Pandemic Post

Thanks OZ for Guarding the Groove By Debbie Lindsey To quote my friend Gallivan: “We are not letting a little thing like no Jazz Fest get in the way of us celebrating Jazz Fest”. Well, no truer words express the abilities of New Orleanians and Jazz Fest loyalists from around the world to carry on and fest. I am so lucky as to reside in a neighborhood that is ground zero for Jazz Fest. As I am fond of saying when asked where I live, “We live between Liuzza’s By The Track and the Holy Land”. Of course the sanctified acreage is where Jazz Festival memories live and grow each spring. This year however we must grow today’s memories from outside the gates and relive the magic via the archived recordings of 50 years worth of live performances at Jazz Fest. This is made possible by WWOZ our jazz and heritage radio that celebrates the glory and ability of voice and instrumentation to produce the magic of music. Music allows you to transcend, to fly, to elevate yourself from the mundane--and now from the horrors of this epidemic. When Jazz Fest was first postponed/then cancelled, I feared that the shot in the arm that this festival delivers to my wellbeing, would be gone for a year, and that my attitude would not get the much needed spiritual lift my New Orleans psyche craves. I need it to replenish my love for this town. As most of you know already: New Orleans, she ain’t no Big Easy. She can wear you down, break you, smash your heart…but almost simultaneously touch your soul and fill you with a sense of wonder and make ya proud that the people, culture, history, creativity, just about every damn thing, is weirder than dirt. And that dirt will mimic clay and transform itself into sculptured magic. But, again, she is difficult and the in-between times of struggle leave me in desperate need of Jazz Fest. It is my annual vaccine against the mundane. I guess I should have known that folks here would not allow the canceling (albeit necessary) of this festival to cancel the spirit of Jazz Fest. The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage’s official flags and banners remained in place—some folks declaring they would not come down until next year. Make-shift pennants, streamers, and signs added to festive flair and WWOZ’s flags brighten many a pole and flap in the wind. We let those freak flags fly! Decorations, some elaborate, some tacky (mine!), and flower gardens tend to show off in celebration. And I believe that our beloved WWOZ radio is the band leader, the conductor, of this year’s Jazz Fest. Sure, folks would share Face Book posts of festival memories and our porches would signify, but without the music—the music of Jazz Fest it would be like a birthday without cake, a keg without beer. I know where some of my Stimulus Check is going—to fund WWOZ. The minute I tuned in on Day One, what would have been Local’s Thursday, I was THERE! I could feel the excitement and not only relive it, I was living it. Eight days of archived “live” Jazz Festival performances playing in virtual time, 11 to 7 every Fest day, has been provided by our uniquely New Orleans radio station. They have given us Jazz Fest this year and no damn virus can take that away. Thank you New Orleans for Festing in Place, for celebrating, for being strong. And “thank you!” to all our Festers from around the world—I will miss your faces this year but I know we are listening in unison to the sounds of magic.

