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.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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.
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Farthest We've Ever Been
Who Dat Nation continues to celebrate after the Saints' spectacular win over the much-touted Cardinals in the Dome on Saturday. Moving on to a championship play-off game has never happened in all of franchise history, so the fans and the players are totally psyched. (Although former Saints quarterback -- and famous crybaby -- Bobby Hebert pointed out before the game that current Saints players weren't even born or were mere infants back when the Saints were a reliably bad team, always, as one wag said, "Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory," so maybe they don't feel the press of past history the way the fans do.)
Throughout the city in the days before the game, the sense of excitement and anticipation was nearly palpable. Sacred Heart, a costly Catholic private schools for girls on St. Charles Avenue, had apparently declared Friday Saints Day, and the schoolyard was filled at recess with little-bitty white girls in black and gold jerseys. (I assume the teachers were similarly attired.) Grocery shopping and gas getting on Saturday early afternoon was a madhouse scene, stores and gas stations being PACKED with all the folks who were going to desert the streets at exactly 3:30 pm. (The Times-Picayune reported that crime drops in New Orleans during Saints games, because even thugs and gang-bangers are plunked in front of their TV sets for the duration.) Nearly every person we saw was sporting Saints attire, as I was. (Big Man was saving his for the gig Saturday night; he said it felt weird NOT to be wearing something Saints, like he was naked in public or something.)
In the Dome on Saturday, it was like Mardi Gras came early. Judging from the TV coverage on several channels (stations that didn't have the right to broadcast the game aired everything that happened beforehand, outside the Dome), fans NOT wearing costumes were vastly outnumbered by those who did. There were nuns and clowns and skeletons and Vodou orishas. There were men with painted faces, painted bald (or shaved?) heads, and painted chests. There were wigs galore on both sexes, and there mustn't have been a feather boa left anywhere in the Quarter. Lots of home-made hats -- towering fleur de lis, top hats, dome hats, football hats. (I expect that folks seated behind the hat-wearers at some point must have politely requested the hat to be set aside.) Black and gold sequins sparkled in every camera shot, and there were tons of home-made signs. "No place like Dome." "This house believes." "Going to Miami." "Cardinal gumbo." And on and on.
That first touchdown by the Cards in the first damn play of the game was a stunner, and caused many hearts to flutter with something like doubt. But the way the Saints came roaring back and completely dominated the game, made Big Man say that maybe they LET the Cardinals have that first one in order to build up momentum. I dunno. But it was a wonderful game -- and the fans went wild. Many of us, even at home, were hoarse from screaming afterwards. In sports reports, the anchors and sportscasters were calling the team "Our Saints" over and over and never just "the Saints."
The TV stations interviewed as many members of the Who Dat Nation as they could grab. There was the requisite amounts of "Woo-hoo"ing and hollering, but some of the quotes were really, really poignant. One man choked up when he spoke of going to Saints games in Tulane stadium with his father, now deceased, and how much this win would've meant to his dad. One fan was asked what would happen if the Saints won the Superbowl and the answer brought tears to my eyes.
"If we win the Superbowl, the city will double in size!" "Why?' asked the reporter. "Because then everyone from New Orleans will come home."
If the Saints win the Superbowl, we will all come home. May it be so.
Throughout the city in the days before the game, the sense of excitement and anticipation was nearly palpable. Sacred Heart, a costly Catholic private schools for girls on St. Charles Avenue, had apparently declared Friday Saints Day, and the schoolyard was filled at recess with little-bitty white girls in black and gold jerseys. (I assume the teachers were similarly attired.) Grocery shopping and gas getting on Saturday early afternoon was a madhouse scene, stores and gas stations being PACKED with all the folks who were going to desert the streets at exactly 3:30 pm. (The Times-Picayune reported that crime drops in New Orleans during Saints games, because even thugs and gang-bangers are plunked in front of their TV sets for the duration.) Nearly every person we saw was sporting Saints attire, as I was. (Big Man was saving his for the gig Saturday night; he said it felt weird NOT to be wearing something Saints, like he was naked in public or something.)
