The Good, the Indifferent, and the Moldy
By
Debbie Lindsey
This is a tale of two cities, two worlds, two attitudes and too many emotions. I sit here trying to write a column that will not go to press for over a month; a column to coincide with the anniversary of our disaster. Happy anniversary. A lot can happen in a month… or not.
Currently 85 million gallons of drinking water a day are lost due to our ruptured infrastructure beneath our feet. Add this to 5,000 miles of leaking sewerage pipes within New Orleans and well, yes, a lot can happen in a day. We are in the worst drought in 111 years. When you read this we’ll probably be having record rain fall. A city of extremes.
And yet, extremes of good occur daily here and that is confounding since it is so difficult to shift gears from anger to happiness. Just now a customer popped in my shop and I stopped typing to chat. She told me how wonderful our city is and how nice it was to see people helping each other. I looked at her like she was crazy. Why? Because it had just been one of those days, in fact one of those weeks. But her observation is the hope that we need and her compliments are the rewards for those who put on such a positive face for her -- our guest, our visitor.
In a world of wars and people preying upon others, I was profoundly shocked with those who came to help us after Katrina.
They just keep coming… and along with them my shame and my profound gratitude. They are the guardian angels who sweep in to watch over our fallen homes; they are the good Samaritans who perform in the triage of our needs, and maybe, with their help, our recovery. They are the thousands of volunteers who have taken vacation time to come and gut it out with the mold. Or they are part of the thousands of young students giving up spring and summer breaks risking their youthful good health to clean, clear, and cobble something from the debris that somehow represents a former home.
I am not given to saying anything that sounds remotely patriotic. You never hear me referring to “my fellow Americans” or using the word American to describe myself but I am so very proud of my fellow Americans for the deep concern they have lavished upon us. And not just kind words but kind actions. I have literally met hundreds of folks from all over this country that have come to help us, to roll up their sleeves, armed with tetanus shots and respirator masks, to sweat so that we might resume life in our beloved city.
These volunteers have restored my faith in humanity; given me a fresh view of faith-based actions; reminded me of the idealism and earnest qualities that youth can and do possess; and the strength that is often overlooked in our senior Americans.
Shame is something I mentioned feeling. Shame is not to be confused with humble. I am happy to be humbled by those who are helping. But am ashamed when tourists, here to spend well deserved leisure time and their hard earned, volunteer to clean up our litter. We may not all be capable of gutting, hauling, building but we all can pick up a broom and show some pride in what has been spared.
I just about tripped over my juxtaposition of shame and pride earlier today. Far too often my fellow Quarterites step blindly or indifferently over litter – litter that may seem innocuous in view of the horrific damage and debris we now face. But the way I see it: if we can’t even pick up (something as small as a go cup) after ourselves then how the hell can we expect the rest of the country to care. We can’t.
But back to the pride part.
There throughout the Quarter were local hotel managers, tourism officials and staff getting down and dirty with their brooms. They were tackling everything from beer bottles to dirty diapers to condoms – they were tackling our indifference. And there ya have it – the confusion of our contradictions. Too many not being involved and others picking up their slack – stepping up to the plate. The love/hate, pride/shame thing is such a constant I should just learn to ride this pot-holed, water leaking road of an adventure and get over it. But there is too much work to do and complacency won’t rebuild this city. Let’s hope the local hotels’ efforts this morning have sparked some motivation – they certainly had me rushing for my broom. I swept away a lot of shame.
A tale of two cities. Did you ever think a name as pretty as Gentilly could give you goose bumps or men in fatigues toting big guns as a thing of beauty? Yet the hits and near misses we have endured have given new meaning and appreciation to men dancing in feathers or giant hot dogs rolling down the street. Our music never sounded better, our food never tasted quite so good. I never thought I would miss the pluralization of shrimp or actually enjoy a Mardi Gras for the first time. I got weepy just seeing all those beautiful port-o-lets lined up at the Jazz Fest.
I am somehow imprinted upon Katrina and I don’t know if I will ever let go of it. It has been profound. It has been an education. It has been a year. And as boyfriend sums it up: “We are living in the most amazing times, history is being made and some will learn from it and some will not”.
Comments welcomed: deblin3043@aol.com
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Liuzza's By the Track
Cheers
By
Debbie Lindsey
Something was missing. Remember how your mom would be there for you with milk and cookies after a harrowing day at school? Well, Boyfriend and I had found the perfect new home and neighborhood and yet…we no longer had our bartender who would greet us after a long day at our shop (still trying to figure how to run a business). We needed a mom with a cold beer.
Let’s face it, bars are where you meet people, where social skills are honed on the politics of the day or just plain old gossip -- a place where wit and wisdom; camaraderie, simple banter and sometimes true friendships can be found. I had found all of that and then some at my favorite watering holes in the Quarter with one even becoming my home-away-from-home. My Living Room, as I referred to May Bailey’s, is now a source of guilt, the same as I would feel if I neglected a beloved family member. Since my move from the Quarter last Spring I have become the ‘long-time-no-see’ social derelict to my bar-mates.
If you hold your liqueur well, manage not to incite too many barroom brawls and tip beyond your means you might curry the respect of your bartender and if you’re very lucky, their friendship. I was so blessed. Once you have established a relationship with your barkeep you are then well on your way to becoming one of the gang – a regular.
There is a school of thought that bars and the abuse of drink must go hand in hand and that such behavior will lead to random and meaningless sex and therefore the breakdown of civilization. Well sure, anyone can carry a good thing a bit too far; but, your neighborhood pub is not to blame for those who would turn a sweet Miller High Life, the champagne of bottle beer, into a weapon of mass destruction.
We in New Orleans might carry the spirit of the cocktail a little too far but the comradry offered within a bar need not hinge upon a libation.
Last year when Boyfriend and I visited London and Paris we found an expresso station dispensing coffee and hot teas behind every bar. Sure a few might swill their beer till ruddy faced but passing the time with a cup of tea was quite the norm.
Point being: bars are an age old and time honored meeting ground for folks to pass a good time or simply unwind with others – a reprieve from the work place. And then there’s the convenience of having a place to gather with friends without having to play hostess in your own home. No fuss no muss. Just set a time to meet. Entertaining at home is an event, not something you want to take on every time you need to shoot the breeze with friends or celebrate someone’s birthday or promotion (and, there is no commitment to cleaning afterwards).
Before I turn this into a piece on tavern culture and an anthropological study on the social mores of a good swill allow me to re-enter the swinging doors of my saloons “where everybody knows my name”.
Through the years I have found friendships and good cheer from one corner of the Vieux Carre to the other. And I also found too much fun. I emerged from my partying days reasonably unscathed (pure luck) but done, done with the late nights and blurred memories. Recently a young tourist assuming that I, as a Quarterite and had the inside track on the nightlife, asked me where did I go for fun. I told him he’d rather not know. Intrigued, he persisted and I explained that I prefer minimal smoke, noise, people, and music so I can read a book or watch the evening news in peace – oh, and dog friendly for my four-legged drinking buddies. He changed the subject.
May Bailey’s (my Living Room), at the Dauphine Orleans Hotel, offered me the respite from the maddening crowds that someone like myself craves living in the Quarter. Even during Carnival a civilized cocktail served in appropriate glassware, not a cheesy go-cup, could be found. Tourists also seem to find this bar to be an oasis of sanity despite its close proximity to Bourbon Street.
When you miss your neighborhood bar more than your home, as I did while exiled during the city’s drainage in 2005, you realize that somewhere along the line your bartender has grown into your friend and you miss that friend. No longer are they the surrogate moms forced to uplift you with drink and an ear – you have come to know them and when they need a friendly face.
So, yeah I’ve been missing Jeffery and Lisa and the hotel staff; not to mention J from Molly’s; watching Jeopardy with Scott at Fahy’s on Tuesdays; and we all miss Claire and her wonderful bar, which closed in 2008. But with change we sometimes must move on. Boyfriend and I still see our buddies, but not often enough. No longer do we stroll home past our swell swilling joints, now we are rushing to catch the bus or if we bring our dogs to work, which involves hitching up the car, we don’t drink and drive.
At first it was kinda nice to just be in our new home and sip our cold drinks on the porch but we missed the treat, the outing, the ritual of going someplace for a smart cocktail. We just plain missed being where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came. And then came Liuzza’s By The Track.
You just can’t go out and replace friends, your mom, your first love, that childhood dog so loyal he’d pine for you at the gate ‘til you returned home from school…but you can damn sure try. When we discovered Liuzza’s was more than a yummy joint for lunch; we were white on rice with those barstools. And the first time Sinbad, the barkeep, smiled and with great flourish, opened us up a pair of PBRs we knew we were home.
I am still homesick for my Quarter haunts and peeps. But Liuzza’s has truly become our “Cheers” and I wish to thank Theresa/Kelly/Lisa/Sinbad/Ashley/Susie Q/Devin/ Tom/Jimmy/the amazing kitchen crew/and all the regulars who have made us feel like a part of the Faubourg St. John. Whew…that’s a lot of new folks to keep track of – gimme another beer. I’m home again. Thank you.
Comments welcome: Debbie@whereyat.com
By
Debbie Lindsey
Something was missing. Remember how your mom would be there for you with milk and cookies after a harrowing day at school? Well, Boyfriend and I had found the perfect new home and neighborhood and yet…we no longer had our bartender who would greet us after a long day at our shop (still trying to figure how to run a business). We needed a mom with a cold beer.
Let’s face it, bars are where you meet people, where social skills are honed on the politics of the day or just plain old gossip -- a place where wit and wisdom; camaraderie, simple banter and sometimes true friendships can be found. I had found all of that and then some at my favorite watering holes in the Quarter with one even becoming my home-away-from-home. My Living Room, as I referred to May Bailey’s, is now a source of guilt, the same as I would feel if I neglected a beloved family member. Since my move from the Quarter last Spring I have become the ‘long-time-no-see’ social derelict to my bar-mates.
If you hold your liqueur well, manage not to incite too many barroom brawls and tip beyond your means you might curry the respect of your bartender and if you’re very lucky, their friendship. I was so blessed. Once you have established a relationship with your barkeep you are then well on your way to becoming one of the gang – a regular.
There is a school of thought that bars and the abuse of drink must go hand in hand and that such behavior will lead to random and meaningless sex and therefore the breakdown of civilization. Well sure, anyone can carry a good thing a bit too far; but, your neighborhood pub is not to blame for those who would turn a sweet Miller High Life, the champagne of bottle beer, into a weapon of mass destruction.
We in New Orleans might carry the spirit of the cocktail a little too far but the comradry offered within a bar need not hinge upon a libation.
Last year when Boyfriend and I visited London and Paris we found an expresso station dispensing coffee and hot teas behind every bar. Sure a few might swill their beer till ruddy faced but passing the time with a cup of tea was quite the norm.
Point being: bars are an age old and time honored meeting ground for folks to pass a good time or simply unwind with others – a reprieve from the work place. And then there’s the convenience of having a place to gather with friends without having to play hostess in your own home. No fuss no muss. Just set a time to meet. Entertaining at home is an event, not something you want to take on every time you need to shoot the breeze with friends or celebrate someone’s birthday or promotion (and, there is no commitment to cleaning afterwards).
Before I turn this into a piece on tavern culture and an anthropological study on the social mores of a good swill allow me to re-enter the swinging doors of my saloons “where everybody knows my name”.
Through the years I have found friendships and good cheer from one corner of the Vieux Carre to the other. And I also found too much fun. I emerged from my partying days reasonably unscathed (pure luck) but done, done with the late nights and blurred memories. Recently a young tourist assuming that I, as a Quarterite and had the inside track on the nightlife, asked me where did I go for fun. I told him he’d rather not know. Intrigued, he persisted and I explained that I prefer minimal smoke, noise, people, and music so I can read a book or watch the evening news in peace – oh, and dog friendly for my four-legged drinking buddies. He changed the subject.
May Bailey’s (my Living Room), at the Dauphine Orleans Hotel, offered me the respite from the maddening crowds that someone like myself craves living in the Quarter. Even during Carnival a civilized cocktail served in appropriate glassware, not a cheesy go-cup, could be found. Tourists also seem to find this bar to be an oasis of sanity despite its close proximity to Bourbon Street.
When you miss your neighborhood bar more than your home, as I did while exiled during the city’s drainage in 2005, you realize that somewhere along the line your bartender has grown into your friend and you miss that friend. No longer are they the surrogate moms forced to uplift you with drink and an ear – you have come to know them and when they need a friendly face.
So, yeah I’ve been missing Jeffery and Lisa and the hotel staff; not to mention J from Molly’s; watching Jeopardy with Scott at Fahy’s on Tuesdays; and we all miss Claire and her wonderful bar, which closed in 2008. But with change we sometimes must move on. Boyfriend and I still see our buddies, but not often enough. No longer do we stroll home past our swell swilling joints, now we are rushing to catch the bus or if we bring our dogs to work, which involves hitching up the car, we don’t drink and drive.
At first it was kinda nice to just be in our new home and sip our cold drinks on the porch but we missed the treat, the outing, the ritual of going someplace for a smart cocktail. We just plain missed being where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came. And then came Liuzza’s By The Track.
You just can’t go out and replace friends, your mom, your first love, that childhood dog so loyal he’d pine for you at the gate ‘til you returned home from school…but you can damn sure try. When we discovered Liuzza’s was more than a yummy joint for lunch; we were white on rice with those barstools. And the first time Sinbad, the barkeep, smiled and with great flourish, opened us up a pair of PBRs we knew we were home.
I am still homesick for my Quarter haunts and peeps. But Liuzza’s has truly become our “Cheers” and I wish to thank Theresa/Kelly/Lisa/Sinbad/Ashley/Susie Q/Devin/ Tom/Jimmy/the amazing kitchen crew/and all the regulars who have made us feel like a part of the Faubourg St. John. Whew…that’s a lot of new folks to keep track of – gimme another beer. I’m home again. Thank you.
Comments welcome: Debbie@whereyat.com
Mardi Gras
Born Again
By
Debbie Lindsey
She said the same words I have repeated again and again through the years -- “I hate Mardi Gras!” But this time those words hit me in a way that surprised and even annoyed me. Before the storm I would have found in her a kindred spirit. But I just sat there feeling, for the first time, how all those folks through the years suffered my bashing of their near religious fervor for Carnival.
I am not sold entirely on all things Mardi Gras. There are abuses and liberties that outsiders and opportunists take during this age-old celebration. The definition of Risqué is not “show your tits”. And indulging in libations needn’t result in having to power hose sidewalks. Somewhere along the line Mardi Gras and ‘frat party’ have become synonymous – delivering a harsh hazing of the French Quarter, in particular.
I came to New Orleans with my own Mardi Gras experiences and history. My hometown, Mobile, has been doing carnival for more years than New Orleans. I felt like been-there-done-that. As a child it was an event worth remembering. And as an adult I enjoyed the Mardi Gras balls. All you needed in lieu of an invitation was a good looking evening gown, a fictitious date bearing tickets, and an ability to deliver a bald-face lie. My girl friend and I would sneak into the event, claiming to the security guard that a female emergency run to the drug store had prompted us to leave briefly (I would feign embarrassment while discreetly showing a small box of tampons clutched close to my plunging neckline). And of course, that our ‘dates’ were nowhere to be found at that moment was taken for granted. That same box of tampons embarrassed our way into many an ‘invitation only’ event.
If I had been Jewish or Black no evening gown regardless of cleavage revealed would have gotten me through the doors of the Mobile Municipal Auditorium. Mardi Gras seemed so white to me and I guess I just preferred a more colorful world. Segregation did not begin and end in Mobile, or shape only its Carnival. New Orleans’ Mardi Gras reflects its own history of segregation and integration. But my first taste of the color codes were in my hometown and I guess through the years it tainted my feelings for Mardi Gras.
A historian, I am not. Much of the history, events and attitudes that have shaped both Carnivals are viewed subjectively. I am more forgiving of New Orleans’ maybe just because I want to be or perhaps because I have included myself in a more avant- garde, artsy fartsy culture here, where colors run together.
Often on the very pages of this magazine I have taken Mardi Gras to task and without much of anything nice to say or to add to balance the enigma of our New Orleans traditions that embrace this pre-Lenten spectacle. I never wrote about my first glimpse of Fat Tuesday nearly twenty years ago on Royal Street.
I was waitressing at a café on the corner of St. Ann and Royal when I thought I was seeing the Second Coming of Christ…on Broadway. Next a gaggle of drag queens sashayed by causing my tray of gumbo bowls to take near flight. Between my distracted attempts at food service I viewed this Fellini-like film as it rolled past the café windows. Men, women and children sporting bird beaked Venetian masks and garbed in velvets befitting the elegance of that bygone time. The sky seemed the fill with streamers of bright ribbons and beehive wigs that, swear-to-god, looked to be as tall as the balconies across the street. Oh, and the music -- calypso, African, funk, and New Orleans brass all coming together in a frantic, sensual frenzy.