We Call This Home By Debbie Lindsey It all began in 1989, to be precise it was a lovely Saturday at 12:25 in the afternoon of April 1st. Yes, that’s right, April Fool’s Day. But there was nothing foolish about moving to New Orleans. My birth city was never fully my home. Sure, I was born in Mobile and lived there for thirty-four years and certainly have no regrets for the friends, stellar friends that have remained true and dear to me; or for the various neighborhoods, jobs and experiences that shaped me in that town—but I never truly identified with Mobile. And on some level I suspect my parents may have felt the same. They introduced me to New Orleans from the time I was quite young with day trips to this exotic and strange town. And I am forever grateful. So you could say this is my annual Happy Anniversary card to New Orleans and me. I also want this missive to act as a Thank You to all the newbies, transplants, New New Orleanians. On this page, not too long ago I did a mea culpa for briefly feeling usurped by new residents, especially the younger of our neighbors who moved here in recent years. I suspect I was feeling insecure about my age and their youth—intimidated, if you will, by their youth which I no longer embody. It was hypocritical of me to diminish their value to our city—I was (in my opinion) an asset to this community when I first moved here and it took me a minute to remind myself that our young citizens deserve the same credit (perhaps even more) and praise for all that they contribute to our community. My earlier apology for doubting the wealth of enthusiasm new folks bring to us was short; now I wish to thank you for moving here. To those here on vacation and considering a move here I can’t stress enough the need to know what you are getting into if you plan to relocate to New Orleans. She ain’t easy, she is a hard place to live more times than not. I feel this city has gotten tougher to navigate, literally and figuratively, and the cost of living has soared. I was recently laughing with a neighbor about the war zone look of our neighborhood (note: one of the better and more popular niches) due to the inept and shamefully dysfunctional street/infrastructure demolition and my neighbor firmly told me this is not funny, we should not accept it, and that when rents were affordable you could overlook stuff—but not now. He was so right. Of course, he and I both agreed that our spirit of wry humor is what gets this city through much. But our sense of humor must go hand in hand with a commitment to hold the powers-that-be accountable. If you choose this place to be your home, do so with eyes wide open and an expansive heart, a heart willing to love her through thick and thin, good and bad. You have to love New Orleans so much or you will go running back to that ordinary town you came from. For me to remain in love with her and not feel like a victim in an abusive relationship I think of New Orleans as that grand old house, an architectural beauty, filled with history, culture, and a soul that, through no fault of her own, is subject to the indifferences of a slum lord. While I commend many of our leaders and daily I sing the praises of our local journalists that hold feet-to-fire, I feel for the most part that corruption and ineptness have exploited my New Orleans and her people. It seems that too many of our services and contracts are out-sourced (lacking local over-sight, control) and a malaise of “fuck-it” dominates. So, what is my advice? Participate! Vote, Volunteer, and take it personal. I realize now (with apologizes in hand) that my momentary forgot-what-it’s-like–to-be-young was what gave me my unsubstantiated pause when so many young folks flocked here after Katrina. However, I did have a legitimate concern about gentrification. Yet I am delighted to have had the pleasure of meeting and being befriended by new residents that are standing up to gentrification and actually helping to infuse our culture and funk with vitality and creativity. They are like a fresh coat of paint. This past Mardi Gras was a definite reminder of the wealth of artistry and verve that the new foot parades, second lines and carnival groups have offered. Fortunately the Bubba/beer/bare your breast for beads type tourists are seldom among the new recruits our city attracts for the difficult job of living here and carrying on the task of funkin’ it up (far from fuckin’ it up). Yet, there are those not interested in contributing to the funk—the opportunists who, be them new or native, who are more interested in buying and flipping her homes and land; the corporate entities (sure, some are good and responsible) that suck the soul out of that once holistic wholesome food store or generational family owned restaurant. But if we, newly minted locals and born-at-Charity folks pool our creative resources we can protect New Orleans. It has been a privilege to call this place home. And I do not take lightly the responsibilities that go along with ownership. Ownership needn’t involve your name on a title deed or possession of stock shares—it is a state of mind, an attitude. I tell brand new inhabitants: You are now a New Orleanian, a local, regardless of how new you are or even if you’re a short-term Tulane student—own it, be a part of it. This is your home now and hopefully she will work her magic on you and you’ll choose to never leave. Regardless, feel a proprietary purpose here; we need you fully engaged. New Orleans needs your love.

Katrina fifth anniversary

Five Years and Counting
By
Debbie Lindsey
When once asked if I would ever parachute from a plane or climb a mountain I replied with a “Hell no! Hurricane season provides me with more than enough thrills and chills”. I sounded sensible and cautious. But what I meant was that I looked forward to our annual convergence of storms. I too was a thrill seeker—but one that passively waited to be sweep into adrenaline overload. That was until August of 2005 when all my previous experiences with hurricanes amounted to no more than a kid’s bumper car ride – Katrina was a plane ride that dumped me out without a parachute. The thrill was gone.
I thought we would die that day. Yet her roar was worse than the bite she gave us. And after she passed we thought all any of us had were a few scratches and nips. But she had enlisted an engineering sham and an indifferent government and rode roughshod over depleted and fragile wetlands. The disaster just continued to grow even after she was long gone. For six days, despite being on high ground, I thought we were screwed. But we made it out just fine, frightened and only a little worse for wear. Many, too many were not so lucky.

I have often written in this column about ‘The Event’. I talk about it constantly, stare transfixed at the many remaining water lines, view documentaries again and again. I am a veteran of this ‘Thing’. Yet, I have come to discover more and more the gifts that I have received from it. I can NOT put gratitude into the heart of someone who lost loved ones in those waters or on a bridge trying to find safety only to be shot by men who dishonored their vow to serve and protect. My water line was two inches high from the sidewalk; my friend’s was two inches from her ceiling. Try and tell her that there is a silver lining. Ask the folks from Buras, Lakeview, the Lower Nine, or Bay St. Louis if the glass is half full or half empty—they’ll tell ya it doesn’t matter, the crap is toxic anyway. And sometimes lemons just don’t make lemon-aid.

