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.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Catching Up
I really have to admire those bloggers who seem to be able to keep posting no matter what. Me, I easily become discombobulated by events, and end up way behind on writing updates for this blog. My hat's off to the other bloggers, and I apologize to my regular readers (most of whom know what's going on, and why I haven't been able to post lately). This omnibus post will have to serve for the bunches I missed.
The Super, Really Super Superbowl
Big Man and I had a few friends over to watch the Big Game -- my son's parain and a friend of ours from New York City. Parain R is a gigantic Saints fan, since like Year One, but our Manhattanite was a "New Dat" -- a person who is a freshly minted member of the Who Dat Nation. We had some fairly trashy but delicious snacks to eat, and good stuff to drink. We actually had re-arranged the furniture in the living room so that everyone had a good view. The three of us New Orleanians were wearing our Saints gear (I had on my new light-up Saints T-shirt that Big Man brought home from Bourbon Street -- the battery pack is something of a pain, but it's worth it, it's so flashy), but our friend from New York didn't own any Saints stuff (yet), so he was just wearing black with a gold scarf.
The game, as everyone in the universe knows by now, was totally amazing, the most watched TV show since records have been kept, and the most interesting Superbowl game ever. We screamed and hollered and hugged each other. Whether the onside kick or Tracy Porter's interception was the game changer and the point at which we knew it was over is still debatable, but it doesn't matter. We won the Superbowl!! It was unbelievable. We laughed, we cried, we called relatives and friends and laughed and cried with them. My son in Atlanta, who doesn't even LIKE football, for God's sake, texted me "OMG." We opened the front door and could hear the horns blowing on boats on the river, car horns blaring, and people all over the neighborhood screaming, and fireworks booming. We could not sit still, and since Big Man had to go to work on Bourbon Street, we hurried out of the house and into the car and into the streets with the other Saints fans.
People driving by us were waving their arms and yelling, "We won! We won!" Other people stepped out into the street and were high-fiving strangers in cars. People had tears streaming down their happy faces. Kids were packed into the backs of pick-up trucks and had their heads poking out of moon-roofs. Even though it was chilly, we rolled down our windows and joined in the general celebrating, hollering and waving our arms too. As we got closer to the Quarter, we could tell there was not going to be any on-street parking -- indeed, some people were abandoning their cars on neutral grounds and weird places -- but we managed to get into the back door of the old Orpheum Theater garage, across the street from the Roosevelt. The NOPD had already blocked off Canal Street like it was Mardi Gras, and there were thousands of Saints fans on the streets, all of them obviously and tremendously happy. (Big Man said later that he had never seen so many people that happy in public in his life.) You couldn't even GET into Bourbon Street, it was already so packed. We skirted the issue by going through the Ritz lobby and out the back door, getting to the 200 block of Bourbon, and threading our way through the whooping, ecstatic crowd -- high-fiving, hugging and kissing strangers the whole way. It was the most amazing experience, and we were still high on the Saints when Big Man got off the stage that night at 1 am -- and believe me, the streets were still full, no one wanting to leave off celebrating. I will always be glad to have been "in that number, when the Saints went marchin' in" to history.
Saints Homecoming
All regular TV programming on three channels was interrupted on the Monday after the Superbowl when the team and the coaches arrived at the New Orleans Airport. Tens of thousands of people, men, women and children of every race and culture (by the way, schools and many businesses had let out early for this) lined the route the Saints' personal cars would take on leaving the airport. Jefferson Parish police had set up barricades to hold the crowds back. People wore their Saints jerseys and T-shirts and jackets (even the media folks), and many held up home-made signs ("Bless You Boys" was common but also "Thank You Saints" as well as "Superbowl Champs").
Big Man and I sat and watched the coverage, flipping between the channels to make sure we didn't miss a thing. Some of the "minor" players stopped to talk to the media, but the headliners just smiled and waved as they headed home (poor things, they're probably sick of talking to the media). The exception was Coach Sean Payton, slowly driving his car with only one hand, as his other hand held the Lombardi trophy aloft, so the crowd could ogle it as he went by. Very, very cool -- and a harbinger of what would happen later on, as you will see. Like nearly everyone else in the city, we had tears in our eyes.