In the Dome on Saturday, it was like Mardi Gras came early. Judging from the TV coverage on several channels (stations that didn't have the right to broadcast the game aired everything that happened beforehand, outside the Dome), fans NOT wearing costumes were vastly outnumbered by those who did. There were nuns and clowns and skeletons and Vodou orishas. There were men with painted faces, painted bald (or shaved?) heads, and painted chests. There were wigs galore on both sexes, and there mustn't have been a feather boa left anywhere in the Quarter. Lots of home-made hats -- towering fleur de lis, top hats, dome hats, football hats. (I expect that folks seated behind the hat-wearers at some point must have politely requested the hat to be set aside.) Black and gold sequins sparkled in every camera shot, and there were tons of home-made signs. "No place like Dome." "This house believes." "Going to Miami." "Cardinal gumbo." And on and on.
That first touchdown by the Cards in the first damn play of the game was a stunner, and caused many hearts to flutter with something like doubt. But the way the Saints came roaring back and completely dominated the game, made Big Man say that maybe they LET the Cardinals have that first one in order to build up momentum. I dunno. But it was a wonderful game -- and the fans went wild. Many of us, even at home, were hoarse from screaming afterwards. In sports reports, the anchors and sportscasters were calling the team "Our Saints" over and over and never just "the Saints."
The TV stations interviewed as many members of the Who Dat Nation as they could grab. There was the requisite amounts of "Woo-hoo"ing and hollering, but some of the quotes were really, really poignant. One man choked up when he spoke of going to Saints games in Tulane stadium with his father, now deceased, and how much this win would've meant to his dad. One fan was asked what would happen if the Saints won the Superbowl and the answer brought tears to my eyes.
"If we win the Superbowl, the city will double in size!" "Why?' asked the reporter. "Because then everyone from New Orleans will come home."
If the Saints win the Superbowl, we will all come home. May it be so.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Cold
On my gosh but it's been cold. Temperatures have been as low as 28 degrees, with wind chill factors bringing it to the teens. Can't put Keely our dog in the yard for more than 5 minutes at a time, and she really makes short shrift of walks in Annunciation Park. No matter how many layers you have on, some part of our body is not covered up enough, and breathing is actually painful. Puddles end up shattered, with shards of ice sticking up like broken glass. Many people have had their water pipes freeze, and some burst. Almost everyone else is letting their taps drip, so there's almost no water pressure. The homeless are at risk, as are poor folks who try to use unsafe space heaters or even their stoves for warmth.
At our house, the central heat is working well, however, since the vents are up in the ceiling, the second floor stays cozy even with the heat OFF, while the first floor is probably comfortable if you could get yourself up into the 12th and 13th feet of the room. In other words, the thermostat can say 68-70 degrees, but down where you are, on the floor or the couch, it's A LOT colder than that. (Even though my siblings laughed when I got the Snuggie in the family Christmas gift exchange, I was darn glad to have it. But I need to find a way to fasten it at the back of my neck -- I don't like the draft.)
On Friday, I attended a party at a parishioner's house and the cold was brutal, just walking to and from the car. To my utter surprise, when I was leaving, I discovered a young black man sitting on the porch next door, practicing scales on his trombone! (Maybe his mama or someone forbade him blowing it in the house, I don't know.) I couldn't believe this young man was putting his lips and tongue in that cold metal mouthpiece in that awful freezing cold! What dedication! I hope he didn't hurt himself or anything.
Thank god it finally warmed up this week!
At our house, the central heat is working well, however, since the vents are up in the ceiling, the second floor stays cozy even with the heat OFF, while the first floor is probably comfortable if you could get yourself up into the 12th and 13th feet of the room. In other words, the thermostat can say 68-70 degrees, but down where you are, on the floor or the couch, it's A LOT colder than that. (Even though my siblings laughed when I got the Snuggie in the family Christmas gift exchange, I was darn glad to have it. But I need to find a way to fasten it at the back of my neck -- I don't like the draft.)
On Friday, I attended a party at a parishioner's house and the cold was brutal, just walking to and from the car. To my utter surprise, when I was leaving, I discovered a young black man sitting on the porch next door, practicing scales on his trombone! (Maybe his mama or someone forbade him blowing it in the house, I don't know.) I couldn't believe this young man was putting his lips and tongue in that cold metal mouthpiece in that awful freezing cold! What dedication! I hope he didn't hurt himself or anything.
Thank god it finally warmed up this week!
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