I look back and wonder why the hell I didn’t walk or dance out that miserable job then and there and join that caravan of frivolity. I later found out that what I witnessed that day was the Society of St. Anne and little did I know at the time that my future friends were all there dancing, strolling and parading. The guy performing under the weight of a giant brass tuba would turn out to become my friend, Woody. And somewhere under all those wigs and headpieces was Tracy the hat maker, Little Jen, ‘Yoo Hoo’ Steve, Marinnette and many more parading, watching and toasting. Mister, throw me something…how about an armful of friendships just waiting for me.
Amazingly, I maintained my dislike for Mardi Gras even through all the St. Anne parades I joined for so many years. In fairness to my attitude, living in the Quarter during Carnival is not for the faint of heart. While the comic genius of Krewe du Vieux, the cuddly, camp of Barkus, the haute couture madness of St. Anne, and the screw ball comedy of Krewe of Cork have always brought me to my knees in laughter and admiration, I never thought to look any further. I let the Bourbon Street brand of Mardi Gras ugliness prejudice me.
Nothing brings on an epiphany better than seeing your city and its people being drowned like rats. Suddenly a tremendous region of our country was dying. Art, music, and culture nearly lost entirely. For me it was a baptism of sorts. My loyalties were tested and my cultural curiosities strengthened. I promised myself I would embrace all the uniqueness of New Orleans that I had neglected or shunned. And man oh man that first Mardi Gras back after the Flood was holy water to my soul.
Hey now, hey now! I am a born again New Orleanian! Never did I expect to tap my toes and wiggle my butt to Iko Iko or allow purple, gold and green into my color scheme. Bourbon Street can take a hike cause me and my bike are goin’ to the Treme with my camera fully loaded to look for some bone-shakers and catch us some Indians. Happy Carnival!
Comments welcomed: debbie@whereyat.com
By
Debbie Lindsey
She said the same words I have repeated again and again through the years -- “I hate Mardi Gras!” But this time those words hit me in a way that surprised and even annoyed me. Before the storm I would have found in her a kindred spirit. But I just sat there feeling, for the first time, how all those folks through the years suffered my bashing of their near religious fervor for Carnival.
I am not sold entirely on all things Mardi Gras. There are abuses and liberties that outsiders and opportunists take during this age-old celebration. The definition of Risqué is not “show your tits”. And indulging in libations needn’t result in having to power hose sidewalks. Somewhere along the line Mardi Gras and ‘frat party’ have become synonymous – delivering a harsh hazing of the French Quarter, in particular.
I came to New Orleans with my own Mardi Gras experiences and history. My hometown, Mobile, has been doing carnival for more years than New Orleans. I felt like been-there-done-that. As a child it was an event worth remembering. And as an adult I enjoyed the Mardi Gras balls. All you needed in lieu of an invitation was a good looking evening gown, a fictitious date bearing tickets, and an ability to deliver a bald-face lie. My girl friend and I would sneak into the event, claiming to the security guard that a female emergency run to the drug store had prompted us to leave briefly (I would feign embarrassment while discreetly showing a small box of tampons clutched close to my plunging neckline). And of course, that our ‘dates’ were nowhere to be found at that moment was taken for granted. That same box of tampons embarrassed our way into many an ‘invitation only’ event.
If I had been Jewish or Black no evening gown regardless of cleavage revealed would have gotten me through the doors of the Mobile Municipal Auditorium. Mardi Gras seemed so white to me and I guess I just preferred a more colorful world. Segregation did not begin and end in Mobile, or shape only its Carnival. New Orleans’ Mardi Gras reflects its own history of segregation and integration. But my first taste of the color codes were in my hometown and I guess through the years it tainted my feelings for Mardi Gras.
A historian, I am not. Much of the history, events and attitudes that have shaped both Carnivals are viewed subjectively. I am more forgiving of New Orleans’ maybe just because I want to be or perhaps because I have included myself in a more avant- garde, artsy fartsy culture here, where colors run together.
Often on the very pages of this magazine I have taken Mardi Gras to task and without much of anything nice to say or to add to balance the enigma of our New Orleans traditions that embrace this pre-Lenten spectacle. I never wrote about my first glimpse of Fat Tuesday nearly twenty years ago on Royal Street.
I was waitressing at a café on the corner of St. Ann and Royal when I thought I was seeing the Second Coming of Christ…on Broadway. Next a gaggle of drag queens sashayed by causing my tray of gumbo bowls to take near flight. Between my distracted attempts at food service I viewed this Fellini-like film as it rolled past the café windows. Men, women and children sporting bird beaked Venetian masks and garbed in velvets befitting the elegance of that bygone time. The sky seemed the fill with streamers of bright ribbons and beehive wigs that, swear-to-god, looked to be as tall as the balconies across the street. Oh, and the music -- calypso, African, funk, and New Orleans brass all coming together in a frantic, sensual frenzy.
I look back and wonder why the hell I didn’t walk or dance out that miserable job then and there and join that caravan of frivolity. I later found out that what I witnessed that day was the Society of St. Anne and little did I know at the time that my future friends were all there dancing, strolling and parading. The guy performing under the weight of a giant brass tuba would turn out to become my friend, Woody. And somewhere under all those wigs and headpieces was Tracy the hat maker, Little Jen, ‘Yoo Hoo’ Steve, Marinnette and many more parading, watching and toasting. Mister, throw me something…how about an armful of friendships just waiting for me.
Amazingly, I maintained my dislike for Mardi Gras even through all the St. Anne parades I joined for so many years. In fairness to my attitude, living in the Quarter during Carnival is not for the faint of heart. While the comic genius of Krewe du Vieux, the cuddly, camp of Barkus, the haute couture madness of St. Anne, and the screw ball comedy of Krewe of Cork have always brought me to my knees in laughter and admiration, I never thought to look any further. I let the Bourbon Street brand of Mardi Gras ugliness prejudice me.
Nothing brings on an epiphany better than seeing your city and its people being drowned like rats. Suddenly a tremendous region of our country was dying. Art, music, and culture nearly lost entirely. For me it was a baptism of sorts. My loyalties were tested and my cultural curiosities strengthened. I promised myself I would embrace all the uniqueness of New Orleans that I had neglected or shunned. And man oh man that first Mardi Gras back after the Flood was holy water to my soul.
Hey now, hey now! I am a born again New Orleanian! Never did I expect to tap my toes and wiggle my butt to Iko Iko or allow purple, gold and green into my color scheme. Bourbon Street can take a hike cause me and my bike are goin’ to the Treme with my camera fully loaded to look for some bone-shakers and catch us some Indians. Happy Carnival!
Comments welcomed: debbie@whereyat.com
Katrina inspired Valentine
I’ll See you in My Dreams
By
Debbie Lindsey
Sometimes, for a split second I think something like: ‘I’ll ask Dad--- what ever happened with that affair Aunt Jessie had with Aunt Millie’s husband?’ My reflex to pick up the phone and dial 205-342-5314 and get a refresher on family secrets ends as abruptly as if awaking from a dream. Realization hits hard, but the sensation of sharing a moment with Dad lingers. Sometimes I simply entertain the fun of, the memory of, calling him to say, “Oklahoma is on AMC tonight! Go turn it on!”
Mom enters my thoughts in a less spontaneous manner. For instance, filling out medical history forms has me wishing I had been privy to her family history. She was adopted and back then there were no records and a degree of irrational shame often was passed unto the adopted child. We never spoke of it. Wish we had. Wish I had held her more during that last year; instead I seemed to just fuss at her for not eating or being able to walk. Sure would feel good to hold her now.
Memories, regrets and wishes attach themselves to my parents in different ways. Dad is remembered in dreams and thoughts much as he looked in his later years. And with his premature gray hair I never knew him to look any younger other than Jimmy Stewart circa Vertigo. But Mom is a different story, different dreams.
When Mom visits my dreams she is always younger. She is Mom the brunet, Mom the frosted blonde, she is Mom who is healthy. Mom fought two battles simultaneously: Parkinson’s and osteoporosis. She lost both. It doesn’t take shrink to tell me that it is so much more fun to dream of her as vital and cognizant. Yet in my waking hours every stooped and befuddled lady I meet brings me to tears. But hey, in dreams she never budges past middle age.
They died within two months of each other. The dreams were more frequent then. From the first time I dreamed of them I knew they would always be there for me. Kinda like old home movies. For me dreaming is a part of my life and in those moments they come alive and I have them back again. And only once in a while do we have fussing and fighting, but then that was and is a real family thing.
With Valentines Day looming over our city – a city still raw with regrets and losses, it seems like a good time to shed some tears. The best tears are the ones that honor. I can not always rely on pleasant dreams to keep my memories alive. Therefore when something triggers the ole tear ducks and I find myself weepin’ and a wailin’ for Mom and Dad I like to think they somehow know – know that I get it, that I appreciate the profundity of death and the importance of life-- their lives.
If my reservoir of tears were ever to dry up it would somehow mean that they had died again and were truly gone for good.
Dreams and tears are not for every occasion. I also like to talk to dead folks. Oh, I have no gift for the supernatural, wish I did. But I do like to believe that maybe they hear.
Once I got a little carried away chatting up Dad from the pier of the Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama where his ashes were tossed some years earlier. My (slightly embarrassed) accompanying friend, Paul, had to remind me “Debbie, your father is dead, not deaf!”
Mom had a similar moment as I visited her gravesite and commenced to regale her with all the latest gossip only to find to the chagrin of some onlookers that I was sitting on the wrong tomb stone. In fact it was their great grandmother I was perched upon with a cold beer in hand telling Mom some off color joke. Ya just can’t take me anywhere.
This is not just a Mom and Dad saccharin Hallmark moment. Since Katrina everyone here has been touched by death in some form: The loyal dog swept from loving arms by the waters; the husband who stayed behind, giving his seat in the evacuating family car to the elderly neighbor – he drowned in his Lazy Boy recliner. The suicide, heart attack, gun shot, ‘just gonna be gone three days’ dogs and cats, were all someone’s someone.
We all know, and know of, too many. I have one that I talk to. There is a restaurant I pass on my walk home. It is closed, suspended in time; nothing has been touched since September 05. In those days after the storm the owner, who stayed to be with animals, died inside the restaurant of a heart attack. It breaks me. I feel certain he is there and no one seems to notice, know, or care. So I will care and I will give him the acknowledgment he deserves. I speak to him and tell him I am so very sorry. I try to keep him alive. No one should die twice. One’s memory should be honored.
So for Valentines Day I will pour a little of my drink to the ground --one for the brothers. I will leave flowers on the doorstep of a certain restaurant. I talk very loud, silly and happily to my Mom and Dad. And cry tears to honor all the loved ones taken by storm, war, cancer and those whose cards that were simply stacked against them.
Comments welcomed: debbie@whereyat.net
P.S.
Re: last month’s column: My biopsy was benign. No tears for me!!!!
By
Debbie Lindsey
Sometimes, for a split second I think something like: ‘I’ll ask Dad--- what ever happened with that affair Aunt Jessie had with Aunt Millie’s husband?’ My reflex to pick up the phone and dial 205-342-5314 and get a refresher on family secrets ends as abruptly as if awaking from a dream. Realization hits hard, but the sensation of sharing a moment with Dad lingers. Sometimes I simply entertain the fun of, the memory of, calling him to say, “Oklahoma is on AMC tonight! Go turn it on!”
Mom enters my thoughts in a less spontaneous manner. For instance, filling out medical history forms has me wishing I had been privy to her family history. She was adopted and back then there were no records and a degree of irrational shame often was passed unto the adopted child. We never spoke of it. Wish we had. Wish I had held her more during that last year; instead I seemed to just fuss at her for not eating or being able to walk. Sure would feel good to hold her now.
Memories, regrets and wishes attach themselves to my parents in different ways. Dad is remembered in dreams and thoughts much as he looked in his later years. And with his premature gray hair I never knew him to look any younger other than Jimmy Stewart circa Vertigo. But Mom is a different story, different dreams.
When Mom visits my dreams she is always younger. She is Mom the brunet, Mom the frosted blonde, she is Mom who is healthy. Mom fought two battles simultaneously: Parkinson’s and osteoporosis. She lost both. It doesn’t take shrink to tell me that it is so much more fun to dream of her as vital and cognizant. Yet in my waking hours every stooped and befuddled lady I meet brings me to tears. But hey, in dreams she never budges past middle age.
They died within two months of each other. The dreams were more frequent then. From the first time I dreamed of them I knew they would always be there for me. Kinda like old home movies. For me dreaming is a part of my life and in those moments they come alive and I have them back again. And only once in a while do we have fussing and fighting, but then that was and is a real family thing.
With Valentines Day looming over our city – a city still raw with regrets and losses, it seems like a good time to shed some tears. The best tears are the ones that honor. I can not always rely on pleasant dreams to keep my memories alive. Therefore when something triggers the ole tear ducks and I find myself weepin’ and a wailin’ for Mom and Dad I like to think they somehow know – know that I get it, that I appreciate the profundity of death and the importance of life-- their lives.
If my reservoir of tears were ever to dry up it would somehow mean that they had died again and were truly gone for good.
Dreams and tears are not for every occasion. I also like to talk to dead folks. Oh, I have no gift for the supernatural, wish I did. But I do like to believe that maybe they hear.
Once I got a little carried away chatting up Dad from the pier of the Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama where his ashes were tossed some years earlier. My (slightly embarrassed) accompanying friend, Paul, had to remind me “Debbie, your father is dead, not deaf!”
Mom had a similar moment as I visited her gravesite and commenced to regale her with all the latest gossip only to find to the chagrin of some onlookers that I was sitting on the wrong tomb stone. In fact it was their great grandmother I was perched upon with a cold beer in hand telling Mom some off color joke. Ya just can’t take me anywhere.
This is not just a Mom and Dad saccharin Hallmark moment. Since Katrina everyone here has been touched by death in some form: The loyal dog swept from loving arms by the waters; the husband who stayed behind, giving his seat in the evacuating family car to the elderly neighbor – he drowned in his Lazy Boy recliner. The suicide, heart attack, gun shot, ‘just gonna be gone three days’ dogs and cats, were all someone’s someone.
We all know, and know of, too many. I have one that I talk to. There is a restaurant I pass on my walk home. It is closed, suspended in time; nothing has been touched since September 05. In those days after the storm the owner, who stayed to be with animals, died inside the restaurant of a heart attack. It breaks me. I feel certain he is there and no one seems to notice, know, or care. So I will care and I will give him the acknowledgment he deserves. I speak to him and tell him I am so very sorry. I try to keep him alive. No one should die twice. One’s memory should be honored.
So for Valentines Day I will pour a little of my drink to the ground --one for the brothers. I will leave flowers on the doorstep of a certain restaurant. I talk very loud, silly and happily to my Mom and Dad. And cry tears to honor all the loved ones taken by storm, war, cancer and those whose cards that were simply stacked against them.
Comments welcomed: debbie@whereyat.net
P.S.
Re: last month’s column: My biopsy was benign. No tears for me!!!!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
French Quarter Farewell
Home Sweet Homes
By
Debbie Lindsey
I met Kevin and Kathy in 1993 when my parents began to die. I had just moved into the apartment above them at 928 Conti. This would be my home for 15 years and their friendship forever.
My parents’ lives began to unravel rapidly beginning with Dad’s soaring blood pressure and the resulting hospitalization. Thus began my frequent treks to Mobile for the next six months. Misfortune, malpractice, and the general malfunctions of the human body took my Dad’s life. Mom, dependant upon Dad as her caregiver, became the collateral damage. She passed two months to the day after my father.
When I met my new neighbors little did I know that they were about to become my family.
A month earlier I had been evicted from my apartment. The landlord had visions of dollars bills spewing from the soon-to-be casino at Armstrong Park. He figured he would land some big time gambler as his next tenant and doubled the rent (the casino attracting only senior citizens and the working poor failed miserably). I am forever grateful to his greed. I never could have survived those following months without Kev and Kat adopting me.
They did not know me from a serial killer and I could barely remember their names but I had no choice but to hand them my keys and inflict my killer cat Lulu into their care. I later found out that Kathy would wear knee high shrimper boots and arm herself with a broom to fend off cat attacks as she fed and watered my precious little monster.
LuLu would mellow through the years; neighbors would come and go; avocado seeds pitched into the Azalea bed would mature into shade trees; peeling of paint -- all marked time. I now look upon the grave of LuLu, forgiving her mean nature and hoping she finds comfort among the banana trees and little bones of other beloved pets.
