a permit.”
Folks came out of Lil Dizzy’s Café to watch as the parade passed by. Some held baseball caps over their hearts; some waved handkerchiefs. A group of employees came out the back door from the kitchen and danced hard on the sidewalk.
It was a good send-off for Kerwin, a fitting tribute. I thought to myself, "This is how we New Orleanians lay someone to rest -- this is how we honor their life and celebrate who they were," and despite the obvious storm damage in Treme, as elsewhere in the city, I was proud of the strength and beauty of my beloved hometown, and I felt glad, once again, to be finally home.
We arrived before the start time of 10 am, but the little church was already packed with mourners. I signed the guestbook in the vestibule and then we waited in the street with a crowd of other folks, black and white, young and old. One guy had parked a giant wood-burning barbeque rig (looked like it was made from an old boiler) on the corner and was starting to grill burgers, hot dogs, and sausages – the smell wafted through the neighborhood, making mouths water. Several people were selling bottles of water and soft drinks from ice chests in wheelbarrows or on the beds of pick-up trucks. A few people had cameras, but most seemed like they were there to participate, not to observe and take pictures.
More people kept arriving, and it was starting to get pretty hot. We had left the house without getting coffee and the lack of caffeine was starting to tell. We left our spot in front of the church and walked to a little neighborhood bar on the corner, thinking we’d get coffee there. They opened the door for us (it’s one of those places where they keep the door locked and they have to buzz you in or let you in) and who should we see right off but Kermit Ruffins, for once without a kerchief on his head, dressed in a sharp black suit, his trumpet resting on the bar. His wife sat next to him, and there were 2 young white women next to them. Otherwise, except for the bar’s owner and employees, the place was empty.
I was kindly directed to the scrupulously clean Men’s Room, as the Women’s Room was out of service. Big Man ordered our coffees, although everyone else in the place was drinking beer. They said they would make a pot just for us. We waited, and were soon served 2 steaming plastic cups of strong New Orleans coffee with little containers of half & half. “How much?” asked Big Man, reaching in his pocket. “It’s on the house,” smiled the owner. We thanked him profusely, and tipped the barmaid as we left.
About 11:30 am, the service was over, and mourners began to spill out from the church. The street was packed with musicians – there were 6 or 8 tuba players, about 8 or so trumpet players, including Kermit, several ‘bones, and multiple drummers. A sigh went up from the gathered crowd as the casket was carried out, the pall bearers seemingly struggling with the weight of it. The slow strains of “Closer Walk” were taken up by all the musicians (Big Man was wishing he had brought his horn), and the casket was brought down the short flight of steps to the street. The crowd was massed around the pall bearers shoulder-to-shoulder, and from where we were standing, you couldn’t see the coffin any more. Suddenly, in time with the music, the bearers swung the casket high, and then down and around, as if dancing with it. They did this several times. It was an amazing moment – powerful, emotional, spiritual. I wiped away tears with my handkerchief, and I wasn’t the only one.
The coffin was eventually gently placed in the hearse. A thrown-together band with members I recognized from Rebirth, New Birth, and several other brass bands, plus Kermit, and other musicians, got in front, and a group of secondliners fell into place behind them. Then came the hearse, then another band, then the family and official mourners. Big Man and I took our place in the group immediately in front of the hearse behind the first band, and soon, a passionate version of “I’ll Fly Away” soared up. (Literally – most of the horn players were directing the bells of their horns straight up to heaven, a la Buddy Bolden.) At the chorus, many in the crowd lifted their voices: "I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away."
As the funeral parade made its way slowly toward Esplanade, people in the neighborhood came out onto their porches and stoops, many of them shimmying in the traditional secondline step. One man climbed on top of a parked van, and danced his heart out up there. As we crossed over Esplanade Avenue, a respectful police motorcycle escort held up traffic so we could cross – so different from the way the police acted earlier in the week, when 2 musicians in the memorial secondline were arrested for “disturbing the peace” and “parading without a permit.”
Folks came out of Lil Dizzy’s Café to watch as the parade passed by. Some held baseball caps over their hearts; some waved handkerchiefs. A group of employees came out the back door from the kitchen and danced hard on the sidewalk.
It was a good send-off for Kerwin, a fitting tribute. I thought to myself, "This is how we New Orleanians lay someone to rest -- this is how we honor their life and celebrate who they were," and despite the obvious storm damage in Treme, as elsewhere in the city, I was proud of the strength and beauty of my beloved hometown, and I felt glad, once again, to be finally home.