Lombardi Gras
My family made plans for all of us to go to the big Saints celebration parade. The weather was miserable -- cold, low 40s, with a nasty wind blowing, but we were determined to go and be part of it all. Jefferson and Orleans Carnival krewes had loaned floats -- THIS year's floats! -- to make up the parade, and there was going to be both military and high schools marching bands. We packed a couple of folding chairs, bundled up in layers so we all looked like Pillsbury Doughboys, and headed to Poydras Street, near where our sister D's law firm is located. Unfortunately, this was NOT a good spot, as the NOPD had decided to keep Poydras from from crowds in case they needed an emergency route. Boo-hiss. But we were packed on the sidewalk with hundreds of other dedicated Saints fans, with their kids and grandparents, and there was a party atmosphere, even more so than a regular Carnival parade.
Vendors came through the crowd, selling T-shirts and hats and "Bring the Wood" bats (Coach Payton had given every player engraved bats before the Big Game saying the same thing). There were concession stands with hot dogs and burgers and nachos -- if only there had been a hot soup or hot toddy booth they would have made a fortune. Despite our many layers of clothing, we were bloody freezing, but excited and happy. In the crowd, a rumor went around that a mere *11* people had waited to greet the Colts at their airport, and while we conceded that there had been a blizzard up there in Minnesota, we all thought that was just SAD. We all agreed that we would have been there for the Saints, even if they had lost, and even if there had been snow.
The first band in the parade was the Marine Band, and to the crowd's delight and excitement, they played "Let's Get Crunk" and just rocked out -- breaking out of formation and shaking their booties like mad! We all screamed and hollered, we couldn't believe it! When Drew Brees went by, he looked so happy, we were thrilled for him. Stuff was thrown, but we were too far back, and it didn't matter anyway, it wasn't important to catch anything, it was just being there. The Who Dat chant was of course ubiquitous -- and of course, we all joined in.
On the news that night, "Mr. Mardi Gras" Blaine Kern said that it had been the largest crowd for any parade he had ever seen in more than 60 years of parades in New Orleans. The New Orleans police estimated that approximately *800,000 people* were along the Saints parade route -- which is just about the number of the current population of the entire city of New Orleans. Believe dat!
Sean Payton in Orpheus
Coach Sean Payton was the Grand Marshal of the Orpheus Parade and of course the Lombardi trophy rode with him. As he went past Sophie Gumbel Guild, my family's favorite parade spot, he waved it at the crowd. But I learned later, that when the parade reached the part of St. Charles Avenue where the police barricades line the street, Sean stopped the parade, and, with only two security guards to walk with him, carried the trophy along the barricade, letting folks in the crowd touch it. That was emotional enough, but then he did again on *Canal Street*. I heard he told people it was "their" trophy. I got all choked up when I heard it. (I also heard that the trophy spends the night in the home of a different Saints player every night. When Big Man heard, he said he was surprised it wasn't being lent out to every household in New Orleans -- like when was OUR turn??)
Best Mardi Gras Ever
Years and years ago, Pete Fountain told reporter Rosemary James that "every Mardi Gras is the best one ever," and to us natives and afficionados, that is certainly true. But this Mardi Gras, this Superbowl Mardi Gras, really WAS the best one ever. It was certainly the happiest -- and the next day the NOPD reported that crime was down 35% from the year before, even though there were about twice the number of people in the streets. There were lots and lots of flying pigs and frozen devils from Hell being frozen over. Big Man and I counted 13 Lombardi trophies -- costumes, not props -- in the French Quarter and the Marigny, and the general Mardi Gras color scheme was black and gold instead of purple, green, and gold. (I admit that Big Man and I were a part of that.) Even the weather cooperated and was warmer than expected and the sky was bright blue and the sun shone like a blessing. I kept saying over and over, "I'm so happy, I'm so happy" and so I was -- and so was everyone else.
Saints Grinches
I just want to briefly address the few vocal Saints nay-sayers that have received a little attention in the media (letters to the editor, mass emails, blogs, etc.). There are apparently a few individuals who have been saying publicly nasty things about Tom Benson and company being greedy and holding the city over a barrel, and that the Superbowl was "only a football game" and that the win and the euphoria over it will be short-lived, and not mean anything in the larger scheme of things in the life of the city -- that it will have no real effect on the recovery or on race relations or on anything important.