Living in the French Quarter has been a privilege that I have not taken lightly. However, since the storm and the opening of our cook book store I have felt like a prisoner. Of late my beautiful architectural surroundings seem more like walls than history.
A malaise settled over me, spiced with spikes of resentment. Then one day about two years ago Boyfriend and I took a quick break from running errands to let the dogs out of the van and onto some grass. We were in Audubon Park near the stables, a quiet little area filled with giant oaks. The moment I walked onto the grass and sniffed at the green and listened to leaves as they practically breathed in and out from the ancient limbs of the oaks I remembered how I used to feel when I was in love with this city.
That’s when I knew the calmative if not the cure. I needed to live somewhere outside the Quarter, somewhere a bit quieter, greener. It would be two years before the opportunity presented itself and I am grateful it did not occur sooner because I would need Kevin and Kathy again for more than just friendship.
My sweet boy, Phil the mighty cat, became sick, very sick and without my dear neighbors to baby-sit him during our seven day work week or when we went on our much needed vacation I doubt he would have been able to beat the odds and continue on with his kidney disease. During these last six months my cat has enjoyed a quality of life that they have lovingly lavished upon him.
It will hurt to leave the place that I have lived in longer than even my childhood home. I will miss sitting with my third floor neighbor and friend Lana and sharing gossip and cold beer. My cat will miss his courtyard and the hapless mourning doves that are not quick enough to escape my feline hunter. Boyfriend and I will sadly enjoy our final little happy hours with Kev and Kat as all our dogs terrorize each other among the Banana trees.
As we begin to pack and prepare to live a different home-life in the Faubourg St. John, with a back yard, trees and grass, City Park, Liuzza’s (our new neighborhood bar!), front porch stooping and a washer, dyer, and even a clothesline, I know this well be a much needed change.
Yet, this morning, when I awoke in my little slave quarter apartment looking out the window at my crepe myrtle and the Monteleone Hotel in the distance I felt sad and already homesick. And then like clockwork an excellent reason for moving articulated itself through the early morning roars of two drunken leftovers of a Saturday night bender. Sometimes it just takes a drunk to put things in perceptive.
Anyway, it’s time to go home and start packing. And as I do so I will recall my years spent at 928 Conti and know that Kevin and Kathy will continue to be my family.
By
Debbie Lindsey
I met Kevin and Kathy in 1993 when my parents began to die. I had just moved into the apartment above them at 928 Conti. This would be my home for 15 years and their friendship forever.
My parents’ lives began to unravel rapidly beginning with Dad’s soaring blood pressure and the resulting hospitalization. Thus began my frequent treks to Mobile for the next six months. Misfortune, malpractice, and the general malfunctions of the human body took my Dad’s life. Mom, dependant upon Dad as her caregiver, became the collateral damage. She passed two months to the day after my father.
When I met my new neighbors little did I know that they were about to become my family.
A month earlier I had been evicted from my apartment. The landlord had visions of dollars bills spewing from the soon-to-be casino at Armstrong Park. He figured he would land some big time gambler as his next tenant and doubled the rent (the casino attracting only senior citizens and the working poor failed miserably). I am forever grateful to his greed. I never could have survived those following months without Kev and Kat adopting me.
They did not know me from a serial killer and I could barely remember their names but I had no choice but to hand them my keys and inflict my killer cat Lulu into their care. I later found out that Kathy would wear knee high shrimper boots and arm herself with a broom to fend off cat attacks as she fed and watered my precious little monster.
LuLu would mellow through the years; neighbors would come and go; avocado seeds pitched into the Azalea bed would mature into shade trees; peeling of paint -- all marked time. I now look upon the grave of LuLu, forgiving her mean nature and hoping she finds comfort among the banana trees and little bones of other beloved pets.
Living in the French Quarter has been a privilege that I have not taken lightly. However, since the storm and the opening of our cook book store I have felt like a prisoner. Of late my beautiful architectural surroundings seem more like walls than history.
A malaise settled over me, spiced with spikes of resentment. Then one day about two years ago Boyfriend and I took a quick break from running errands to let the dogs out of the van and onto some grass. We were in Audubon Park near the stables, a quiet little area filled with giant oaks. The moment I walked onto the grass and sniffed at the green and listened to leaves as they practically breathed in and out from the ancient limbs of the oaks I remembered how I used to feel when I was in love with this city.
That’s when I knew the calmative if not the cure. I needed to live somewhere outside the Quarter, somewhere a bit quieter, greener. It would be two years before the opportunity presented itself and I am grateful it did not occur sooner because I would need Kevin and Kathy again for more than just friendship.
My sweet boy, Phil the mighty cat, became sick, very sick and without my dear neighbors to baby-sit him during our seven day work week or when we went on our much needed vacation I doubt he would have been able to beat the odds and continue on with his kidney disease. During these last six months my cat has enjoyed a quality of life that they have lovingly lavished upon him.
It will hurt to leave the place that I have lived in longer than even my childhood home. I will miss sitting with my third floor neighbor and friend Lana and sharing gossip and cold beer. My cat will miss his courtyard and the hapless mourning doves that are not quick enough to escape my feline hunter. Boyfriend and I will sadly enjoy our final little happy hours with Kev and Kat as all our dogs terrorize each other among the Banana trees.
As we begin to pack and prepare to live a different home-life in the Faubourg St. John, with a back yard, trees and grass, City Park, Liuzza’s (our new neighborhood bar!), front porch stooping and a washer, dyer, and even a clothesline, I know this well be a much needed change.
Yet, this morning, when I awoke in my little slave quarter apartment looking out the window at my crepe myrtle and the Monteleone Hotel in the distance I felt sad and already homesick. And then like clockwork an excellent reason for moving articulated itself through the early morning roars of two drunken leftovers of a Saturday night bender. Sometimes it just takes a drunk to put things in perceptive.
Anyway, it’s time to go home and start packing. And as I do so I will recall my years spent at 928 Conti and know that Kevin and Kathy will continue to be my family.
Aunt Ethel
Ethel
By
Debbie Lindsey
Aunt Ethel always took great pride in any ailment she might encounter. There are those who might use the term hypochondria, but the way I see it, she simply felt special about any physical shortcoming she might have had. Take for example an allergy, she could turn this mundane annoyance into a real conversation piece. So, it was quite ironic that a woman with a medicine cabinet to rival Walgreens would outlive all her siblings and contemporaries. Somewhere in Ethel seemed to be the fountain of youth – and her damn allergies had best take a backseat.
You’d think it was my life the way I took to bragging on her age -- her longevity became infectious and made me feel invincible. As long as she lived I could look with defiance at my mortality. It wasn’t just the amount of years under her belt it was the way she lived them. At ninety she looked closer to seventy-five (at seventy-five she still indulged her hobby of boating and rigorous fishing) with an agility I could never match; she credited this with touching her toes, knees straight, 100 times each day.
At an age when most folks sell their home to move into assistant living arrangements, Ethel thought it was high time to buy her first home. She was ninety-three. She did however relinquish her drivers license at ninety-five – she thought it the mature thing to do.
During these years as my life affirming, less complaining aunt was defying both the medical and real estate status quo, I was living, as now, in New Orleans. My visits with her were scarce. On the map it looks so easy but “as the crow flies” does not apply to Mobile’s relationship to the Eastern Shore town of Fairhope. Trips home to Mobile were by way of the Greyhound and being a non-driving individual those thirty miles across the bay to Fairhope would require the feet of Jesus to get there. So, for close to six years I lost touch considerably with my favorite aunt and favorite side of Mobile Bay.
It is impossible for me to think of Ethel without thought to the bay, my bay. This estuary is habitat to pelicans, gulls, dolphins, crabs, clams, and beaucoup fish -- mullets winning my heart as they dance across the surface. Those looking for a salty blue surf and white beaches need to travel another sixty miles. I like my water the color of cloudy ice tea trimmed with small patches of sand stained by it’s tides and decorated with cypress knees and skeleton legs of wharves fallen prey to summer storms.
The Eastern Shore, “across the bay” as locals refer, is a stretch of land with one small town after another that hugs this bay. This fertile green and rolling shoreline is thick with oak, pecan, and pine trees all sporting their tattered gray laundry of Spanish moss that the brightest of summer suns can never bleach. Each of these bay towns has been home one time or another to Dad’s family and even Dad relocated to this shore when he passed.
Two years before Ethel’s ninety-fifth birthday party I scattered my dad’s ashes onto Mobile Bay (my mom would soon follow but by way of higher ground). This burial at sea, if you can call a depth of five feet of water at the foot of the Grand Hotel’s pier a sea, would be the last time my folks would bring me to the bay. After they died I did not see Ethel or the bay again for another two years. Phone calls and letters with Ethel were all I had to keep my memories on life support – until the party.
The cousins were the ones who invited me back to my roots – roots that never really took hold in Mobile but grew like weeds in the sand and red clay across the bay. The family had planned a reunion for Ethel’s ninety-fifth birthday. And it would be Ethel who would give a gift to me.
My aunt gave me many things through the years: Toll House cookies, a check in every birthday card, endless hand-me-down treasures and at ninety-five she brought my father back to life and with him my mom, and gave me an entire bay.
In getting to this party my friend, Marinnette, became the executor of my inheritance of memories and delta waters. Marinnette was always game for a little road trip and having recently lost her mom she was keen to see me visit my aunt and my parents’ past. It was that excursion on the occasion of Ethel’s birthday that my friend and I discovered what would be a second home of sorts to both of us – Oak Haven. The collection of small cottages scattered among oaks and what appeared to be snow topped dogwoods is across the road from the bay. For the past nine years Oak Haven has placed me within reach of Ethel, family history and the changing tides.
I did not get to hug my aunt, share a cookie or listen to stories about her younger brother on my last visit. At a 104 Aunt Ethel simply wore out. I guess I came to expect her to live forever and well…she just might. You see, next time I sit on the pier and look out onto the bay I expect to see Ethel fishing with her husband once again and maybe, they will have invited my father to join them.
Comments welcome. deblin3043@aol.com
By
Debbie Lindsey
Aunt Ethel always took great pride in any ailment she might encounter. There are those who might use the term hypochondria, but the way I see it, she simply felt special about any physical shortcoming she might have had. Take for example an allergy, she could turn this mundane annoyance into a real conversation piece. So, it was quite ironic that a woman with a medicine cabinet to rival Walgreens would outlive all her siblings and contemporaries. Somewhere in Ethel seemed to be the fountain of youth – and her damn allergies had best take a backseat.
You’d think it was my life the way I took to bragging on her age -- her longevity became infectious and made me feel invincible. As long as she lived I could look with defiance at my mortality. It wasn’t just the amount of years under her belt it was the way she lived them. At ninety she looked closer to seventy-five (at seventy-five she still indulged her hobby of boating and rigorous fishing) with an agility I could never match; she credited this with touching her toes, knees straight, 100 times each day.
At an age when most folks sell their home to move into assistant living arrangements, Ethel thought it was high time to buy her first home. She was ninety-three. She did however relinquish her drivers license at ninety-five – she thought it the mature thing to do.
During these years as my life affirming, less complaining aunt was defying both the medical and real estate status quo, I was living, as now, in New Orleans. My visits with her were scarce. On the map it looks so easy but “as the crow flies” does not apply to Mobile’s relationship to the Eastern Shore town of Fairhope. Trips home to Mobile were by way of the Greyhound and being a non-driving individual those thirty miles across the bay to Fairhope would require the feet of Jesus to get there. So, for close to six years I lost touch considerably with my favorite aunt and favorite side of Mobile Bay.
It is impossible for me to think of Ethel without thought to the bay, my bay. This estuary is habitat to pelicans, gulls, dolphins, crabs, clams, and beaucoup fish -- mullets winning my heart as they dance across the surface. Those looking for a salty blue surf and white beaches need to travel another sixty miles. I like my water the color of cloudy ice tea trimmed with small patches of sand stained by it’s tides and decorated with cypress knees and skeleton legs of wharves fallen prey to summer storms.
The Eastern Shore, “across the bay” as locals refer, is a stretch of land with one small town after another that hugs this bay. This fertile green and rolling shoreline is thick with oak, pecan, and pine trees all sporting their tattered gray laundry of Spanish moss that the brightest of summer suns can never bleach. Each of these bay towns has been home one time or another to Dad’s family and even Dad relocated to this shore when he passed.
Two years before Ethel’s ninety-fifth birthday party I scattered my dad’s ashes onto Mobile Bay (my mom would soon follow but by way of higher ground). This burial at sea, if you can call a depth of five feet of water at the foot of the Grand Hotel’s pier a sea, would be the last time my folks would bring me to the bay. After they died I did not see Ethel or the bay again for another two years. Phone calls and letters with Ethel were all I had to keep my memories on life support – until the party.
The cousins were the ones who invited me back to my roots – roots that never really took hold in Mobile but grew like weeds in the sand and red clay across the bay. The family had planned a reunion for Ethel’s ninety-fifth birthday. And it would be Ethel who would give a gift to me.
My aunt gave me many things through the years: Toll House cookies, a check in every birthday card, endless hand-me-down treasures and at ninety-five she brought my father back to life and with him my mom, and gave me an entire bay.
In getting to this party my friend, Marinnette, became the executor of my inheritance of memories and delta waters. Marinnette was always game for a little road trip and having recently lost her mom she was keen to see me visit my aunt and my parents’ past. It was that excursion on the occasion of Ethel’s birthday that my friend and I discovered what would be a second home of sorts to both of us – Oak Haven. The collection of small cottages scattered among oaks and what appeared to be snow topped dogwoods is across the road from the bay. For the past nine years Oak Haven has placed me within reach of Ethel, family history and the changing tides.
I did not get to hug my aunt, share a cookie or listen to stories about her younger brother on my last visit. At a 104 Aunt Ethel simply wore out. I guess I came to expect her to live forever and well…she just might. You see, next time I sit on the pier and look out onto the bay I expect to see Ethel fishing with her husband once again and maybe, they will have invited my father to join them.
Comments welcome. deblin3043@aol.com
Bob the Cat
Bob
By
Debbie Lindsey
She died. Just like that – gone. I nudged her, fussed at her, even got angry with her. She had to wake up, simple, just stop horsing around and get up. But I knew, I knew she was gone. I was not supposed to outlive her. And yet, she had once told me “Don’t you ever leave me, don’t you dare”. This was after my accident. I’d been paying more attention to the blue jays swooping over ahead than to the blue Chevy that blindsided me. Two weeks and five stitches later I was good to go, but boy did I give her a scare. I guess I had no idea til then how much she’d grown to need me. It had always seemed that I was the one in need.
It is said that we have nine lives, but what good is that if you can’t remember. I never knew my family -- only a vague remembrance of well being, of warmth. I do, however, have a vivid recollection of not having my family, of being alone. And even at that young age I knew I was in for some of the most vulnerable and dangerous times I would ever experience. Fear was second only to hunger. I do not know how long I played hide-and-seek with despotic dogs and feral felines and even worse those people who sought to eradicate all of us.
I learned early to place caution before an empty stomach – not to trust just any person with a bowl of food. Some had motives to ugly to repeat. But in time I learned to follow the lead of the more war-wary yet wise of my roguish family and began to learn which humans to trust and thus which meal was safe, with no strings attached. No doubt there was much in-house fighting among us cats but nicked ears and bruised egos were generally the only price paid for going against the established hierarchy. But never forget the dogs.
Larger and stronger generally won out over agility and smarts. Even the smaller breeds of orphaned pups could rip a cat’s throat open in no time flat. I somehow never faulted them for this as I could remember the first time I was forced to kill for food. Trust me, it does not come easy to all cats to take the life of a cowering little mouse or a dove dozing in the warm sun. But hunger will do that to even the mild-mannered. And while there were many brutish canines -- the discards of too many years in the ring, forced to fight to near death, and left with little respect for life; some were merely orphans like myself. But whether rendered cruel by the blood sports or merely lonely from abandonment, dogs simply had to be avoided and no time was truer than dinnertime.
Forgive my digression, this may be about my life, but it wouldn’t have been a life worth having if not for her. My past was going through my mind and heart faster than a cat up a tree after she died. For it was she who saved me from the streets and from something far more sinister – the Death Camps. The pound, the SPCA, the shelter, Humane Society… morgues for most street cats. Yes, I have heard the hype and to be fair, much is true; many animals are rescued, given a better life by these organizations. But many enter never to return – much like the nursing homes where people place the infirm.
She was one of the to-be-trusted folks that brought us food. There was something about her that got to me. She would talk to me; in fact, she would pour her heart out to me. Her husband had passed and she was as lonely as I was. So it seemed only natural to curl up on her lap – a way of saying I understood. A pat, a purr, a tear, and soon she was feeding me from my very own bowl in my very own kitchen. And she didn’t even expect me to cull the small herd of mice she had. I could be myself; I could relax for the first time.