But if you are one of the just slightly dampened ones, if you didn’t have to bury someone or gut your home and your heart, then…you and I have the luxury of finding some good among the ruins. Make no mistake, dry or wet, rich or poor we all suffered deep and lasting wounds, never again a stranger to depression and the resulting prescription bottles. We all live among the ghosts. Yet, if you listen, the ghosts tell stories of a world nearly lost and in need of respect. I found that I was given a second chance to pay those respects to my city and her people.

A couple of months ago when asked by my editor to write about the positive encountered since Katrina I was full of feel-good things to say. Jazz Fest was approaching; the after glow of the Saints victory was still evident; Treme, our city’s new ambassador, had just premiered on HBO; and our new and potentially good mayor was here--everything was smelling like Jasmine. It was spring 2010 and it was looking like that light at the end of the tunnel was getting brighter. That glass half full was starting to look kinda tasty and it seemed time to fill her up again. But then the glass cracked.

It is early summer as I write and submit to a June 10th deadline for this issue. An oil storm is upon us and hurricane season has officially begun with some serious implications. I do not know how this will read in August. So with ‘not knowing’ as my guide I will precede with the positives I gained from Katrina as I may need them again and again as I continue to enjoy the privilege of living in this uncertain place.

The storm brought to bear the sheer ugliness of some folks and the callousness of governments. A disaster will damn sure excavate the evil as well as the good in people. Yet I came to appreciate that there are more decent people than not, ironically it took so much human failure, ineptness and greed to come to this conclusion.

I was a bit jaded because for the most part, I had only tourists to inform my worldview of human nature until Katrina. I allowed the Bourbon Street driven Spring Breakers to represent all students and twenty-somethings. And my only exposure to card carrying “Christians” were those who spewed hate and bigotry during Mardi Gras and Gay events. I often allowed the extremes, the caricature of tourists to delineate all our visitors.

But the sheer magnitude of volunteers that began immediately to come (and keep on coming to this day) and to help us is something to behold. I’ve seen thousands and met hundreds of those folks who consistently respond to my thank you with “It was our pleasure”. I witnessed faith-based groups putting their Christianity into practice givin’ hell to mold-infested houses. Met a couple on their honeymoon who came to help rebuild; but, it’s the young people and students swapping beach vacations for menial labor assignments in some truly godforsaken places that got to me. These guys had our back. They taught me that the hope and idealism I feared was long gone is alive and well. And let’s not forget the post storm visitors who came to spend and support our butchered economy.

And now it all begins again. A different storm. This one even more insidious, one that we ourselves contributed to—there is blood, oil on all our hands. Will we learn from this? One can only hope.

To those who championed our city I hope that you have the reserves to continue because god knows we will need more heroes in the coming months, months that will stretch into years, perhaps decades, as we deal with this latest assault. All I can say is that it took me twenty years and the near decimation of a city, an entire region, rich in culture, quirks and verve to know what’s worth fighting for. Let us ready ourselves—it’s gonna be a long haul.

Comments: debbie@whereyat.com
Want more? talesofthequarter.blogspot.com

Mobile Summers

June Bug
By
Debbie Lindsey

June, n. [L. Junius, perhaps from Junius Brutus; same root as junior, L.
juvenis, a youth; E. young.] The sixth month of the year, containing 30 days.