I hope that no one who knows me and the work I have participated in for various social justice causes for the past 30-odd years will find cause to fault me. But these remarks show a complete misunderstanding of what the Saints win has done for the people of the city, for our sense of ourselves, for our hope and expectations of the future. For nearly everyone, the feeling is, If this can happen, anything is possible. This is not to be despised. There is also an undeniable positive effect on the way the rest of the country perceives the city, and this too, should not be underestimated.
Finally, publicly disparaging the Saints and the Superbowl euphoria is elitist. It's saying that while the great unwashed masses are stupid and easily fooled by something worthless like football, these hoity-toity know-it-alls are the ones who REALLY know what's going on. It's bull***t, and mean.
There really is a better, more hopeful feeling in the city. It really does mean something. I, for one, am very very glad to join in the rejoicing and the happiness. It's up to us to make it last, and to make it mean even more. But I won't let those grinches steal our joy and hope.
The Super, Really Super Superbowl
Big Man and I had a few friends over to watch the Big Game -- my son's parain and a friend of ours from New York City. Parain R is a gigantic Saints fan, since like Year One, but our Manhattanite was a "New Dat" -- a person who is a freshly minted member of the Who Dat Nation. We had some fairly trashy but delicious snacks to eat, and good stuff to drink. We actually had re-arranged the furniture in the living room so that everyone had a good view. The three of us New Orleanians were wearing our Saints gear (I had on my new light-up Saints T-shirt that Big Man brought home from Bourbon Street -- the battery pack is something of a pain, but it's worth it, it's so flashy), but our friend from New York didn't own any Saints stuff (yet), so he was just wearing black with a gold scarf.
The game, as everyone in the universe knows by now, was totally amazing, the most watched TV show since records have been kept, and the most interesting Superbowl game ever. We screamed and hollered and hugged each other. Whether the onside kick or Tracy Porter's interception was the game changer and the point at which we knew it was over is still debatable, but it doesn't matter. We won the Superbowl!! It was unbelievable. We laughed, we cried, we called relatives and friends and laughed and cried with them. My son in Atlanta, who doesn't even LIKE football, for God's sake, texted me "OMG." We opened the front door and could hear the horns blowing on boats on the river, car horns blaring, and people all over the neighborhood screaming, and fireworks booming. We could not sit still, and since Big Man had to go to work on Bourbon Street, we hurried out of the house and into the car and into the streets with the other Saints fans.
People driving by us were waving their arms and yelling, "We won! We won!" Other people stepped out into the street and were high-fiving strangers in cars. People had tears streaming down their happy faces. Kids were packed into the backs of pick-up trucks and had their heads poking out of moon-roofs. Even though it was chilly, we rolled down our windows and joined in the general celebrating, hollering and waving our arms too. As we got closer to the Quarter, we could tell there was not going to be any on-street parking -- indeed, some people were abandoning their cars on neutral grounds and weird places -- but we managed to get into the back door of the old Orpheum Theater garage, across the street from the Roosevelt. The NOPD had already blocked off Canal Street like it was Mardi Gras, and there were thousands of Saints fans on the streets, all of them obviously and tremendously happy. (Big Man said later that he had never seen so many people that happy in public in his life.) You couldn't even GET into Bourbon Street, it was already so packed. We skirted the issue by going through the Ritz lobby and out the back door, getting to the 200 block of Bourbon, and threading our way through the whooping, ecstatic crowd -- high-fiving, hugging and kissing strangers the whole way. It was the most amazing experience, and we were still high on the Saints when Big Man got off the stage that night at 1 am -- and believe me, the streets were still full, no one wanting to leave off celebrating. I will always be glad to have been "in that number, when the Saints went marchin' in" to history.
Saints Homecoming
All regular TV programming on three channels was interrupted on the Monday after the Superbowl when the team and the coaches arrived at the New Orleans Airport. Tens of thousands of people, men, women and children of every race and culture (by the way, schools and many businesses had let out early for this) lined the route the Saints' personal cars would take on leaving the airport. Jefferson Parish police had set up barricades to hold the crowds back. People wore their Saints jerseys and T-shirts and jackets (even the media folks), and many held up home-made signs ("Bless You Boys" was common but also "Thank You Saints" as well as "Superbowl Champs").