With so many years given to me it will seem heartless when I tell you I had to leave her there alone. That the neighbor who found her had to think how sad that she died alone, not even a pet to mourn her. But mourn I did. I knew her family would never take me home with them (they all lived far away, had to fly in for the funeral). They would tell themselves it would be a kindness to have the poor old cat put down. Too old. The grandchildren wouldn’t want an old cat – why look at it; it drools. How old is it anyway… Yep, I knew I had to leave.
With nothing but the collar on my neck I returned to the streets as lonely as the kitten I was so many years ago, but this time I remembered my previous life and pined for it, for Her. Street life is hard on anyone, but us old guys…well we just don’t last long out there. Oh, I denied this fact of life for awhile. Then one day at the bus depot (good place to slip in out of the rain and snag a few chicken bones from the trash) I saw the old man.
In people-years he would’ve been about my age. He wore an old three piece suit, a fedora, and leather lace up shoes. Clearly he took great pride in these few possessions (as I did my now fraying collar – my only token of domesticity) as he smoothed and brushed at wrinkles and lint constantly. There was a small valise that he would open and close frequently, often pulling forth a framed photograph of a young couple in old fashioned wedding clothes. His eyes would grow wet and he’d look nervously about and try to hide his face. I knew he had no where to go. I knew he’d sit there until they came to take him away – just as they would me.
I ran all night stopping only to throw myself at someone, anyone that might take pity on me. Then while attempting to charm two young ladies by following them straight into traffic I was suddenly snatched up by a woman from behind. “Is this your cat? Do you know where he lives? I’ve never seen him around here before, must be lost. Gonna get himself hit by a car. Well, hell, I’ll take him.”
My new She took me in, tried to find my home, tried to find any home for me. But an old drooling and slightly incontinent cat is no prize. I kept waiting for her to take me to the pound, which would surely be curtains for me. Despite the food, medical attention and concern I did not feel secure until one day she said, “you are like a little old man waiting for the family that will never come”. And with that, she gave me a name – Bob. It is not a name I would have chosen; yet every time she says it I know that I am home – the safe haven of my ninth life.
By
Debbie Lindsey
She died. Just like that – gone. I nudged her, fussed at her, even got angry with her. She had to wake up, simple, just stop horsing around and get up. But I knew, I knew she was gone. I was not supposed to outlive her. And yet, she had once told me “Don’t you ever leave me, don’t you dare”. This was after my accident. I’d been paying more attention to the blue jays swooping over ahead than to the blue Chevy that blindsided me. Two weeks and five stitches later I was good to go, but boy did I give her a scare. I guess I had no idea til then how much she’d grown to need me. It had always seemed that I was the one in need.
It is said that we have nine lives, but what good is that if you can’t remember. I never knew my family -- only a vague remembrance of well being, of warmth. I do, however, have a vivid recollection of not having my family, of being alone. And even at that young age I knew I was in for some of the most vulnerable and dangerous times I would ever experience. Fear was second only to hunger. I do not know how long I played hide-and-seek with despotic dogs and feral felines and even worse those people who sought to eradicate all of us.
I learned early to place caution before an empty stomach – not to trust just any person with a bowl of food. Some had motives to ugly to repeat. But in time I learned to follow the lead of the more war-wary yet wise of my roguish family and began to learn which humans to trust and thus which meal was safe, with no strings attached. No doubt there was much in-house fighting among us cats but nicked ears and bruised egos were generally the only price paid for going against the established hierarchy. But never forget the dogs.
Larger and stronger generally won out over agility and smarts. Even the smaller breeds of orphaned pups could rip a cat’s throat open in no time flat. I somehow never faulted them for this as I could remember the first time I was forced to kill for food. Trust me, it does not come easy to all cats to take the life of a cowering little mouse or a dove dozing in the warm sun. But hunger will do that to even the mild-mannered. And while there were many brutish canines -- the discards of too many years in the ring, forced to fight to near death, and left with little respect for life; some were merely orphans like myself. But whether rendered cruel by the blood sports or merely lonely from abandonment, dogs simply had to be avoided and no time was truer than dinnertime.
Forgive my digression, this may be about my life, but it wouldn’t have been a life worth having if not for her. My past was going through my mind and heart faster than a cat up a tree after she died. For it was she who saved me from the streets and from something far more sinister – the Death Camps. The pound, the SPCA, the shelter, Humane Society… morgues for most street cats. Yes, I have heard the hype and to be fair, much is true; many animals are rescued, given a better life by these organizations. But many enter never to return – much like the nursing homes where people place the infirm.
She was one of the to-be-trusted folks that brought us food. There was something about her that got to me. She would talk to me; in fact, she would pour her heart out to me. Her husband had passed and she was as lonely as I was. So it seemed only natural to curl up on her lap – a way of saying I understood. A pat, a purr, a tear, and soon she was feeding me from my very own bowl in my very own kitchen. And she didn’t even expect me to cull the small herd of mice she had. I could be myself; I could relax for the first time.
With so many years given to me it will seem heartless when I tell you I had to leave her there alone. That the neighbor who found her had to think how sad that she died alone, not even a pet to mourn her. But mourn I did. I knew her family would never take me home with them (they all lived far away, had to fly in for the funeral). They would tell themselves it would be a kindness to have the poor old cat put down. Too old. The grandchildren wouldn’t want an old cat – why look at it; it drools. How old is it anyway… Yep, I knew I had to leave.
With nothing but the collar on my neck I returned to the streets as lonely as the kitten I was so many years ago, but this time I remembered my previous life and pined for it, for Her. Street life is hard on anyone, but us old guys…well we just don’t last long out there. Oh, I denied this fact of life for awhile. Then one day at the bus depot (good place to slip in out of the rain and snag a few chicken bones from the trash) I saw the old man.
In people-years he would’ve been about my age. He wore an old three piece suit, a fedora, and leather lace up shoes. Clearly he took great pride in these few possessions (as I did my now fraying collar – my only token of domesticity) as he smoothed and brushed at wrinkles and lint constantly. There was a small valise that he would open and close frequently, often pulling forth a framed photograph of a young couple in old fashioned wedding clothes. His eyes would grow wet and he’d look nervously about and try to hide his face. I knew he had no where to go. I knew he’d sit there until they came to take him away – just as they would me.
I ran all night stopping only to throw myself at someone, anyone that might take pity on me. Then while attempting to charm two young ladies by following them straight into traffic I was suddenly snatched up by a woman from behind. “Is this your cat? Do you know where he lives? I’ve never seen him around here before, must be lost. Gonna get himself hit by a car. Well, hell, I’ll take him.”
My new She took me in, tried to find my home, tried to find any home for me. But an old drooling and slightly incontinent cat is no prize. I kept waiting for her to take me to the pound, which would surely be curtains for me. Despite the food, medical attention and concern I did not feel secure until one day she said, “you are like a little old man waiting for the family that will never come”. And with that, she gave me a name – Bob. It is not a name I would have chosen; yet every time she says it I know that I am home – the safe haven of my ninth life.
Mobile memories and mall malaise
Shopping for Treasures
By
Debbie Lindsey
“Excuse me, that’s my nasty bra.”
To my horror the sales lady was holding my bra as if it were a dead rat and rapidly approaching the trash bin, all the while declaring the garment unfit for human viewing with her disdainful: “And someone left this NASTY bra in the dressing room….” This was a rather unique approach to assisting me in my selection.
“Ma’am I would like to wear it home if you would be so kind as to fish it out of the waste paper basket. Yes, there it is, it has slipped down pass the Burger King wrapper. And maybe you could cancel the call to security now that you have my nasty bra as collateral while I finish trying on my selection.”
So for the tenth time I walked through electronic buzzers, loud enough to perforate an eardrum, to my dressing room. It was not turning out to be fun. The foundations department had every type of poly-fiber filled harness a woman could want – if she was not 34 D.
“Common size?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Are you out for that reason?”
“No.”
“Will you receive more?”
“Doubt it.”
This is the part about shopping that is NOT conveyed in the full page Sunday newspaper ads that feature smiling women sporting perfect bosoms and clad in every style of size 34 D. The models wearing all the size 34 D’s not offered in the store also do not appear to suggest menopause. I finally get the larger breast I thought I wanted thanks to a hormonal hurricane. The only hitch is they hurt. I carry them about like wounded kittens. I feel like they were run over and they look it. And I just want to run screaming out of the mall – with or without proper support.
When did shopping become so unpleasant for me? Oh, of course thrift stores, Walgreens, Joe’s Wine Cellar, and any food store not found within a Wal-Mart still cause me to smile. But I encounter a mind numbing malaise just thinking about that obligatory trip to the mall for the annual supply of sheets, undies, and assorted items rarely found at yard sales. It was not always this way – in fact I can actually recall a mall of a kinder, gentler era.
There was a time when we manufactured in the good ole U.S. of A. That’s right, clothing was made here and you actually got what you paid for – not a product designed to self-destruct before the credit card billing. Shoes were made to last, and garments could linger beneath mothballs and await the pendulum of fashion to return them to favor or fad. Designer labels, while always pretentious, did at least mean quality rather than simply the object of counterfeit knock-offs for conspicuous consumerism.
Before there were political ramifications with every purchase and it became necessary to consult the conscience before the wallet and review Amnesty International rather than Women’s Wear Daily… I enjoyed buying stuff.
In the sixties shopping began to sprawl away from downtowns and toward suburbia and sprawl it did in the form of shopping centers. In Mobile we drained a critical wetland area (then referred to as “nuttin’ but an ole swamp”) and built Springdale Plaza which also sucked dry a once vital downtown. But this was pre-Sierra Club and I was young enough to shop in blissful ignorance. A modest allowance went far back then and I was allowed to roam in and out of various notions and toy stores as Mom shopped for more grownup fare in Gayfers, our major department store.
But, before I could free range there was “the parking”. God forbid Mom not find a parking space up close. So my muscles would twitch as she cruised the lot, circling prime parking spaces, stalking shoppers as they emerged from storefronts and tailing them to that perfect, soon-to-be vacated space suitable for our Ford. Having just used enough gasoline to vacation cross-country I never saw the fairness in her refusal to raise my allowance. But with the car now parked within inches of the storefronts she could think once again of rations and budgets.
As the swamp became a thing of the past there was room for the future! Soon Belaire Mall would begin construction adjacent to Springdale and it promised to offer acres of parking! Mom could hardly wait. I had just crossed into puberty, having been fitted for my first brassiere a year earlier at Gayfers’ foundations department, and was becoming an obnoxious teenager when the Mall had it’s grand opening. My first strike at independence was to have Mom leave me at the front entrance before she began her laps up and down lanes of black shiny asphalt.
And so it began. My tomboy Saturdays of catching tadpoles and snakes were replaced with catching rides to the Mall. My girlfriends and I would amuse ourselves for hours trying on clothes we could not afford and forcing sales ladies to rethink their career choices. Nothing is as rude and overwhelming as gaggle of hormone surging eighth graders. However, we were customers-in-waiting and within a year we began turning over all our babysitting dollars to these shopkeepers for the thrill of choosing our own wardrobes.
The Mall saw me through more costume changes than a Broadway play. Peter pan collars (monogrammed of course), a-line skirts, and Weegen loafers soon morphed into tie-dyed tanks, bell-bottoms, and moccasins. Girdles and stockings gave way to tights and pantyhose; bras were bought, bras were burned, and later empowered as WONDER bras. Mini, midi, and maxi careened up and down. Fashion rebelled as often as I did.
Just as I view today’s malls as cold and heartless enclosures that set my teeth to itching, there were folks back then who felt the same about my mall and mourned the decline of our downtown with its venerable haberdasheries and emporiums. But, I grew up -- came of age, in my “cold and heartless” mall. The times, they change. And so did I. From training bras to evening gowns; first holding my mother’s hand, then a boyfriend’s; burgers and malts changed to salads and wine -- I got older in that mall.
After the Nasty Bra debacle I found a friendlier foundations department and stocked up. Just before the sales lady ran my credit card she pointed out some additional sales across the aisle. “Thanks, but I would rather be beaten than to spend another minute shopping.” She looked at me as if I had lost not only my mind but also my uterus. In her eyes I was a disgrace to women everywhere.
Leaving the mall in a shopping snit and feeling smug in my detachment I nearly overlooked a little girl and her mother sharing the afternoon, giggling like two best friends -- they would remember holding hands, not packages. And their memories would be no less valued for having happened at the mall.
By
Debbie Lindsey
“Excuse me, that’s my nasty bra.”
To my horror the sales lady was holding my bra as if it were a dead rat and rapidly approaching the trash bin, all the while declaring the garment unfit for human viewing with her disdainful: “And someone left this NASTY bra in the dressing room….” This was a rather unique approach to assisting me in my selection.
“Ma’am I would like to wear it home if you would be so kind as to fish it out of the waste paper basket. Yes, there it is, it has slipped down pass the Burger King wrapper. And maybe you could cancel the call to security now that you have my nasty bra as collateral while I finish trying on my selection.”
So for the tenth time I walked through electronic buzzers, loud enough to perforate an eardrum, to my dressing room. It was not turning out to be fun. The foundations department had every type of poly-fiber filled harness a woman could want – if she was not 34 D.
“Common size?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Are you out for that reason?”
“No.”
“Will you receive more?”
“Doubt it.”
This is the part about shopping that is NOT conveyed in the full page Sunday newspaper ads that feature smiling women sporting perfect bosoms and clad in every style of size 34 D. The models wearing all the size 34 D’s not offered in the store also do not appear to suggest menopause. I finally get the larger breast I thought I wanted thanks to a hormonal hurricane. The only hitch is they hurt. I carry them about like wounded kittens. I feel like they were run over and they look it. And I just want to run screaming out of the mall – with or without proper support.
When did shopping become so unpleasant for me? Oh, of course thrift stores, Walgreens, Joe’s Wine Cellar, and any food store not found within a Wal-Mart still cause me to smile. But I encounter a mind numbing malaise just thinking about that obligatory trip to the mall for the annual supply of sheets, undies, and assorted items rarely found at yard sales. It was not always this way – in fact I can actually recall a mall of a kinder, gentler era.
There was a time when we manufactured in the good ole U.S. of A. That’s right, clothing was made here and you actually got what you paid for – not a product designed to self-destruct before the credit card billing. Shoes were made to last, and garments could linger beneath mothballs and await the pendulum of fashion to return them to favor or fad. Designer labels, while always pretentious, did at least mean quality rather than simply the object of counterfeit knock-offs for conspicuous consumerism.
Before there were political ramifications with every purchase and it became necessary to consult the conscience before the wallet and review Amnesty International rather than Women’s Wear Daily… I enjoyed buying stuff.
In the sixties shopping began to sprawl away from downtowns and toward suburbia and sprawl it did in the form of shopping centers. In Mobile we drained a critical wetland area (then referred to as “nuttin’ but an ole swamp”) and built Springdale Plaza which also sucked dry a once vital downtown. But this was pre-Sierra Club and I was young enough to shop in blissful ignorance. A modest allowance went far back then and I was allowed to roam in and out of various notions and toy stores as Mom shopped for more grownup fare in Gayfers, our major department store.
But, before I could free range there was “the parking”. God forbid Mom not find a parking space up close. So my muscles would twitch as she cruised the lot, circling prime parking spaces, stalking shoppers as they emerged from storefronts and tailing them to that perfect, soon-to-be vacated space suitable for our Ford. Having just used enough gasoline to vacation cross-country I never saw the fairness in her refusal to raise my allowance. But with the car now parked within inches of the storefronts she could think once again of rations and budgets.
As the swamp became a thing of the past there was room for the future! Soon Belaire Mall would begin construction adjacent to Springdale and it promised to offer acres of parking! Mom could hardly wait. I had just crossed into puberty, having been fitted for my first brassiere a year earlier at Gayfers’ foundations department, and was becoming an obnoxious teenager when the Mall had it’s grand opening. My first strike at independence was to have Mom leave me at the front entrance before she began her laps up and down lanes of black shiny asphalt.
And so it began. My tomboy Saturdays of catching tadpoles and snakes were replaced with catching rides to the Mall. My girlfriends and I would amuse ourselves for hours trying on clothes we could not afford and forcing sales ladies to rethink their career choices. Nothing is as rude and overwhelming as gaggle of hormone surging eighth graders. However, we were customers-in-waiting and within a year we began turning over all our babysitting dollars to these shopkeepers for the thrill of choosing our own wardrobes.