Night-Blooming Jasmine & Other Reasons for Tears
There are many joys to returning home to the Crescent City. For this long-time exile, most of them bring tears to my eyes. Some of it may seem silly or trivial, especially to outsiders, but even the tiniest evocation of what it means to be a New Orleanian chokes me up.
The first time happened the end of the week we were in New Orleans to find a place to live. My husband and I were filling up the van with gas, and noticed that the gas station had a little take-out place. Big Man went in to check out the goods, to see if there was anything we’d want for the road food for our trip back north. He came out with 2 paper bags, which we tore open in the van, to reveal steaming hot fried chicken livers and a plate of homemade spaghetti and sauce. The chicken livers were like butter, melt-in-your -mouth wonderful, perfectly fried, only lightly covered in batter. The spaghetti was old-fashioned comfort food, tasting “just like Mama used to make.” Big Man said to me, “I can’t wait to live here if this is the food you get in gas stations.” I was so proud of my hometown’s culinary excess that I got tears in my eyes – which recurred every time my spouse bragged to someone up North about the fabulous food available in New Orleans gas stations, let alone the restaurants.
Soon after we had settled into our new home in the lower Lower Garden District, we were “making groceries” at the A & P on Magazine Street. We turned into an aisle and were faced with row upon row of different brands of hot sauce, 5 different labels of Cajun-injector, seemingly endless displays of New Orleans and Louisiana spice mixes, and all the Blue Plate mayonnaise you could ever want. I couldn’t help it, I got all teary, and said to my husband, “Look at all this – we never have to have groceries shipped to us again!”
Big Man and I attended a free concert (the city is awash in free concerts) at Washington Square Park in the Marigny, to see our friends the Pfister Sisters perform. The day was warm, with one or two small gray clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. Just before the girls were supposed to go on, it began to rain lightly. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was bright blue, and one tiny little rain cloud decided to unload on us; it was funny, really, and folks in the crowd didn’t even run for cover or break out the umbrellas. We just turned our faces to the shower and let it rain gently on us while the sun shone. Then it stopped, and the Pfisters took the stage, their wonderful harmonies filling the square and our hearts. A group of little kids, aged about 2 or 3, gathered in front of the stage and danced unselfconsciously to the music, waving their chubby arms and twirling. In between songs, Holley Bendtson pointed to the little chorus line and said to the crowd, “Isn’t it great to see children again? Remember after the storm when there were no kids in the city, how awful that was? I love seeing these kids, it means so much to have kids again in New Orleans.” Her voice thickened, and people in the crowd nodded and smiled, and wiped their eyes. I teared up too.
The St. Charles streetcar has not been in operation since the storm, due to damage to the overhead power lines and to the tracks. The RTA has been working on the situation, and occasionally you can see an empty streetcar marked “Not in Service” going down St. Charles, testing the system. Drivers going by beep their car horns and wave to the streetcar driver, who generally waves back. About a week or so ago, all along the tracks, the RTA put up small purple-lettered signs that said, “We’re coming back! Look out for us!” with a little purple streetcar in one corner. I’m so far gone that actually seeing those signs made tears come to my eyes. (Interestingly, the signs began disappearing almost immediately – I suspect streetcar-missing New Orleanians are copping them as keepsakes.)
Another streetcar incident: Big Man and I were at another free concert, this time in Lafayette Square, across from old city hall. While we were grooving to the music of Paul Sanchez, 2 members of Bonerama, and Ivan Neville, a streetcar went by behind the stage. People have gotten used to the RTA testing the tracks, so no one paid any attention. But then a streetcar went by that had about a half a dozen passengers in it, and they were hanging out of the windows and waving like crazy. These were “civilians” too – they weren’t wearing RTA uniforms or anything. The crowd in the square went crazy, roaring with approval, and waving back like mad. Every streetcar that went by after that got a hand from the crowd. (I never did find out how those people got to ride the streetcar when it still wasn’t officially in service, but I sure did envy them.) Seeing a streetcar with actual people in it was touching enough, but the way the folks in the square received it really got me. You gotta love these people.
The thing that really got me, though, happened the first week I came back to my beloved home. One evening in August, as I waited for the Big Man to wrap up the rest of the move back east and get here, I was unloading a carload of stuff that had been stored for us at my sister’s. I pulled up in front of our little Creole cottage, grabbed an armload, climbed out of the air-conditioned car – and was hit in the face by the scent of night-blooming jasmine in the warm dark. My eyes welled up, and I drew in deep, ragged breaths. That seductive, familiar scent meant I was home.