Big Man and I sat and watched the coverage, flipping between the channels to make sure we didn't miss a thing. Some of the "minor" players stopped to talk to the media, but the headliners just smiled and waved as they headed home (poor things, they're probably sick of talking to the media). The exception was Coach Sean Payton, slowly driving his car with only one hand, as his other hand held the Lombardi trophy aloft, so the crowd could ogle it as he went by. Very, very cool -- and a harbinger of what would happen later on, as you will see. Like nearly everyone else in the city, we had tears in our eyes.
Lombardi Gras
My family made plans for all of us to go to the big Saints celebration parade. The weather was miserable -- cold, low 40s, with a nasty wind blowing, but we were determined to go and be part of it all. Jefferson and Orleans Carnival krewes had loaned floats -- THIS year's floats! -- to make up the parade, and there was going to be both military and high schools marching bands. We packed a couple of folding chairs, bundled up in layers so we all looked like Pillsbury Doughboys, and headed to Poydras Street, near where our sister D's law firm is located. Unfortunately, this was NOT a good spot, as the NOPD had decided to keep Poydras from from crowds in case they needed an emergency route. Boo-hiss. But we were packed on the sidewalk with hundreds of other dedicated Saints fans, with their kids and grandparents, and there was a party atmosphere, even more so than a regular Carnival parade.
Vendors came through the crowd, selling T-shirts and hats and "Bring the Wood" bats (Coach Payton had given every player engraved bats before the Big Game saying the same thing). There were concession stands with hot dogs and burgers and nachos -- if only there had been a hot soup or hot toddy booth they would have made a fortune. Despite our many layers of clothing, we were bloody freezing, but excited and happy. In the crowd, a rumor went around that a mere *11* people had waited to greet the Colts at their airport, and while we conceded that there had been a blizzard up there in Minnesota, we all thought that was just SAD. We all agreed that we would have been there for the Saints, even if they had lost, and even if there had been snow.
The first band in the parade was the Marine Band, and to the crowd's delight and excitement, they played "Let's Get Crunk" and just rocked out -- breaking out of formation and shaking their booties like mad! We all screamed and hollered, we couldn't believe it! When Drew Brees went by, he looked so happy, we were thrilled for him. Stuff was thrown, but we were too far back, and it didn't matter anyway, it wasn't important to catch anything, it was just being there. The Who Dat chant was of course ubiquitous -- and of course, we all joined in.
On the news that night, "Mr. Mardi Gras" Blaine Kern said that it had been the largest crowd for any parade he had ever seen in more than 60 years of parades in New Orleans. The New Orleans police estimated that approximately *800,000 people* were along the Saints parade route -- which is just about the number of the current population of the entire city of New Orleans. Believe dat!
Sean Payton in Orpheus
Coach Sean Payton was the Grand Marshal of the Orpheus Parade and of course the Lombardi trophy rode with him. As he went past Sophie Gumbel Guild, my family's favorite parade spot, he waved it at the crowd. But I learned later, that when the parade reached the part of St. Charles Avenue where the police barricades line the street, Sean stopped the parade, and, with only two security guards to walk with him, carried the trophy along the barricade, letting folks in the crowd touch it. That was emotional enough, but then he did again on *Canal Street*. I heard he told people it was "their" trophy. I got all choked up when I heard it. (I also heard that the trophy spends the night in the home of a different Saints player every night. When Big Man heard, he said he was surprised it wasn't being lent out to every household in New Orleans -- like when was OUR turn??)
Best Mardi Gras Ever
Years and years ago, Pete Fountain told reporter Rosemary James that "every Mardi Gras is the best one ever," and to us natives and afficionados, that is certainly true. But this Mardi Gras, this Superbowl Mardi Gras, really WAS the best one ever. It was certainly the happiest -- and the next day the NOPD reported that crime was down 35% from the year before, even though there were about twice the number of people in the streets. There were lots and lots of flying pigs and frozen devils from Hell being frozen over. Big Man and I counted 13 Lombardi trophies -- costumes, not props -- in the French Quarter and the Marigny, and the general Mardi Gras color scheme was black and gold instead of purple, green, and gold. (I admit that Big Man and I were a part of that.) Even the weather cooperated and was warmer than expected and the sky was bright blue and the sun shone like a blessing. I kept saying over and over, "I'm so happy, I'm so happy" and so I was -- and so was everyone else.