The Mall saw me through more costume changes than a Broadway play. Peter pan collars (monogrammed of course), a-line skirts, and Weegen loafers soon morphed into tie-dyed tanks, bell-bottoms, and moccasins. Girdles and stockings gave way to tights and pantyhose; bras were bought, bras were burned, and later empowered as WONDER bras. Mini, midi, and maxi careened up and down. Fashion rebelled as often as I did.
Just as I view today’s malls as cold and heartless enclosures that set my teeth to itching, there were folks back then who felt the same about my mall and mourned the decline of our downtown with its venerable haberdasheries and emporiums. But, I grew up -- came of age, in my “cold and heartless” mall. The times, they change. And so did I. From training bras to evening gowns; first holding my mother’s hand, then a boyfriend’s; burgers and malts changed to salads and wine -- I got older in that mall.
After the Nasty Bra debacle I found a friendlier foundations department and stocked up. Just before the sales lady ran my credit card she pointed out some additional sales across the aisle. “Thanks, but I would rather be beaten than to spend another minute shopping.” She looked at me as if I had lost not only my mind but also my uterus. In her eyes I was a disgrace to women everywhere.
Leaving the mall in a shopping snit and feeling smug in my detachment I nearly overlooked a little girl and her mother sharing the afternoon, giggling like two best friends -- they would remember holding hands, not packages. And their memories would be no less valued for having happened at the mall.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Verita Thompson and friends at Molly's Bar
and the Pursuit of Libations
Class and monetary distinctions abound in New Orleans, despite its laissez faire attitude; the Plantation Mentality perpetuates the disparity between the have and the have-nots. That is… until you enter your neighborhood bar. In these hallowed halls democracy is played out for all its worth. Recently, one such evening of camaraderie was in full swing by six.
Sandwiched between the plush of Royal Street and the prurience of Bourbon Street, happy hour is roaring at Molly’s on Toulouse. Dave Brubeck is pounding out “Blue Rondo A La Turk” via the jukebox as Uncle Louie enters. Still dressed in his red, white, and blue with matching top hat this towering genteel mime graciously receives greetings generally reserved for dignitaries. Louie joins fellow mime Congressman Willie Bojangles, a diminutive octogenarian, sporting a wide brimmed velvet sombrero sprouting flowers and ribbons, for a glass of wine. It’s wine tasting night and Brie and crackers are being served. And, as if on cue, in runs Ginger a yellow Lab and her side kick Rosie, a terrier mix (actually more of a short legged rump roast) – both regulars.
Up and down the bar all walks of life are represented: a newspaper editor, art dealers, gallery gals with their pointy-toed heels kicked off, waiters (some off-duty, some AWOL), a doctor, a lawyer, an Indian Chief. Well, maybe no Indian Chiefs but a guy in cowboy boots is shooting pool with wife/husband team, MaryAnn and Luther, retired banker and law professor respectively, who are hands-down the best dressed pool sharks around.
Back at the bar, our hostess, Polly, is pouring and explaining the finer points of tonight’s featured wine: “This Merlot stands up nicely to a bag of Zapps, but make that Mesquite Zapps.” Verita Thompson, Humphrey Bogart’s old flame is holding court with a certain columnist. Verita in her Channel suits and perfect little hats looks the role of the grand dame but with a mouth on her that will take the wind out of any Bourbon street hustler’s sail. God help the hapless fool who tries to get one over this lady.
Being this close to Bourbon the occasional riffraff will slip in for a bit of the action. A loosely guarded handbag or a tip left lingering too long will attract the illicit entrepreneur. This seems to be the case now. A quiet warning has been issued and the ripple effect of nervously clutched backpacks, Gucci bags and men reassuringly patting their wallets occurs without conversations losing a single beat. Next, a bit of Brie (but not too much, as an unpretentious cabernet still awaits us) is deftly spilled onto the crotch of the fellow whose interest has been unduly focused upon a woman’s purse. Ginger quickly diverts the man’s interest away from the purse by fetching the cheese (and a wee bit of fabric) from his trousers. This unwelcome guest flees with manhood still intact and not so much as a goodbye. “Some folks just don’t appreciate the nuances of a wine tasting”, quips Polly.
Back at the pool table MaryAnn and Luther are dueling with a German couple. And dodging those renegade pool sticks a foot or so away is the “round table”— not quite Algonquin; nonetheless a lively discussion is audibly vying with John Coltrane and plotting the overthrow of the status quo and other such annoyances. Towards the back, video poker is rewarding very few and draining one poor soul of his hard-earned. Meanwhile, at the bar, a marriage proposal is in progress.
Eight O’clock now, and shift change has begun; champagne, courtesy of the newly engaged couple from Wichita, is being polished off. Polly’s crowd slowly gathers their smokes, briefcases, backpack and dogs. Tabs are paid, tips laid out, and arguments at the round table are winding up, as friends, new and old, plot to meet again same time same place. “See ya Polly.”
And behind the bar the next hostess prepares for her evening. At the door is the changing of the guard. As happy hour folks drift out onto Toulouse the next shift of regulars drift in to take their places and begin another chapter in French Quarter democracy.
Debbie Lindsey
Class and monetary distinctions abound in New Orleans, despite its laissez faire attitude; the Plantation Mentality perpetuates the disparity between the have and the have-nots. That is… until you enter your neighborhood bar. In these hallowed halls democracy is played out for all its worth. Recently, one such evening of camaraderie was in full swing by six.
Sandwiched between the plush of Royal Street and the prurience of Bourbon Street, happy hour is roaring at Molly’s on Toulouse. Dave Brubeck is pounding out “Blue Rondo A La Turk” via the jukebox as Uncle Louie enters. Still dressed in his red, white, and blue with matching top hat this towering genteel mime graciously receives greetings generally reserved for dignitaries. Louie joins fellow mime Congressman Willie Bojangles, a diminutive octogenarian, sporting a wide brimmed velvet sombrero sprouting flowers and ribbons, for a glass of wine. It’s wine tasting night and Brie and crackers are being served. And, as if on cue, in runs Ginger a yellow Lab and her side kick Rosie, a terrier mix (actually more of a short legged rump roast) – both regulars.
Up and down the bar all walks of life are represented: a newspaper editor, art dealers, gallery gals with their pointy-toed heels kicked off, waiters (some off-duty, some AWOL), a doctor, a lawyer, an Indian Chief. Well, maybe no Indian Chiefs but a guy in cowboy boots is shooting pool with wife/husband team, MaryAnn and Luther, retired banker and law professor respectively, who are hands-down the best dressed pool sharks around.
Back at the bar, our hostess, Polly, is pouring and explaining the finer points of tonight’s featured wine: “This Merlot stands up nicely to a bag of Zapps, but make that Mesquite Zapps.” Verita Thompson, Humphrey Bogart’s old flame is holding court with a certain columnist. Verita in her Channel suits and perfect little hats looks the role of the grand dame but with a mouth on her that will take the wind out of any Bourbon street hustler’s sail. God help the hapless fool who tries to get one over this lady.
Being this close to Bourbon the occasional riffraff will slip in for a bit of the action. A loosely guarded handbag or a tip left lingering too long will attract the illicit entrepreneur. This seems to be the case now. A quiet warning has been issued and the ripple effect of nervously clutched backpacks, Gucci bags and men reassuringly patting their wallets occurs without conversations losing a single beat. Next, a bit of Brie (but not too much, as an unpretentious cabernet still awaits us) is deftly spilled onto the crotch of the fellow whose interest has been unduly focused upon a woman’s purse. Ginger quickly diverts the man’s interest away from the purse by fetching the cheese (and a wee bit of fabric) from his trousers. This unwelcome guest flees with manhood still intact and not so much as a goodbye. “Some folks just don’t appreciate the nuances of a wine tasting”, quips Polly.
Back at the pool table MaryAnn and Luther are dueling with a German couple. And dodging those renegade pool sticks a foot or so away is the “round table”— not quite Algonquin; nonetheless a lively discussion is audibly vying with John Coltrane and plotting the overthrow of the status quo and other such annoyances. Towards the back, video poker is rewarding very few and draining one poor soul of his hard-earned. Meanwhile, at the bar, a marriage proposal is in progress.
Eight O’clock now, and shift change has begun; champagne, courtesy of the newly engaged couple from Wichita, is being polished off. Polly’s crowd slowly gathers their smokes, briefcases, backpack and dogs. Tabs are paid, tips laid out, and arguments at the round table are winding up, as friends, new and old, plot to meet again same time same place. “See ya Polly.”
And behind the bar the next hostess prepares for her evening. At the door is the changing of the guard. As happy hour folks drift out onto Toulouse the next shift of regulars drift in to take their places and begin another chapter in French Quarter democracy.
Debbie Lindsey
Post-Katrina Getaway
A Bit Frayed at the Edges
By
Debbie Lindsey
You know ya need a change of scene when a sleep-deprived early morning visit to the dentist feels like an outing. If the closest you get to a vacation is sitting in the dentist’s chair, forced to revisit the ‘80s by way of really bad Top 40 while staring at an utter waste of oil paint made to resemble a bucolic country side, with the obligatory creek running throughout – you need to change travel agents. You know you are tired, very tired, when you relax into the pretend nature and fall asleep despite the drill, suction tube and latex hand inside your mouth.
It has been a long 24 months that feels like 24 years. Boyfriend and I belong to the lucky few that lost nothing in terms of worldly possessions and never had to travel that Road Home. But ever since we returned in October of ’05, we have been working, working and working. Boyfriend is no stranger to long hours and long years – it was just part of being a chef. But me – now that’s a different story. I believed in working to live, not living to work. And my 27- to 35-hour workweek suited my needs just fine. Mind you, as a waitress, those hours could be brutal and challenging, but my free time was always there to lick my wounds.
As you may already know, we opened a cookbook shop and considering the economic landscape here nowadays, we ain’t doin’ too shabby. I have fallen in love with our little shop and while it’s a love child of our business union, it’s time for the child to start doin’ the dishes.
Speaking of dishes, I actually yearn for the free time to clean house. And when I take time away from the shop to work up a little sweat with my Electrolux, I feel anxious and guilty.
There are so many things I don’t do anymore – some I miss desperately; some I have just forgotten to miss. Going to the movies or a museum now seems too time consuming when those two hours could be used for: the vet, making groceries, Office Depot, the thrift store, recycling drop offs, dentist, doctor, and another vet visit before it’s all over. Oh, and don’t forget to walk the dog – she looks like she’s gonna pee right about now – and in walks a customer – and there goes another little puddle to clean up – again.
Multi-tasking, for me, is like performance art: sometimes I excel and then sometimes I dance myself into a corner. Lately, my back is bruised from dancing into corners. I know I am not alone. These days, it seems, everyone here is running on empty. Katrina? Yes, but in my case it’s the “we opened a new business/work seven days a week/plus, the rent paying jobs” syndrome. Fall into this lifestyle and ya hardly have time for a cocktail (not to worry, my doctor suggests Xanax).
Okay, my life is stylin’ compared to what’s dished out to most. I have a business that teaches me and stokes creativity. And I have the joy of sharing this with a man I love and a small herd of animals. But, smiling 24/7 through all the details has begun to make me a little cranky. Why, just take the other day…
There I was at my rent-paying-restaurant-job when a very nice customer complimented my smiling attitude. To which I replied, “Thanks, but on the inside I am cutting you up into tiny little pieces.” He seemed to think I was very funny. Yeah, right. So… since my Xanax didn’t seem to be doing the trick, I immediately made reservations for a mini-vacation.
Ever find yourself wanting to slap the daylights out of some sweet hapless tourist as they blithely comment, “…well, things seem to be getting back to normal”? Do you bite your tongue till it bleeds rather than risk words that can never ever be retrieved? Have you forgotten to take time to see, hear, feel any of the precious things that New Orleans has to offer? Do you wonder at least ten times a day, “Why the hell did I move back here?”
Yes?
Then, as the song advises: “Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again.”
Take my advice: don’t wait till you’ve hurt someone’s feelings or burned yourself out of a job you really like or need. Get away for a while and if money and time do not allow, then go to Audubon Park and sit under a tree. Too hot? Then lose yourself in a movie (not a NetFlix; I mean a real go-to-the-movies-and-eat-popcorn outing); lay by a pool for the day – sneak into a hotel pool if need be (these are desperate times that call for desperate measures). Just do something to head off going stark raving mad.
A complete meltdown is not something I expect to encounter, but to be on the safe side it’s time to take a chill pill, for I am truly beginning to melt at the edges. And that pill comes in the form of a trip to my beloved Fairhope on Mobile Bay.
A trip around the world couldn’t thrill me as much as swimming among a lifetime of memories in the waters of my hometown bay. I have almost forgotten what life outside the French Quarter is like. But we are about to remember! As soon as I hit spell check and wrap up this column, Boyfriend, the dogs and I will pack up all our cares and woes and hit the road, Jack. Bye, bye, black moods.
HYPERLINK mailto:Debbie@whereyat.net Debbie@whereyat.net
By
Debbie Lindsey
You know ya need a change of scene when a sleep-deprived early morning visit to the dentist feels like an outing. If the closest you get to a vacation is sitting in the dentist’s chair, forced to revisit the ‘80s by way of really bad Top 40 while staring at an utter waste of oil paint made to resemble a bucolic country side, with the obligatory creek running throughout – you need to change travel agents. You know you are tired, very tired, when you relax into the pretend nature and fall asleep despite the drill, suction tube and latex hand inside your mouth.
It has been a long 24 months that feels like 24 years. Boyfriend and I belong to the lucky few that lost nothing in terms of worldly possessions and never had to travel that Road Home. But ever since we returned in October of ’05, we have been working, working and working. Boyfriend is no stranger to long hours and long years – it was just part of being a chef. But me – now that’s a different story. I believed in working to live, not living to work. And my 27- to 35-hour workweek suited my needs just fine. Mind you, as a waitress, those hours could be brutal and challenging, but my free time was always there to lick my wounds.
As you may already know, we opened a cookbook shop and considering the economic landscape here nowadays, we ain’t doin’ too shabby. I have fallen in love with our little shop and while it’s a love child of our business union, it’s time for the child to start doin’ the dishes.
Speaking of dishes, I actually yearn for the free time to clean house. And when I take time away from the shop to work up a little sweat with my Electrolux, I feel anxious and guilty.
There are so many things I don’t do anymore – some I miss desperately; some I have just forgotten to miss. Going to the movies or a museum now seems too time consuming when those two hours could be used for: the vet, making groceries, Office Depot, the thrift store, recycling drop offs, dentist, doctor, and another vet visit before it’s all over. Oh, and don’t forget to walk the dog – she looks like she’s gonna pee right about now – and in walks a customer – and there goes another little puddle to clean up – again.
Multi-tasking, for me, is like performance art: sometimes I excel and then sometimes I dance myself into a corner. Lately, my back is bruised from dancing into corners. I know I am not alone. These days, it seems, everyone here is running on empty. Katrina? Yes, but in my case it’s the “we opened a new business/work seven days a week/plus, the rent paying jobs” syndrome. Fall into this lifestyle and ya hardly have time for a cocktail (not to worry, my doctor suggests Xanax).
Okay, my life is stylin’ compared to what’s dished out to most. I have a business that teaches me and stokes creativity. And I have the joy of sharing this with a man I love and a small herd of animals. But, smiling 24/7 through all the details has begun to make me a little cranky. Why, just take the other day…
There I was at my rent-paying-restaurant-job when a very nice customer complimented my smiling attitude. To which I replied, “Thanks, but on the inside I am cutting you up into tiny little pieces.” He seemed to think I was very funny. Yeah, right. So… since my Xanax didn’t seem to be doing the trick, I immediately made reservations for a mini-vacation.
Ever find yourself wanting to slap the daylights out of some sweet hapless tourist as they blithely comment, “…well, things seem to be getting back to normal”? Do you bite your tongue till it bleeds rather than risk words that can never ever be retrieved? Have you forgotten to take time to see, hear, feel any of the precious things that New Orleans has to offer? Do you wonder at least ten times a day, “Why the hell did I move back here?”
Yes?
Then, as the song advises: “Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again.”
Take my advice: don’t wait till you’ve hurt someone’s feelings or burned yourself out of a job you really like or need. Get away for a while and if money and time do not allow, then go to Audubon Park and sit under a tree. Too hot? Then lose yourself in a movie (not a NetFlix; I mean a real go-to-the-movies-and-eat-popcorn outing); lay by a pool for the day – sneak into a hotel pool if need be (these are desperate times that call for desperate measures). Just do something to head off going stark raving mad.
A complete meltdown is not something I expect to encounter, but to be on the safe side it’s time to take a chill pill, for I am truly beginning to melt at the edges. And that pill comes in the form of a trip to my beloved Fairhope on Mobile Bay.