Perhaps I am able to romanticize June, and the summertime it heralds, because today as I sit here typing it is still spring and the warmth is perfect. I know I will curse and whine come July and worship before the alter of my air conditioner praying that the decades old window unit will continue to wheeze some semblance of cool air. I will threaten to check into a hotel just to sleep through one sweat-free night. Plants will require a staggering amount of water. Mosquitoes and fleas will proliferate. And my vacuum cleaner will cower as tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair shed throughout the house. But June, June has promise.
Spring, of course, is when it all begins—the rebirth, nature waking up from the doldrums of winter. And June gets caught up in that fresh growth spurt before the relentless heat starts to override some of the euphoria. But as a kid did we even notice the heat? Searching my summertime memories I don’t recall the heat being a deal breaker. All us kids just couldn’t get enough of being outdoors. The world was our oyster and we didn’t give a flip about how warm the waters were.
Not being anything close to studious, the only great thing about school was how appreciative it made me of summer vacation. I didn’t take summer lightly, I had priorities: three months of bare feet; dodging Mom and becoming one with my inner Tarzan (Mom didn’t take kindly to me climbing forty feet into treetops or swinging from rotting vines across ravines); and, of course, swimming.
My hero was Tarzan—the real one, Johnny Weissmuller. I could never differentiate between actor and character. Weissmuller was Tarzan. And all school year, while other kids focused upon the chalkboard, I watched the black and white clock above it. I would time myself against its second hand and practice holding my breath. My goal was two minutes, as that seemed to be about the time it took Tarzan to wrestle an alligator under water. My brain cells fought to survive this exercise and so one minute was all I could muster. This was all practice for my personal summer Olympics.
When I was eight my summers really picked up. That was when I began to realize my full potential as a tomboy. It was also the summer my family moved to the new frontier—the suburbs, and ours was the best kind, a not fully developed neighborhood where unspoiled land still outweighed manicured lawns and track homes. And like most kids I saw adventure in those woods rather than future real estate. I hated every “sold” sign that claimed a piece of our stomping ground. Yet we had to wonder what a new family might bring to the mix. We were a pragmatic lot, my new friends and I, we knew each new home would bring more kids, bikes, basket ball hoops and parents to mooch snacks from. And wonderful as nature might be, a swimming pool trumped a wooded acre everytime.
The Gales, our neighbors down the street, had a swimming pool. Of course I adopted them. It was high time that I learned to swim and I had a new swimsuit so the Gales became my extended family (I’m not sure if they viewed this arrangement as a win/win). From the moment school let out until well into September I swam. My addiction to swimming pools with their intoxicating scent of chlorine, the gentle humming of a filtration system, and the mesmerizing blue of their depths did not begin in the Gales backyard but it grew there.
The Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama, had the largest pool in the South. And our family was lucky enough to snag a pool membership there off and on through the years. Day trips to this hotel pool are among my most treasured memories. But nothing could beat a pool within striking distance of my front door, full of neighborhood kids splashing, laughing and playing endless games of Marco Polo. We stayed in that pool until our skin puckered, sneaking pees in the water so as not to waste a moment drying off to run inside (“You kids better not get my new shag carpet wet”). And there ya had it: you just weren’t allowed to pee in the Grand Hotel pool.
Like I said before, I have no recollection of oppressive heat marring my summers. Of course I had no idea what a “heat index” was and that I should be feeling much hotter than the thermostat outside the backdoor stated. And really, did I care? I had trees to climb, forts to build, chlorine to ingest and just a world of trouble to get into.
I never really stopped being a tomboy, but the summer of ’67 I promised myself would be my last summer to beat up boys. This was a sport I loved. I was approaching the eighth grade and I’d finally figured out how to snap my bra rather than having to fasten it beforehand and wiggle it over my head and shoulders. So I knew it was time to live up to the standards of womanhood and simmer down a notch.
Summers began to change after that. I don’t remember feeling sad when I began to switch from being lacquered in grimy sweat and skinned-up knees tattooed with those extra large Band-Aids into a deodorized, Coppertoned, and shaved legs teenager. My abandoned bicycle rusted away somewhere in back of the tool shed. And I guess Mom happily tossed out my baseball cap and red clay stained cut-offs. My swimsuits began to change to accommodate fashion (and some semblance of breasts). And the urge to beat up boys began to lessen.
Yes my summers changed and if memory serves in any small way to reveal what was real and true then I must say I left the better part of myself behind as adulthood began to reach out to me. And only years later did I find my place upon a bicycle again laughing at how easy it still was to remove my hands and coast, steering only with sways. Swimming never left me and sometimes during my laps I stop and dive under and see how long I can hold my breath and wait for the alligator.