Saints Grinches
I just want to briefly address the few vocal Saints nay-sayers that have received a little attention in the media (letters to the editor, mass emails, blogs, etc.). There are apparently a few individuals who have been saying publicly nasty things about Tom Benson and company being greedy and holding the city over a barrel, and that the Superbowl was "only a football game" and that the win and the euphoria over it will be short-lived, and not mean anything in the larger scheme of things in the life of the city -- that it will have no real effect on the recovery or on race relations or on anything important.
I hope that no one who knows me and the work I have participated in for various social justice causes for the past 30-odd years will find cause to fault me. But these remarks show a complete misunderstanding of what the Saints win has done for the people of the city, for our sense of ourselves, for our hope and expectations of the future. For nearly everyone, the feeling is, If this can happen, anything is possible. This is not to be despised. There is also an undeniable positive effect on the way the rest of the country perceives the city, and this too, should not be underestimated.
Finally, publicly disparaging the Saints and the Superbowl euphoria is elitist. It's saying that while the great unwashed masses are stupid and easily fooled by something worthless like football, these hoity-toity know-it-alls are the ones who REALLY know what's going on. It's bull***t, and mean.
There really is a better, more hopeful feeling in the city. It really does mean something. I, for one, am very very glad to join in the rejoicing and the happiness. It's up to us to make it last, and to make it mean even more. But I won't let those grinches steal our joy and hope.
Friday, January 29, 2010
When Pigs Fly
It is very hard to describe the feeling in the city after the Saints amazing-spectacular-historic win over the Vikings on Sunday. I was stuck out of town on personal business of an extremely sad nature, and yet I too was totally swept up in the moment. There I was, up in my hotel room in a distant state, screaming at the top of my lungs, pounding the furniture, and quite bawling into the phone to Big Man. I had been calling my sisters and him for every score and every turnover, but when the Big Moment happened, as Hartley's kick went through the goalposts, you simply could not call the 504 area code. A recording came on, saying, "All circuits are busy -- please try your call again later." Luckily, since Big Man and I are still using the New Jersey cell numbers, we were still able to reach each other.
Big Man stepped out on our porch and held his phone out into the air for me to hear the shouting and singing, the fireworks, the music. Later, he said he drove around the city with our dog Keely, just to experience the city-wide euphoria. I was sorry to have missed it, but was glad to have the first-hand reports.
On Monday, the T-P's NOLA.com website reported the fears of a family in New Orleans whose patriarch had always declared he didn't want to die until he saw a black man be president and the Saints go to the Superbowl. The family was now worried that their Paw-Paw had nothing to live for.
On my return to New Orleans, I was told by a friend that her son had left her house on Sunday before the game ended to drive across the river for some errand or appointment. (One wonders how important this engagement could have been to have pulled him from the TV set with the game still on!) He phoned the house from the Crescent City Connection, saying, "Traffic is at a standstill; I'm just sitting here." Turns out when the folks heard the end of the game broadcast, they just put their cars into "park" and jumped out onto the Bridge, hugging strangers, screaming, crying, laughing, dancing between the cars. I picture this in my imagination and I want to cry.
Houses and businesses all over the city are decorated in black and gold, with giant sparkly fleur de lis and home-made signs in support of "Our Saints." Sacred Heart School moved their Saints sign from the fence to the building proper: "We [Sacred Heart logo] Our Saints." Sportcasters and newscasters continue to refer to Our Saints, the definitive article apparently tossed aside for the duration. A house on Earhart is totally covered in Saints decorations, with a 6-foot fleur de lis on the roof (one pictures the homeowner carefully climbing up to install this emblem of his devotion.)