A trip around the world couldn’t thrill me as much as swimming among a lifetime of memories in the waters of my hometown bay. I have almost forgotten what life outside the French Quarter is like. But we are about to remember! As soon as I hit spell check and wrap up this column, Boyfriend, the dogs and I will pack up all our cares and woes and hit the road, Jack. Bye, bye, black moods.
HYPERLINK mailto:Debbie@whereyat.net Debbie@whereyat.net
French Quarter Sidewalks Speak
Their Stories
By
Debbie Lindsey
Life is never boring -- tragic, poignant, tender and just plain weirder than dirt, but never boring. Stories within stories make up our days. Sometimes you have to pay attention to see them unfold, because sometimes they are just slightly outside our peripheral vision. They may be stories belonging to others but we are privy to them without intruding, without permission. And often the moments are all our own but we don’t give see them for the tales they are. The wonder they offer.
Here for you is a day in a life and the tales, the vignettes of strangers, creatures and myself.
The sidewalks of the Quarter unleash even more darkness after midnight, and its sounds filter through my latched shutters, confusing my dreams. The 2:00 a.m. crack-head’s frantic “The knife, man! Where did ya drop the knife?” A distant siren and footsteps making haste. Love goes bad as 3:00 a.m. approaches with slurred accusations of infidelity. I remind myself to hose the sidewalk later upon hearing the regurgitated Hurricane grace the sidewalk.
For a while I sleep through the scurrying home of late night drinkers; far away sirens and a dog’s wail; a longneck Miller tossed from a passing car; and the sweet lonely cooing of night birds. A cat stirs, a little dog whimpers to her own dreams and soon the garbage trucks arrive with the sun. And now the noise begins to heats up.
“Millie finally got her period. That sonabitch boyfriend of hers needs to go. Christ, I was so afraid she’d married him. Oh, shit, look at the time, gonna be late for work. Call me later.”
Millie’s story was one of several snippets I heard in the space of time it took my coffee to brew. So many voices, lives, dramas seep into our bedroom. Conversations up and down Conti Street. Folks worry aloud: “Did ya hear that Jason got fired?” “Joan found a lump in her left breast.” “My kids are driving me crazy.” “You wait til they’re teenagers – not enough Xanax in the world!”
A walk to work for me is a hurried affair leaving me too often unreceptive, unaware of the bits of misfortune and bliss of those I brush against. The drug dealer who knows a bullet is waiting for him; the bank teller whose cell phone is ringing with news of a benign tumor; a young woman smiling at her ring finger twinkling back last night’s proposal. Everyone with fears, secrets, hopes.
Boyfriend has to remind me to slow down for the sake of our two dogs, Rosie and Sophia, who accompany us to our shop where their job is simple --greeting our customers with unconditional affection. A task we, as people, must work at. But the poor little dears have to pull and fret to be allowed their time to read the stories, news, and goings on of their peers. We have email, they have pmail, and a hundred other manners of communication that we people are not privy to.
That small piddle on the sidewalk might mean that Winnie, the terrier mix, just passed and will drop by the shop later. The next sniff of a torn garbage bag has them agitated and purposeful. A rat has just finished foraging for her litter. Suddenly their ears perk and off they go looking to bully a cat who desperately wants to be found by the people she carelessly darted away from while mousing.
A block away a scent of sex is in the air. Margo, a poodle of great beauty, will meet and mate with an over-bred bore of a poodle. This arranged liaison is not her choice – Margo adores the sweet, yellow dog from the park. Her owner thinks he is nothing but an unworthy mixed breed. But the last laugh will be on Margo. Her pups will look like their dad – yellow and scruffy with kind dispositions.
At work my dogs will sleep, bark, one will pass gas as the other looks up as if to say “Not me”. And, of course, whine for treats. But they both always give themselves over to the tourist who is jonesin’ for a dog fix. Dog lovers seem to find our shop. And they always tell us stories about their four legged charges.
That evening as we walk home, arm in arm, leashed to Sophia and Rosie, they brush us against another tale -- a dishwasher grabbing a smoke and a brief respite from the steam and grease drifting out the side door of a hotel kitchen. He had a dog once. He had a wife and a kid. Both are now gone and with them all his dreams. Just this stinkin’ job. It is said that dogs can sense our regrets. And just like that both dogs sat before him nuzzling his knees. And for a moment he was back in Utah, a content young man with a family.
Later that night as the usual chaos strolled past my bedroom window seeping in and out of my dreams I heard a man singing. Just walking and singing his heart out, not knowing anyone listened, just singing into the night.
After the flood stories began to surface. Otherwise ordinary folks who might never have felt they had a story someone would listen to suddenly had moments of valor, tragedy, shame and beauty to claim. There was a sense of democracy among us for that shared venture into hell and hope -- the dying field was leveled.
But those ordinary folks already had lived through volumes of tales, maybe it just took a Katrina to make someone listen. Our lives and the details of them do not need the glare of camera lights to make them real or a news journalist to give voice to them. And some tales are destined to remain silent, but they are real nonetheless. You just never know the depth of pain or promise behind the thin veneer of those we pass each day.
Comments welcomed: Debbie@whereyat.com
By
Debbie Lindsey
Life is never boring -- tragic, poignant, tender and just plain weirder than dirt, but never boring. Stories within stories make up our days. Sometimes you have to pay attention to see them unfold, because sometimes they are just slightly outside our peripheral vision. They may be stories belonging to others but we are privy to them without intruding, without permission. And often the moments are all our own but we don’t give see them for the tales they are. The wonder they offer.
Here for you is a day in a life and the tales, the vignettes of strangers, creatures and myself.
The sidewalks of the Quarter unleash even more darkness after midnight, and its sounds filter through my latched shutters, confusing my dreams. The 2:00 a.m. crack-head’s frantic “The knife, man! Where did ya drop the knife?” A distant siren and footsteps making haste. Love goes bad as 3:00 a.m. approaches with slurred accusations of infidelity. I remind myself to hose the sidewalk later upon hearing the regurgitated Hurricane grace the sidewalk.
For a while I sleep through the scurrying home of late night drinkers; far away sirens and a dog’s wail; a longneck Miller tossed from a passing car; and the sweet lonely cooing of night birds. A cat stirs, a little dog whimpers to her own dreams and soon the garbage trucks arrive with the sun. And now the noise begins to heats up.
“Millie finally got her period. That sonabitch boyfriend of hers needs to go. Christ, I was so afraid she’d married him. Oh, shit, look at the time, gonna be late for work. Call me later.”
Millie’s story was one of several snippets I heard in the space of time it took my coffee to brew. So many voices, lives, dramas seep into our bedroom. Conversations up and down Conti Street. Folks worry aloud: “Did ya hear that Jason got fired?” “Joan found a lump in her left breast.” “My kids are driving me crazy.” “You wait til they’re teenagers – not enough Xanax in the world!”
A walk to work for me is a hurried affair leaving me too often unreceptive, unaware of the bits of misfortune and bliss of those I brush against. The drug dealer who knows a bullet is waiting for him; the bank teller whose cell phone is ringing with news of a benign tumor; a young woman smiling at her ring finger twinkling back last night’s proposal. Everyone with fears, secrets, hopes.
Boyfriend has to remind me to slow down for the sake of our two dogs, Rosie and Sophia, who accompany us to our shop where their job is simple --greeting our customers with unconditional affection. A task we, as people, must work at. But the poor little dears have to pull and fret to be allowed their time to read the stories, news, and goings on of their peers. We have email, they have pmail, and a hundred other manners of communication that we people are not privy to.
That small piddle on the sidewalk might mean that Winnie, the terrier mix, just passed and will drop by the shop later. The next sniff of a torn garbage bag has them agitated and purposeful. A rat has just finished foraging for her litter. Suddenly their ears perk and off they go looking to bully a cat who desperately wants to be found by the people she carelessly darted away from while mousing.
A block away a scent of sex is in the air. Margo, a poodle of great beauty, will meet and mate with an over-bred bore of a poodle. This arranged liaison is not her choice – Margo adores the sweet, yellow dog from the park. Her owner thinks he is nothing but an unworthy mixed breed. But the last laugh will be on Margo. Her pups will look like their dad – yellow and scruffy with kind dispositions.
At work my dogs will sleep, bark, one will pass gas as the other looks up as if to say “Not me”. And, of course, whine for treats. But they both always give themselves over to the tourist who is jonesin’ for a dog fix. Dog lovers seem to find our shop. And they always tell us stories about their four legged charges.
That evening as we walk home, arm in arm, leashed to Sophia and Rosie, they brush us against another tale -- a dishwasher grabbing a smoke and a brief respite from the steam and grease drifting out the side door of a hotel kitchen. He had a dog once. He had a wife and a kid. Both are now gone and with them all his dreams. Just this stinkin’ job. It is said that dogs can sense our regrets. And just like that both dogs sat before him nuzzling his knees. And for a moment he was back in Utah, a content young man with a family.
Later that night as the usual chaos strolled past my bedroom window seeping in and out of my dreams I heard a man singing. Just walking and singing his heart out, not knowing anyone listened, just singing into the night.
After the flood stories began to surface. Otherwise ordinary folks who might never have felt they had a story someone would listen to suddenly had moments of valor, tragedy, shame and beauty to claim. There was a sense of democracy among us for that shared venture into hell and hope -- the dying field was leveled.
But those ordinary folks already had lived through volumes of tales, maybe it just took a Katrina to make someone listen. Our lives and the details of them do not need the glare of camera lights to make them real or a news journalist to give voice to them. And some tales are destined to remain silent, but they are real nonetheless. You just never know the depth of pain or promise behind the thin veneer of those we pass each day.
Comments welcomed: Debbie@whereyat.com
Recovering Catholic and Christmas
Incense and Peppermints
By
Debbie Lindsey
I might be a recovering Catholic, but I enter churches with impunity, fearless of lightning striking or a hazing of hypocrisy on Christmas Day. Now don’t go thinking, dear Christian friends, that I am beginning to see the light. I respectfully decline to be saved. I got my own rules and regulations to live and do good by.
When I ceased to practice Catholicism I was 18 and I am sure my dear Mom feared for my soul till the day she died. Heck, she probably worries from the grave about my Sister and I. Yep, Sister and I are both going to hell in a hand basket. For reasons related or not, we both have chosen to sleep in on Sundays for the vast majority of our lives. In fact the closest person I have resembling a brother is my friend, Paul, of nearly forty years – and he too is a man of little faith (in regards to god and the pope).
Where am I headed with all of this (“straight to Hell”, I was once told by a self-righteous employer who was later fired for stealing)? I’m headed into one of my sentimental journeys.
For most of us, Christmas is a time to revisit memories. And my memories resurrect Mom and Dad. Usually, they come to visit my thoughts when by way of food, bourbon, or Christmas trees. A certain song, peppermint canes, a fur coat like my mom’s, a 6 oz. Bottle of Coca Cola (mom’s favorite and curiously Santa’s preference), my parent’s friends and their holiday parties.
And, Christmas Day mass at St. Ignatius.
I did not enter our church, or any for that matter, for years unless bribed into one for a wedding and it’s promise of great food and drink to follow. There was a funeral or two, but of course any good Catholic send- off meant booze and homemade cakes for consolation. But for some reason or another I began accompanying Dad to Christmas mass sometime back in the eighties.
Mom had started fulfilling her Mass attendance on Christmas Eve (big sin to miss mass) so she could take care of Mister Turkey on Christmas morning. Dad was an usher (the guy that guilts parishioners into dropping money into the basket that is thrust down the aisles on a long stick) on Sundays and Religious holidays. Ushers sit in the back pew so they can pocket all those donations…just kidding. Anyway, I liked being in the back with Dad. That way no one really noticed my lack of participation. If you haven’t been to a Catholic Mass then I suggest you visit just to see all the moves. It’s like an aerobics class – sit, stand, kneel, sit, stand, kneel and all that signing of the cross is a great bicep exercise.
I did not wish to fake the traditions so I would politely refrain, sit and just take it all in. The back pew kinda gave me permission to play tourist. Some years later, attending my Dad’s funeral mass, my Sister and I had to sit with my very Catholic Mom in the front pew. When time came to make the sign of the cross, Susan and I and even Paul, two pews back, instinctively lifted our hands to sign only to quickly recoil our hands (all in unison) back to our sides as if avoiding a snake bite.
Ya don’t spend your formative years being brain-washed…I mean… immersed in Catholicism and not have it remain with you. For me it’s kinda like an alma mater – maybe you didn’t care for those school years or instructors but you were still privy to some brilliant minds, exotic rituals, and some crazy fashion statements. If you lean away from the ordinary, then the Catholic Church is the surreal deal. But I have digressed far from my Christmas story.
Any hoot, I had begun to add mass with Dad as a part of my holiday ritual. I would soak up all the festive greenery, the manger, the carols and incense and just sit back and watch my childhood from the safety of the back pew. As a kid, Christmas Day mass was such a tease. We could not open the gifts under our tree until after we went to church. Thus the longest hour of my life played out every December 25th as I feigned looks of devotion but all the while the visions of sugar plums and cool toys had me just about to jump at of my skin.
As an adult sitting with Dad I was a bit calmer and rather enjoyed an hour of Christmas without the commercialism. So while others did the sit/stand/kneel workout and got straight with Jesus; memories of Christmas past had time to visit me.
When Mom and Dad passed I had very little reason to visit my hometown and no reason to go to my old church. My Christmases from then on were celebrated in New Orleans and it was a few years before I stepped into one of our churches. Then, one Christmas I was out enjoying the peaceful quiet of the Quarter that could only be found then or on Thanksgiving Day (of course since the levees failed we have an abundance of quiet days) and found a mass in full swing in the lower Quarter. I sat in the back and meant only to enjoy the holiday mood and the amazing architecture and next thing I knew I was crying. Crying for my parents and missing them. And feeling oddly happy over this because I felt they were with me – the power of memories.
So, I now go visit my folks and childhood on Christmas Day. I find them in a couple of really cool churches. I also find them over a bourbon and coke a little later in the day. I obstinately, sincerely am not interested in religion, new age spiritualism or god but I do believe with all my heart that the spirit of people, alive or dead, is all powerful.
And the spirit of Christmas can find you and your beloved memories anywhere, from the back pew, the barstool, in viewing ITS A WONDERFUL LIFE, or simply stealing a glance at your neighbor’s Christmas tree shining through their window.
By
Debbie Lindsey
I might be a recovering Catholic, but I enter churches with impunity, fearless of lightning striking or a hazing of hypocrisy on Christmas Day. Now don’t go thinking, dear Christian friends, that I am beginning to see the light. I respectfully decline to be saved. I got my own rules and regulations to live and do good by.
When I ceased to practice Catholicism I was 18 and I am sure my dear Mom feared for my soul till the day she died. Heck, she probably worries from the grave about my Sister and I. Yep, Sister and I are both going to hell in a hand basket. For reasons related or not, we both have chosen to sleep in on Sundays for the vast majority of our lives. In fact the closest person I have resembling a brother is my friend, Paul, of nearly forty years – and he too is a man of little faith (in regards to god and the pope).
Where am I headed with all of this (“straight to Hell”, I was once told by a self-righteous employer who was later fired for stealing)? I’m headed into one of my sentimental journeys.
For most of us, Christmas is a time to revisit memories. And my memories resurrect Mom and Dad. Usually, they come to visit my thoughts when by way of food, bourbon, or Christmas trees. A certain song, peppermint canes, a fur coat like my mom’s, a 6 oz. Bottle of Coca Cola (mom’s favorite and curiously Santa’s preference), my parent’s friends and their holiday parties.
And, Christmas Day mass at St. Ignatius.
I did not enter our church, or any for that matter, for years unless bribed into one for a wedding and it’s promise of great food and drink to follow. There was a funeral or two, but of course any good Catholic send- off meant booze and homemade cakes for consolation. But for some reason or another I began accompanying Dad to Christmas mass sometime back in the eighties.
Mom had started fulfilling her Mass attendance on Christmas Eve (big sin to miss mass) so she could take care of Mister Turkey on Christmas morning. Dad was an usher (the guy that guilts parishioners into dropping money into the basket that is thrust down the aisles on a long stick) on Sundays and Religious holidays. Ushers sit in the back pew so they can pocket all those donations…just kidding. Anyway, I liked being in the back with Dad. That way no one really noticed my lack of participation. If you haven’t been to a Catholic Mass then I suggest you visit just to see all the moves. It’s like an aerobics class – sit, stand, kneel, sit, stand, kneel and all that signing of the cross is a great bicep exercise.