Comments: Debbie@whereyat.com and Talesofthequarter.blogspot.com

We are Family in New Orleans

We Are Family
By
Debbie Lindsey
Today I was feeling jumpy as a cockroach staring down a can of raid, all the while a rather serious malaise, a lethargy, was settling over me. Anxious, gassy, and just plain moody. I told Boyfriend I just didn't know what was wrong with me. He reminded me: "It's that time of the month darlin". "You know you always get like this the first day of every month -- it's your deadline week".
And he was right. Instead of writing my column at a relaxed pace a little each day, I always tell myself that one week will do it – no sweat, no angst (lots of angst, lots of sweat). I back myself into that deadline corner every time and bingo I hit the block.
Today my blocked brain has me miserably dull witted. So dull witted that I just stepped right into a puddle of piddle. Nothing like warm urine between your toes to remind you that Rosie was not auditioning for Hollywood when she danced in those frantic little circle -- her way to warn me of the impending flood. Sorry Rosie that you had to suffer that indignity but thanks, for sometimes I find my stories in the oddest places -- urine not being the strangest to date.
Those of you who read my column (a select few since I lack the funds to bribe more) have probably more information about my life than even the most self-absorbed FaceBook could provide. Therefore my leap from writer’s block to a tale with a brief touchdown in urine is no surprise, especially if it involves my little loved ones.
Unless you have kids or manage livestock you have no idea what joy (expense, worry and exhaustion) cats and dogs can provide. Having a herd of critters is much like raising a bunch of children. And for me, they are our children. I say this not only as one of those folks that have put all their maternal instincts into the anthropomorphic conversion of animal into human, but because they will drain ya of every bit of energy, money and time you have and then suck the love right out of you.
As of last count there are two dogs, one cat and one kitten. Our kitten should count as more due to his ability to upend the household contents with the force of twenty playful terrors. And I am sure there is another critter with a hard luck story out there circling the house looking for a way inside. Most of you already know Rosie the small reddish brown rump roast with eyes like Audrey Hepburn (through my friend Chris swears she’s a dead-ringer for Joan Rivers).
And there’s Pepper, the black beauty, svelte and mean as snake, striking fear in the hearts of those daring to even look her in the eye. Now age has actually softened her disposition and Zack the new kitten is teaching her to play (a first for her ever). Zack the Whirling Dervish, is another story.
Unlike Pepper, who has always preferred lounging to any form of movement other than attack, Zack is perpetual motion. It’s been almost thirty years since I’ve had a kitten and…wow. Are they all this way? Will he ever stay still long enough for me to pet him? Zack was kinda intended to be my cat but the little guy has a mind of his own (and too much energy to waste on some boring old lady like me). He immediately claimed Sophia as his mom and playmate. Sophia, a black Lab mix, whose head is larger than Zack and in no way resembles a cat, has adopted the kitten or should I say the kitten adopted Sophia. Sophia nurses (at least goes through the motions), grooms, and lends a protective watch over Zack.
Sophia, named by our friend Gloria who said she was as beautiful as Sophia Loren was, came to us as a rescue from the SPCA. Like so many young girls, Sophia fell for some sweet talking player and ended up pregnant and alone on the doorsteps of the SPCA. Her litter was adopted but she seemed doomed to languish a ward of the state. She had so many advocates-- volunteers who took a special interest in her, fostering her, funding her heart worm treatment, but none were able to adopt her. Her hero Galivan, a volunteer, made sure she escaped the Big Sleep by hooking us up with her. He knew we would be a soft touch, as we had a big empty space in our family since Ginger the Lab had passed away. It was love at first sight. Sophia is simply all about the love.
If Sophia is the love machine then Rosie is the love vampire. She’s an independent little lady who has somehow crawled inside my heart – she drains love from me. She’s an aloof Auntie Mame that doesn’t fawn all over you but is a swell drinking buddy. Many a happy hour Rosie would take a seat at the bar -- perched too high to jump she would then succumb to my patting and gaze attentively, yet demurely at her bartender melting his heart and depleting his supply of dog treats. She’s sweet as all get out but her true devotion is to food -- except when it came to Ginger. She loved that dog. Little Rosie would climb up on Ginger’s back just a humpin’ and a ridin’ that pony. Oh folks would tell us it was just a dominance thing but I swear to God Rosie would smile like a drunken sailor.
Here I sit, intending to write about the unintended servitude of motherhood that has been placed upon me – me the never-wanted-children gal who was so relieved when menopause sealed the deal. Never say never; motherhood found me. And, make no mistake; motherhood is not species specific, just look at Sophia wet nursing her kitten. Motherhood is when you love without cause or simply because they need you and I promise you the feeling of need goes both ways. In spite of all the urine samples gathered, the endless litter boxes, pooper scooping, flea baths, pee soaked rugs, endless visits to the vet and endless tears when the prognosis is awful – in spite of all this the sense of duty and love is overriding.
And I will remind myself of this when Boyfriend and I visit Walgreen to replenish the supply of adult-size incontinence pads for my little old lady, Rosie who still prefers my oriental rugs. The cashier just looks at us with a sympathy reserved for old geezers – it will do no good to blame it on the dog.