Lots of things in New Orleans make me cry happy tears of homecoming. Night-blooming jasmine is just one.
The first time happened the end of the week we were in New Orleans to find a place to live. My husband and I were filling up the van with gas, and noticed that the gas station had a little take-out place. Big Man went in to check out the goods, to see if there was anything we’d want for the road food for our trip back north. He came out with 2 paper bags, which we tore open in the van, to reveal steaming hot fried chicken livers and a plate of homemade spaghetti and sauce. The chicken livers were like butter, melt-in-your -mouth wonderful, perfectly fried, only lightly covered in batter. The spaghetti was old-fashioned comfort food, tasting “just like Mama used to make.” Big Man said to me, “I can’t wait to live here if this is the food you get in gas stations.” I was so proud of my hometown’s culinary excess that I got tears in my eyes – which recurred every time my spouse bragged to someone up North about the fabulous food available in New Orleans gas stations, let alone the restaurants.
Soon after we had settled into our new home in the lower Lower Garden District, we were “making groceries” at the A & P on Magazine Street. We turned into an aisle and were faced with row upon row of different brands of hot sauce, 5 different labels of Cajun-injector, seemingly endless displays of New Orleans and Louisiana spice mixes, and all the Blue Plate mayonnaise you could ever want. I couldn’t help it, I got all teary, and said to my husband, “Look at all this – we never have to have groceries shipped to us again!”
Big Man and I attended a free concert (the city is awash in free concerts) at Washington Square Park in the Marigny, to see our friends the Pfister Sisters perform. The day was warm, with one or two small gray clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. Just before the girls were supposed to go on, it began to rain lightly. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was bright blue, and one tiny little rain cloud decided to unload on us; it was funny, really, and folks in the crowd didn’t even run for cover or break out the umbrellas. We just turned our faces to the shower and let it rain gently on us while the sun shone. Then it stopped, and the Pfisters took the stage, their wonderful harmonies filling the square and our hearts. A group of little kids, aged about 2 or 3, gathered in front of the stage and danced unselfconsciously to the music, waving their chubby arms and twirling. In between songs, Holley Bendtson pointed to the little chorus line and said to the crowd, “Isn’t it great to see children again? Remember after the storm when there were no kids in the city, how awful that was? I love seeing these kids, it means so much to have kids again in New Orleans.” Her voice thickened, and people in the crowd nodded and smiled, and wiped their eyes. I teared up too.
The St. Charles streetcar has not been in operation since the storm, due to damage to the overhead power lines and to the tracks. The RTA has been working on the situation, and occasionally you can see an empty streetcar marked “Not in Service” going down St. Charles, testing the system. Drivers going by beep their car horns and wave to the streetcar driver, who generally waves back. About a week or so ago, all along the tracks, the RTA put up small purple-lettered signs that said, “We’re coming back! Look out for us!” with a little purple streetcar in one corner. I’m so far gone that actually seeing those signs made tears come to my eyes. (Interestingly, the signs began disappearing almost immediately – I suspect streetcar-missing New Orleanians are copping them as keepsakes.)
Another streetcar incident: Big Man and I were at another free concert, this time in Lafayette Square, across from old city hall. While we were grooving to the music of Paul Sanchez, 2 members of Bonerama, and Ivan Neville, a streetcar went by behind the stage. People have gotten used to the RTA testing the tracks, so no one paid any attention. But then a streetcar went by that had about a half a dozen passengers in it, and they were hanging out of the windows and waving like crazy. These were “civilians” too – they weren’t wearing RTA uniforms or anything. The crowd in the square went crazy, roaring with approval, and waving back like mad. Every streetcar that went by after that got a hand from the crowd. (I never did find out how those people got to ride the streetcar when it still wasn’t officially in service, but I sure did envy them.) Seeing a streetcar with actual people in it was touching enough, but the way the folks in the square received it really got me. You gotta love these people.
The thing that really got me, though, happened the first week I came back to my beloved home. One evening in August, as I waited for the Big Man to wrap up the rest of the move back east and get here, I was unloading a carload of stuff that had been stored for us at my sister’s. I pulled up in front of our little Creole cottage, grabbed an armload, climbed out of the air-conditioned car – and was hit in the face by the scent of night-blooming jasmine in the warm dark. My eyes welled up, and I drew in deep, ragged breaths. That seductive, familiar scent meant I was home.
Lots of things in New Orleans make me cry happy tears of homecoming. Night-blooming jasmine is just one.
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