I did not wish to fake the traditions so I would politely refrain, sit and just take it all in. The back pew kinda gave me permission to play tourist. Some years later, attending my Dad’s funeral mass, my Sister and I had to sit with my very Catholic Mom in the front pew. When time came to make the sign of the cross, Susan and I and even Paul, two pews back, instinctively lifted our hands to sign only to quickly recoil our hands (all in unison) back to our sides as if avoiding a snake bite.
Ya don’t spend your formative years being brain-washed…I mean… immersed in Catholicism and not have it remain with you. For me it’s kinda like an alma mater – maybe you didn’t care for those school years or instructors but you were still privy to some brilliant minds, exotic rituals, and some crazy fashion statements. If you lean away from the ordinary, then the Catholic Church is the surreal deal. But I have digressed far from my Christmas story.
Any hoot, I had begun to add mass with Dad as a part of my holiday ritual. I would soak up all the festive greenery, the manger, the carols and incense and just sit back and watch my childhood from the safety of the back pew. As a kid, Christmas Day mass was such a tease. We could not open the gifts under our tree until after we went to church. Thus the longest hour of my life played out every December 25th as I feigned looks of devotion but all the while the visions of sugar plums and cool toys had me just about to jump at of my skin.
As an adult sitting with Dad I was a bit calmer and rather enjoyed an hour of Christmas without the commercialism. So while others did the sit/stand/kneel workout and got straight with Jesus; memories of Christmas past had time to visit me.
When Mom and Dad passed I had very little reason to visit my hometown and no reason to go to my old church. My Christmases from then on were celebrated in New Orleans and it was a few years before I stepped into one of our churches. Then, one Christmas I was out enjoying the peaceful quiet of the Quarter that could only be found then or on Thanksgiving Day (of course since the levees failed we have an abundance of quiet days) and found a mass in full swing in the lower Quarter. I sat in the back and meant only to enjoy the holiday mood and the amazing architecture and next thing I knew I was crying. Crying for my parents and missing them. And feeling oddly happy over this because I felt they were with me – the power of memories.
So, I now go visit my folks and childhood on Christmas Day. I find them in a couple of really cool churches. I also find them over a bourbon and coke a little later in the day. I obstinately, sincerely am not interested in religion, new age spiritualism or god but I do believe with all my heart that the spirit of people, alive or dead, is all powerful.
And the spirit of Christmas can find you and your beloved memories anywhere, from the back pew, the barstool, in viewing ITS A WONDERFUL LIFE, or simply stealing a glance at your neighbor’s Christmas tree shining through their window.
Vegan in New Orleans
Vegetarian and Hungry in New Orleans
A virgin in a whorehouse is less of an anomaly than a well-fed vegan in New Orleans. Sure, New Orleans is not unique as cities go when it comes to its less than warm embrace of Vegan cuisine – but come on, we are a city known for its food industry and culture. And, despite popular perceptions, we do not all eat boudin and suck crawfish heads.
Now this is where much of my readership might choose to roll their eyes, yawn, and turn the page to...anything but some tree-huggin’ rant about not eating critters or enjoying their dairy by-products. And if you must flee to another page so be it, but if you stay with me I will be honest and confess my lust.
I love nothing more than to stick my head inside a bag of fried chicken and inhale deeply, but I promise you I will not eat your chicken.
I became a vegetarian in 1973 in Mobile, Alabama. My parents fully expected me to die within months from malnutrition. I knew absolutely nothing about cooking and my interest in vegetables was limited to broccoli smothered in Velveeta Cheese. Dining out involved lots of grilled cheese on white bread, pasta with butter (olive oil was not yet a main staple in Mobile restaurants), or iceberg lettuce drowning in French dressing.
Possessing now, through trial and error, a bit more knowledge of nutrition I can look back and wonder how the heck I survived those early and many years of ignorant consumption. I certainly could never have made it as a Vegan at that point.
For those unfamiliar with this whole veggie thing and without going into really strict ideology I will sum it up simply. Vegetarians refrain from eating any critters. Yes, that also means no seafood. Vegans take it a step further to exclude all animal by-products (dairy, leather, etc.) period. I could go into all the reasons but there are many and for very personal reasons many vegans approach this diet in somewhat different ways. Got it? There will be a quiz – nay.
Okay, where were we? Oh yeah, my complete lack of culinary knowledge or skills early on. I would not recommend plunging into vegetarian waters without some knowledge of what to eat – not merely, what not to eat. A little research will carry the novice a long way. If I had taken the effort to peruse a few cookbooks back then I might have found some healthy pleasures in preparing critter-free food.
Restaurants, then and now, in Mobile as well as New Orleans are just more trouble than usually worth it. Hold on!! I have just pissed off a ton of chefs and restaurant owners. There are many who try and succeed in offering veg friendly dishes. And I will give more kudos to them later. But face it; this region just ain’t too savvy when it comes to accommodating taste buds that look for lower-on-the-food-chain yum yums.
Ah, but there was a time when one could forget they were in unfriendly waters and dine in a cafe that could and did rival any New York or San Francisco vegetarian eatery. And I had the extreme pleasure to work there for four of the five years it existed. Olivia Smith owned and operated Old Dog New Trick Cafe on Exchange Alley within the Quarter.
If very lucky, you just might get a chance to work for someone you truly respect. This was my experience at Old Dog New Trick. Finally I could serve food that I believed in. Make no mistake; I can waitress my way around a side of beef and even sniff longingly at it, but all to the chagrin of my personal ethics. At ODNT I not only found food to lust after – I could eat it!
But food was only a part of that crazy alternative café; we were given creative license to sing, dance, and camp it up. Once a week we had wig day. We all dressed in diner drag – beehive wigs, gigantic bosoms, polyester harvest gold and white uniforms with smart little aprons. Terence and Brad were especially fetching. And for a few hours I was empowered with big hair and size 44 D bosoms (I could fit an entire Sunday newspaper inside my thrift store brassiere – light weight padding).
I was forty before I ever really began cooking. I’d prepare meals for myself but they lacked variety and imagination. Olivia’s ODNT kitchen introduced me to a world of foods and skills I had never been exposed to. Not as a cook, but simply as a waitress I gleaned skills and techniques. Before this I had never even eaten tofu, much less tempeh, polenta, soba, udon, miso, seitan, and never knew kale was edible (had only seen it used as garnish). My palate was on its way. My ability to create food was given birth.
This segue back to Olivia’s is more than a sentimental nod to a place in time. As the vegetarian and vegan market grows stronger and larger, New Orleans reverts to more of a 1970’s Mobile culinary attitude. In the early to mid 90’s I knew of four or five vegetarian cafes in New Orleans – now we have zero. So, come on New Orleans, let’s see some faith in the spending ability of meatless diners. Hell, forget that, when Old Dog was open customers of conventional dietary needs and desires made up at least half of our customer base. A resourceful and innovative chef can wow most any audience without the use of animal products. Need proof? Give Bayona’s (430 Dauphine, 525-4455) Susan Spicer and her gifted team a little notice and see what vegan haute cuisine is all about.
I refuse to let our city, which prides itself on having a food culture, beaucoup restaurants, and an international tourists base, off the hook for its lack of even one restaurant dedicated to meatless cuisine.
Short of opening our own (Boyfriend, as you may recall, is a chef) vegan/vegetarian joint – and if anyone out there wants to invest in us we will – all I can offer in this column for those interested in dining out sans plated critters is to support those chefs that do try to offer a choice albeit limited. Amelie, Angeli, Bayona, Bennachin, Gumbo Shop (yep, that’s right – vegan gumbo), Mona’s and Restaurant 13 all offer respites from meat without resorting to the tired, obligatory pasta prima vera and those god awful sprouts.
Google vegan/vegetarian dining in New Orleans or email me for more choices or cookbook suggestions at HYPERLINK "mailto:Debbie@whereyat.net" Debbie@whereyat.net
A virgin in a whorehouse is less of an anomaly than a well-fed vegan in New Orleans. Sure, New Orleans is not unique as cities go when it comes to its less than warm embrace of Vegan cuisine – but come on, we are a city known for its food industry and culture. And, despite popular perceptions, we do not all eat boudin and suck crawfish heads.
Now this is where much of my readership might choose to roll their eyes, yawn, and turn the page to...anything but some tree-huggin’ rant about not eating critters or enjoying their dairy by-products. And if you must flee to another page so be it, but if you stay with me I will be honest and confess my lust.
I love nothing more than to stick my head inside a bag of fried chicken and inhale deeply, but I promise you I will not eat your chicken.
I became a vegetarian in 1973 in Mobile, Alabama. My parents fully expected me to die within months from malnutrition. I knew absolutely nothing about cooking and my interest in vegetables was limited to broccoli smothered in Velveeta Cheese. Dining out involved lots of grilled cheese on white bread, pasta with butter (olive oil was not yet a main staple in Mobile restaurants), or iceberg lettuce drowning in French dressing.
Possessing now, through trial and error, a bit more knowledge of nutrition I can look back and wonder how the heck I survived those early and many years of ignorant consumption. I certainly could never have made it as a Vegan at that point.
For those unfamiliar with this whole veggie thing and without going into really strict ideology I will sum it up simply. Vegetarians refrain from eating any critters. Yes, that also means no seafood. Vegans take it a step further to exclude all animal by-products (dairy, leather, etc.) period. I could go into all the reasons but there are many and for very personal reasons many vegans approach this diet in somewhat different ways. Got it? There will be a quiz – nay.
Okay, where were we? Oh yeah, my complete lack of culinary knowledge or skills early on. I would not recommend plunging into vegetarian waters without some knowledge of what to eat – not merely, what not to eat. A little research will carry the novice a long way. If I had taken the effort to peruse a few cookbooks back then I might have found some healthy pleasures in preparing critter-free food.
Restaurants, then and now, in Mobile as well as New Orleans are just more trouble than usually worth it. Hold on!! I have just pissed off a ton of chefs and restaurant owners. There are many who try and succeed in offering veg friendly dishes. And I will give more kudos to them later. But face it; this region just ain’t too savvy when it comes to accommodating taste buds that look for lower-on-the-food-chain yum yums.
Ah, but there was a time when one could forget they were in unfriendly waters and dine in a cafe that could and did rival any New York or San Francisco vegetarian eatery. And I had the extreme pleasure to work there for four of the five years it existed. Olivia Smith owned and operated Old Dog New Trick Cafe on Exchange Alley within the Quarter.
If very lucky, you just might get a chance to work for someone you truly respect. This was my experience at Old Dog New Trick. Finally I could serve food that I believed in. Make no mistake; I can waitress my way around a side of beef and even sniff longingly at it, but all to the chagrin of my personal ethics. At ODNT I not only found food to lust after – I could eat it!
But food was only a part of that crazy alternative café; we were given creative license to sing, dance, and camp it up. Once a week we had wig day. We all dressed in diner drag – beehive wigs, gigantic bosoms, polyester harvest gold and white uniforms with smart little aprons. Terence and Brad were especially fetching. And for a few hours I was empowered with big hair and size 44 D bosoms (I could fit an entire Sunday newspaper inside my thrift store brassiere – light weight padding).
I was forty before I ever really began cooking. I’d prepare meals for myself but they lacked variety and imagination. Olivia’s ODNT kitchen introduced me to a world of foods and skills I had never been exposed to. Not as a cook, but simply as a waitress I gleaned skills and techniques. Before this I had never even eaten tofu, much less tempeh, polenta, soba, udon, miso, seitan, and never knew kale was edible (had only seen it used as garnish). My palate was on its way. My ability to create food was given birth.
This segue back to Olivia’s is more than a sentimental nod to a place in time. As the vegetarian and vegan market grows stronger and larger, New Orleans reverts to more of a 1970’s Mobile culinary attitude. In the early to mid 90’s I knew of four or five vegetarian cafes in New Orleans – now we have zero. So, come on New Orleans, let’s see some faith in the spending ability of meatless diners. Hell, forget that, when Old Dog was open customers of conventional dietary needs and desires made up at least half of our customer base. A resourceful and innovative chef can wow most any audience without the use of animal products. Need proof? Give Bayona’s (430 Dauphine, 525-4455) Susan Spicer and her gifted team a little notice and see what vegan haute cuisine is all about.
I refuse to let our city, which prides itself on having a food culture, beaucoup restaurants, and an international tourists base, off the hook for its lack of even one restaurant dedicated to meatless cuisine.
Short of opening our own (Boyfriend, as you may recall, is a chef) vegan/vegetarian joint – and if anyone out there wants to invest in us we will – all I can offer in this column for those interested in dining out sans plated critters is to support those chefs that do try to offer a choice albeit limited. Amelie, Angeli, Bayona, Bennachin, Gumbo Shop (yep, that’s right – vegan gumbo), Mona’s and Restaurant 13 all offer respites from meat without resorting to the tired, obligatory pasta prima vera and those god awful sprouts.
Google vegan/vegetarian dining in New Orleans or email me for more choices or cookbook suggestions at HYPERLINK "mailto:Debbie@whereyat.net" Debbie@whereyat.net
Pabst Blue Ribbon Blues
Cheers
By
Debbie Lindsey
Beverly and Michael sat at the bar -- such a nice couple; sweet, very earnest, both with that cockeyed optimistic look towards the future. Why them? Why me? Couldn’t ignorance remain bliss just a bit longer? No. I had to take one for the team. Be the bearer of bad news. But, it would be better coming from me; I would be gentle and respectful.
So, after serving them two frosty mugs of the gleaming yellow brew capped with frothy clouds of foam, I leaned across the bar, looked them in the eyes, took a deep cleansing breath and said: “I hate to be the one to tell you, but I feel I should prepare you’ll…they’re gonna 86 PBR!” And with stiff upper lips, mustached with beer foam, they reacted like the good sports I knew them to be, and vowed to sip and enjoy while the good ole days waned.
I must admit, initially, I did not take the news as well as my customers did. As if life here were not already hard. Change of the familiar a new constant. Traditions, culture, life styles are all at risk of extinction. So when I was told that PBR would no longer be on tap for one dollar I just kind of collapsed.
“So…no more dollar Pabst?”
“No more dollar any beer.”
“But… PBR will still be served?”
“NO.”
I wanted to flee the restaurant, to find a private place to cry and wail, shake my fist at the cruel, cruel gods. But my customers needed me to be strong – strong for them. And even my boss, the bearer of this bad news, needed me to buck-up. Café Maspero’s had indeed held back, as long as humanly possible, the demise of it’s well known and cherished contribution to New Orleans – the one dollar draft. A particular draft that was responsible for me working there.
Boyfriend and I first became customers at Café Maspero’s because our friend and neighbor, Lana, worked the bar there. So we would stop by to fling a little tip money her way. Love ya Lana but…it was the giddy, near euphoric high we’d get just ordering those Pabst Blue Ribbons for one mere dollar that tickled us so. Oh, we’d sing the PBR song and thoroughly embarrass ourselves. Well, heck, it was one of those great Sunday afternoons when I decided I could pour that beer myself. I applied for duty the next day.
Pabst has been Boyfriend’s fav brew since the 70’s when his chef/mentor Wayne, known to his kitchen crew simply as ‘Mom’, kept an ice cold keg of PBR in the walk-in cooler as incentive. Ah, the ole days of drinkin on the job. It just seemed kinda normal then. Of course those were the good ole days of chain smoking, martini lunches, no seat belts and enough hair product to choke a horse. But ya can’t blame a great beer for our fool hearty ways.
Anyway, back to Café Maspero’s where we never drink at work or at least that’s what they tell us. However the use of Pabst for personal grooming seems to meet with my boss’s approval. PBR is more than a libation, a tonic for the soul, a golden carbohydrate… it’s dandy for styling and sculpting hair. Just a little dab will do ya. And it’s a great way to use that first overly foaming keg pour of the day. Rub between the palms of your hand and start smoothing, shaping and spiking that hair of yours. And as a bonus: ya smell like a good time!
During my tenure at the Café, I have been an unofficial spokesperson for the brew. In fact some years back, in this very magazine, I was nominated for the BEST BARTENDER award. During my interview and photo-op for the competition I was asked to describe my signature drink (PBR), my area of expertise (pouring PBR) and my personal favorite beverage (PBR). I lost to some young thing whose libation creation consisted of at least 31 ingredients. My boss didn’t even vote for me.
Did I let this public relation set back dampen my commitment to Pabst Blue Ribbon? Of course not. I would greet the skeptic’s “ooh, last time I drank PBR was when I raided my grand dad’s fishing camp ice box” with a gentle lecture that drinking paw paw’s beer at age 11 was not the appropriate time and place to test the nuances of brewed spirits. I would then offer a small taste served up in a frosty mug (all the while reminding them it cost only a buck) and sure enough their more matured palate screamed for more.
The Come Back Kid.