On Tuesday night, or rather, early Wednesday morning, Big Man was walking to his vehicle after playing his usual gig on Bourbon Street, and spotted 3 drunken young people (2 young men and a young woman), apparently from their looks, Arab-Americans, weaving down the street, their arms around each other's shoulders. They were grinning ear to ear, and every now and then as they stumbled around, they stopped, threw their heads back and hollered in unison, with thick accents, "Whoo dah? Whoo dah?" Who Dat Nation embraces all races, all classes, all ethnicities.
On Friday the wondrous Julie Posner did her usual Friday thing on WWOZ, and couldn't stop burbling excitedly about the Saints. "The Superbowl isn't even important -- this is a dream come true, just like this!"
The parade on Sunday afternoon to honor both the Saints and the late-great local sportcaster Buddy DiLiberto drew over 10,000 fans, with nearly all the men donning dresses for the occasion. (Buddy D once swore that if the Saints ever made it to the Superbowl, he would wear a dress down Poydras Avenue.) Seemed like ALL of the paraders and parade-goers ended up on Bourbon Street afterwards, forcing all of the music venues into repeated choruses of "The Saints" and the sacred "Who Dat?" chant all night long.
On a house near my church, the pink cement pigs in front, which are always trimmed or decorated according to the season, are now sporting pink glitter wings. On a similarly trimmed house in our neighborhood, the pigs wear Saints helmets, black satin capes, and bright shiny gold wings.
Big Man stepped out on our porch and held his phone out into the air for me to hear the shouting and singing, the fireworks, the music. Later, he said he drove around the city with our dog Keely, just to experience the city-wide euphoria. I was sorry to have missed it, but was glad to have the first-hand reports.
On Monday, the T-P's NOLA.com website reported the fears of a family in New Orleans whose patriarch had always declared he didn't want to die until he saw a black man be president and the Saints go to the Superbowl. The family was now worried that their Paw-Paw had nothing to live for.
On my return to New Orleans, I was told by a friend that her son had left her house on Sunday before the game ended to drive across the river for some errand or appointment. (One wonders how important this engagement could have been to have pulled him from the TV set with the game still on!) He phoned the house from the Crescent City Connection, saying, "Traffic is at a standstill; I'm just sitting here." Turns out when the folks heard the end of the game broadcast, they just put their cars into "park" and jumped out onto the Bridge, hugging strangers, screaming, crying, laughing, dancing between the cars. I picture this in my imagination and I want to cry.
Houses and businesses all over the city are decorated in black and gold, with giant sparkly fleur de lis and home-made signs in support of "Our Saints." Sacred Heart School moved their Saints sign from the fence to the building proper: "We [Sacred Heart logo] Our Saints." Sportcasters and newscasters continue to refer to Our Saints, the definitive article apparently tossed aside for the duration. A house on Earhart is totally covered in Saints decorations, with a 6-foot fleur de lis on the roof (one pictures the homeowner carefully climbing up to install this emblem of his devotion.)
On Tuesday night, or rather, early Wednesday morning, Big Man was walking to his vehicle after playing his usual gig on Bourbon Street, and spotted 3 drunken young people (2 young men and a young woman), apparently from their looks, Arab-Americans, weaving down the street, their arms around each other's shoulders. They were grinning ear to ear, and every now and then as they stumbled around, they stopped, threw their heads back and hollered in unison, with thick accents, "Whoo dah? Whoo dah?" Who Dat Nation embraces all races, all classes, all ethnicities.
On Friday the wondrous Julie Posner did her usual Friday thing on WWOZ, and couldn't stop burbling excitedly about the Saints. "The Superbowl isn't even important -- this is a dream come true, just like this!"
The parade on Sunday afternoon to honor both the Saints and the late-great local sportcaster Buddy DiLiberto drew over 10,000 fans, with nearly all the men donning dresses for the occasion. (Buddy D once swore that if the Saints ever made it to the Superbowl, he would wear a dress down Poydras Avenue.) Seemed like ALL of the paraders and parade-goers ended up on Bourbon Street afterwards, forcing all of the music venues into repeated choruses of "The Saints" and the sacred "Who Dat?" chant all night long.
On a house near my church, the pink cement pigs in front, which are always trimmed or decorated according to the season, are now sporting pink glitter wings. On a similarly trimmed house in our neighborhood, the pigs wear Saints helmets, black satin capes, and bright shiny gold wings.
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