Tit for Tat in new Orleans

Tit For Tat
By
Debbie Lindsey

Don’t forget to cross your ts and dot your is and then get ready to erase.
It all starts with a letter. The one that gets lost for two weeks in a pile of junk mail and No Payment Due statements. Nothing really catches your eye. The pile grows larger with membership drives, more junk, and the occasional menu flyers. Then when some real bills arrive along with your NetFlix rentals, you find it. It is the letter that changes everything.
Your recent mammogram examination showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation…This is where I switch to first person and begrudgingly. I often write about me, me, me. Well, this time it’s not just an egocentric exercise, it’s an exorcism of sorts. I have always found, for myself, that if I expect the worst it just doesn’t happen. The gods of fate enjoy confusing me. Well, I say let ‘em throw me good results, let ‘em tell me I have worried for naught. Make a liar of me!!
It’s the waiting. When I finally found the letter from the radiology place where I had a date with a machine that felt me up like a high school back seat ooh baby baby baby tiddy twister I almost didn’t open it. I thought it was a bill for additional charges. You see, my people at the womens’ clinic never called. They always say that all is fine if I don’t hear from them, but of course they invite me to call and double check results. Cross your ts and dot the is. I did not take my own advice. Check results yourself. Never assume. Because we all know what happens when you assume: you make an ass of you and a breast-less wonder of me.
Time out! I am running with a ball I was not even passed yet. They said it could be nothing – nothing. But I know what the something is, and I can’t even afford it. It’s a rotten shame when folks (trust me there are too many out there) have to focus not on a life-threatening situation but on how to pay to have a life-threatening situation. Oh, It’s our fault, that’s right. We, the uninsured should have been insured. Not always so easy.
I recently decided to join the ranks of the play-by-the-rules and get myself insured. I set up an appointment with an agent from Cross Your Fingers and it became apparent that most of my medical needs would be considered PRE-EXISTING. We talked and crunched numbers and he was to get back with me as to whether this or that might work for me and my piggy bank. Never heard from him again. I was just too problematic or he simply gave up trying to live here in New Orleans.
Trying to live here is a real, albeit stupid, reason behind so much of my procrastination, forgetfulness and just plain old “I have no damn time to take care of myself”. Stupid, I know. Just because my potential insurance guy dropped me doesn’t mean there are not a gazillion agents ready to write me a policy. The only prob is money. Sure I can insure myself but then how do I pay my rent? I already work seven days a week. I work for myself and I don’t give benefits! Excuses, excuses. I just feel so stupid for having no net to catch me. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. And now if…if this thing is something, it will be considered pre-existing.
I have a friend who found herself with symptoms indicative of Hodgkin’s disease, cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. She had to tough it out for nine months as she waited for her new insurance to kick in because diagnosis prior would have ruled her cancer pre-existing. She was one of the lucky ones. Her guess was right, she did have cancer and she got in just under the wire. Her insurance covered her because she was forced to feign good health until eligibility kicked in. She got treatment in the nick of time. And now, wears her scars with genuine pride.
Scars. They never bother me. I have my physical points of interest, don’t get me wrong, but scars always seemed kinda cool to me. They are like nature’s little tattoos – reminders of some misadventure as a tomboy, that first razor nick when finally old enough to shave my legs, or a kitchen mishap. But I’m not too sure about having my tits sliced up. Hell, if that’s the case, I say just take ‘em. Yep, just remove the whole kit and kaboodle. I want to live a ridiculously long life; not win a beauty pageant.
I speak, write and think with no real medical knowledge. And if very very lucky I will need little knowledge this time around, because within days, perhaps even hours I hope to hear the words: “It was nothing”. But for many women, numbers too large to comprehend, happy words, words of good health are not in the cards for them. And as words of remission become the next best sound to hear -- some never will.
Will I learn from this debacle? Oh yeah. I will never put off those annoying annual check-ups that truly save lives. Never allow myself to be lulled into thinking No news is good news – no news merely means someone dropped the ball or in my case I wasn’t even looking to catch that ball. Follow up! Cross those ts and dot those is. And if my luck goes south then I will use every eraser known to science until my slate is clean.
Promise me, dear reader, that you will never take your life for granted. I never have, and yet I have been careless with the one and only body I have. And I need and depend on it to carry me through what I hope to be a long and interesting life. Feet don’t fail me now!

Time in New Orleans

Time
By
Debbie Lindsey

Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it straight in the eye. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe with acute awareness that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Year’s Eve, we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure, but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty, you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Year’s resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange? Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future just might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, reminding me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.