Often my customers would show great surprise that Blue Ribbon was even still being brewed. To which I delighted in letting them know just how popular it now was. It seems to have become the darling of the retro-cool hipsters. And proudly displayed in your better boutique wine stores, Whole Foods and most every happening bar. Even the in the NY Times Style Section I glimpsed a can of Pabst being held like a handbag by a frightfully thin model during her runway strut. Boyfriend nearly swore off his PBR upon seeing that photo. Pabst was in danger of becoming too cool to be cool. And that is why middle-aged geeks like us must stand by our beer – nothing too cool about us.
The times, they are a changing.
Well, I never met a beer I didn’t like. So, I will learn to embrace the new keg that will reside where Pabst Blue Ribbon once chilled. And rumor has it that the new brew in residence will be an addition to our selection of Louisiana Proud Abitas. Nothing too shabby about keeping our local flavors in the forefront.
Therefore, in this new world of ours, where we try to see everything through Fleur-de-Lis glasses and support the home team, I suspect the brewers of Pabst Blue Ribbon will understand. It’s our turn to be the Come Back Kid. Just hope my hair doesn’t have to suffer. Cheers.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Beverly and Michael sat at the bar -- such a nice couple; sweet, very earnest, both with that cockeyed optimistic look towards the future. Why them? Why me? Couldn’t ignorance remain bliss just a bit longer? No. I had to take one for the team. Be the bearer of bad news. But, it would be better coming from me; I would be gentle and respectful.
So, after serving them two frosty mugs of the gleaming yellow brew capped with frothy clouds of foam, I leaned across the bar, looked them in the eyes, took a deep cleansing breath and said: “I hate to be the one to tell you, but I feel I should prepare you’ll…they’re gonna 86 PBR!” And with stiff upper lips, mustached with beer foam, they reacted like the good sports I knew them to be, and vowed to sip and enjoy while the good ole days waned.
I must admit, initially, I did not take the news as well as my customers did. As if life here were not already hard. Change of the familiar a new constant. Traditions, culture, life styles are all at risk of extinction. So when I was told that PBR would no longer be on tap for one dollar I just kind of collapsed.
“So…no more dollar Pabst?”
“No more dollar any beer.”
“But… PBR will still be served?”
“NO.”
I wanted to flee the restaurant, to find a private place to cry and wail, shake my fist at the cruel, cruel gods. But my customers needed me to be strong – strong for them. And even my boss, the bearer of this bad news, needed me to buck-up. Café Maspero’s had indeed held back, as long as humanly possible, the demise of it’s well known and cherished contribution to New Orleans – the one dollar draft. A particular draft that was responsible for me working there.
Boyfriend and I first became customers at Café Maspero’s because our friend and neighbor, Lana, worked the bar there. So we would stop by to fling a little tip money her way. Love ya Lana but…it was the giddy, near euphoric high we’d get just ordering those Pabst Blue Ribbons for one mere dollar that tickled us so. Oh, we’d sing the PBR song and thoroughly embarrass ourselves. Well, heck, it was one of those great Sunday afternoons when I decided I could pour that beer myself. I applied for duty the next day.
Pabst has been Boyfriend’s fav brew since the 70’s when his chef/mentor Wayne, known to his kitchen crew simply as ‘Mom’, kept an ice cold keg of PBR in the walk-in cooler as incentive. Ah, the ole days of drinkin on the job. It just seemed kinda normal then. Of course those were the good ole days of chain smoking, martini lunches, no seat belts and enough hair product to choke a horse. But ya can’t blame a great beer for our fool hearty ways.
Anyway, back to Café Maspero’s where we never drink at work or at least that’s what they tell us. However the use of Pabst for personal grooming seems to meet with my boss’s approval. PBR is more than a libation, a tonic for the soul, a golden carbohydrate… it’s dandy for styling and sculpting hair. Just a little dab will do ya. And it’s a great way to use that first overly foaming keg pour of the day. Rub between the palms of your hand and start smoothing, shaping and spiking that hair of yours. And as a bonus: ya smell like a good time!
During my tenure at the Café, I have been an unofficial spokesperson for the brew. In fact some years back, in this very magazine, I was nominated for the BEST BARTENDER award. During my interview and photo-op for the competition I was asked to describe my signature drink (PBR), my area of expertise (pouring PBR) and my personal favorite beverage (PBR). I lost to some young thing whose libation creation consisted of at least 31 ingredients. My boss didn’t even vote for me.
Did I let this public relation set back dampen my commitment to Pabst Blue Ribbon? Of course not. I would greet the skeptic’s “ooh, last time I drank PBR was when I raided my grand dad’s fishing camp ice box” with a gentle lecture that drinking paw paw’s beer at age 11 was not the appropriate time and place to test the nuances of brewed spirits. I would then offer a small taste served up in a frosty mug (all the while reminding them it cost only a buck) and sure enough their more matured palate screamed for more.
The Come Back Kid.
Often my customers would show great surprise that Blue Ribbon was even still being brewed. To which I delighted in letting them know just how popular it now was. It seems to have become the darling of the retro-cool hipsters. And proudly displayed in your better boutique wine stores, Whole Foods and most every happening bar. Even the in the NY Times Style Section I glimpsed a can of Pabst being held like a handbag by a frightfully thin model during her runway strut. Boyfriend nearly swore off his PBR upon seeing that photo. Pabst was in danger of becoming too cool to be cool. And that is why middle-aged geeks like us must stand by our beer – nothing too cool about us.
The times, they are a changing.
Well, I never met a beer I didn’t like. So, I will learn to embrace the new keg that will reside where Pabst Blue Ribbon once chilled. And rumor has it that the new brew in residence will be an addition to our selection of Louisiana Proud Abitas. Nothing too shabby about keeping our local flavors in the forefront.
Therefore, in this new world of ours, where we try to see everything through Fleur-de-Lis glasses and support the home team, I suspect the brewers of Pabst Blue Ribbon will understand. It’s our turn to be the Come Back Kid. Just hope my hair doesn’t have to suffer. Cheers.
Christmas Memories of Mobile
Reindeers, Revelry and Reminiscences
By
Debbie Lindsey
Lois Turner made the best chicken salad sandwiches…ever. And don’t get me started on her mom’s divinity and fudge. The pleasure these snacks bestowed upon my taste buds has never left me, especially on Christmas day. For it was that day when Phil and Veronica, my parents, took me to visit Lois and beaucoup other friends and family – the ones with lots of food and drink and fabulous decorations.
The only thing better than being a kid surrounded by cool adults that fed your self-esteem as well as your sweet tooth was the decorations. Aunt Dale and Uncle Frank had that crazy aluminum tree with the revolving lights that flashed different colors to the reflecting tacky branches. I thought anything but a real, true, once living, sap dripping tree was sick and wrong…but I still somehow loved the gaudy light show. (Would pay good money today for one of those “retro” hip trees.)
While their kitchen had no appreciable Christmas kitsch, its warm bright lights and even warmer oven filled with cheese straws crisping and salty pecans toasting could stand up to any spruce garland or neon Santa. And the smell of Old Grand Dad bourbon every time you were hugged will always remain with me as “Christmas”. And when old enough to replace my Shirley Temple with something stronger, I would toast Old Grand Dad with Coca-Cola and juice squeezed from a well-kneaded lemon just like Uncle Frank.
Aunt Sissy may not have served strong spirits but her ambrosia was certainly nectar to the teetotaler. At Sissy’s home holiday embellishments took on a more sophisticated manner. It would be some years before I would travel to New York but Aunt Sissy’s place just screamed subtle chic. Crystal bowls encased teal blue Christmas balls and antique ivory-toned Lucite reindeers pranced throughout fresh pine needles on her mantle. I cannot remember if the hearth beneath was lit by gas or logs but it sure completed the look.
My entire adult life has been lived within apartments, but when I was a kid in Mobile, apartments seemed like something lifted from I Love Lucy. So visiting my parents’ friends, Ann and Barney, took me straight to that New York City television set. It just seemed so not suburbia. I do not remember the decorations, treats or whether we visited them on Christmas or New Years Eve but I sure remember the place bursting at the seams with adults, kids, both ornery and playful. And, as always, the kitchen was the conduit of excitement.
Speaking of New Years Eve, the best of the best parties to this day was at the Pooles’. Jewel and Fred Poole had absolutely fabulous soirees. As a kid the fabulous part was first recognized beneath the Christmas tree – they kept an array of little gifts wrapped and ready for any and all of the children who came to visit. Just when the Christmas season was mere hours away from conclusion there was still one more trinket to unwrap!
The gift of self-esteem however is remembered best.
I attribute any and all of my social skills to my parents for including me in their gadding about during the holidays. And one of the first times I remember holding court like a gown-up was there in Jewel and Fred’s living room, sitting alongside them sipping a fruit punch with my pinkie extended and feeling ever so glamorous. We know I must have been an insufferable pill but they never let on that I was anything less than the center of the universe.
“Who we gonna visit?” “We’re dressing up aren’t we?” As the years wore on the who often changed but the getting gussied up never did. Mom donned her mink regardless of the weather, and I just loved to dress up. Mom’s mink accompanied my evolution through the fads and fashions of decades. And Dad, of course, always in a suit.
My sister never really cared much for the ‘visiting’. She had her own friends and before I knew it she was married and living out of state. She and her husband would come home every Christmas but were really ready for a break from us by the time the Christmas dinner dishes hit the dishwasher. Fine by me, I didn’t have to share the treats, the attention, or Mom and Dad. We may not have been the social butterflies gracing society pages but we three moths would set forth and flit from open house to open house with purpose and utter joy.
As the years passed the size and scope of their friend’s festivities shrunk. Age took some and others, afflicted by an empty nest, downsized into smaller places. This same fate also hampered various family gatherings. But Mom, Dad and I never gave up the ghost of our tradition of barging in on folks. We sought new friends to visit and share holidays with. Until the year when the visits reversed and my parents, sister, brother-in-law and I received company. It would be my folks first and last Christmas in a nursing home.
When Phil and Veronica passed there was little reason to Christmas in Mobile – the holiday hometown commute was done. It was time to start my own traditions in New Orleans. But my source of inspiration travels back to that ancient mahogany table draped with antique lace catching bits of crumb from candies, cookies and breads. For the centerpiece there was the best chicken salad ever served up on Sunbeam bread with the crust cut off and piled high upon a crystal platter. And late December will always bring with it a strong desire to sip Old Grand Dad and coke with lemon of course. Boyfriend and I will continue in our own way the ritual of “barging in on folks” during the holidays or toasting together with our bartender and fellow holiday orphans. And when we need the fragrance of a Christmas tree or an eye full of Yuletide we visit the grand lobbies of various hotels.
My parents, Phil and Veronica, gave me many things, but the gift of Christmas and all that goes into creating the merriment of it will remain the most cherished of presents. I look for them at Christmas and visit them in memories.
Comments: Debbie@whereyat.net
By
Debbie Lindsey
Lois Turner made the best chicken salad sandwiches…ever. And don’t get me started on her mom’s divinity and fudge. The pleasure these snacks bestowed upon my taste buds has never left me, especially on Christmas day. For it was that day when Phil and Veronica, my parents, took me to visit Lois and beaucoup other friends and family – the ones with lots of food and drink and fabulous decorations.
The only thing better than being a kid surrounded by cool adults that fed your self-esteem as well as your sweet tooth was the decorations. Aunt Dale and Uncle Frank had that crazy aluminum tree with the revolving lights that flashed different colors to the reflecting tacky branches. I thought anything but a real, true, once living, sap dripping tree was sick and wrong…but I still somehow loved the gaudy light show. (Would pay good money today for one of those “retro” hip trees.)
While their kitchen had no appreciable Christmas kitsch, its warm bright lights and even warmer oven filled with cheese straws crisping and salty pecans toasting could stand up to any spruce garland or neon Santa. And the smell of Old Grand Dad bourbon every time you were hugged will always remain with me as “Christmas”. And when old enough to replace my Shirley Temple with something stronger, I would toast Old Grand Dad with Coca-Cola and juice squeezed from a well-kneaded lemon just like Uncle Frank.
Aunt Sissy may not have served strong spirits but her ambrosia was certainly nectar to the teetotaler. At Sissy’s home holiday embellishments took on a more sophisticated manner. It would be some years before I would travel to New York but Aunt Sissy’s place just screamed subtle chic. Crystal bowls encased teal blue Christmas balls and antique ivory-toned Lucite reindeers pranced throughout fresh pine needles on her mantle. I cannot remember if the hearth beneath was lit by gas or logs but it sure completed the look.
My entire adult life has been lived within apartments, but when I was a kid in Mobile, apartments seemed like something lifted from I Love Lucy. So visiting my parents’ friends, Ann and Barney, took me straight to that New York City television set. It just seemed so not suburbia. I do not remember the decorations, treats or whether we visited them on Christmas or New Years Eve but I sure remember the place bursting at the seams with adults, kids, both ornery and playful. And, as always, the kitchen was the conduit of excitement.
Speaking of New Years Eve, the best of the best parties to this day was at the Pooles’. Jewel and Fred Poole had absolutely fabulous soirees. As a kid the fabulous part was first recognized beneath the Christmas tree – they kept an array of little gifts wrapped and ready for any and all of the children who came to visit. Just when the Christmas season was mere hours away from conclusion there was still one more trinket to unwrap!
The gift of self-esteem however is remembered best.
I attribute any and all of my social skills to my parents for including me in their gadding about during the holidays. And one of the first times I remember holding court like a gown-up was there in Jewel and Fred’s living room, sitting alongside them sipping a fruit punch with my pinkie extended and feeling ever so glamorous. We know I must have been an insufferable pill but they never let on that I was anything less than the center of the universe.
“Who we gonna visit?” “We’re dressing up aren’t we?” As the years wore on the who often changed but the getting gussied up never did. Mom donned her mink regardless of the weather, and I just loved to dress up. Mom’s mink accompanied my evolution through the fads and fashions of decades. And Dad, of course, always in a suit.
My sister never really cared much for the ‘visiting’. She had her own friends and before I knew it she was married and living out of state. She and her husband would come home every Christmas but were really ready for a break from us by the time the Christmas dinner dishes hit the dishwasher. Fine by me, I didn’t have to share the treats, the attention, or Mom and Dad. We may not have been the social butterflies gracing society pages but we three moths would set forth and flit from open house to open house with purpose and utter joy.
As the years passed the size and scope of their friend’s festivities shrunk. Age took some and others, afflicted by an empty nest, downsized into smaller places. This same fate also hampered various family gatherings. But Mom, Dad and I never gave up the ghost of our tradition of barging in on folks. We sought new friends to visit and share holidays with. Until the year when the visits reversed and my parents, sister, brother-in-law and I received company. It would be my folks first and last Christmas in a nursing home.
When Phil and Veronica passed there was little reason to Christmas in Mobile – the holiday hometown commute was done. It was time to start my own traditions in New Orleans. But my source of inspiration travels back to that ancient mahogany table draped with antique lace catching bits of crumb from candies, cookies and breads. For the centerpiece there was the best chicken salad ever served up on Sunbeam bread with the crust cut off and piled high upon a crystal platter. And late December will always bring with it a strong desire to sip Old Grand Dad and coke with lemon of course. Boyfriend and I will continue in our own way the ritual of “barging in on folks” during the holidays or toasting together with our bartender and fellow holiday orphans. And when we need the fragrance of a Christmas tree or an eye full of Yuletide we visit the grand lobbies of various hotels.
My parents, Phil and Veronica, gave me many things, but the gift of Christmas and all that goes into creating the merriment of it will remain the most cherished of presents. I look for them at Christmas and visit them in memories.
Comments: Debbie@whereyat.net
Jazz Festing in New Orleans
May The Fest Be With You
By
Debbie Lindsey
Why go to Jazz Fest? If you have to ask you really should be sent to bed without your beer; made to stand in the corner wearing plaid polyester golf pants; or forced to eat Hungry Man frozen dinners for eternity. This has been my feeling on the matter for sometime, but I have begun to think I have been a bit hasty and harsh in the past. I mean, what if someone REALLY wants an answer to the “why go” question? Maybe that someone is willing to listen and consider being a part of the greatest show on Earth. Okay, maybe I am a wee bit grandiose in my view – but hey it’s one hell of a festival.
Jazz Festival is so uniquely New Orleans despite the commercialism and corporate sponsorships of recent years. This festival is not only a venue for more music, food and crafts than one person can possibly view, hear, or taste in a day; it is a venue for festers to strut their stuff (festival attire is an event unto itself) and dance their toes off. Once-a-year friendships reacquaint themselves. Mardi Gras Indians roam about. It’s hard to put into words the lost-in-the-moment feeling of this celebration of talent, soul and camaraderie. Something kinda magical happens. The crowds can be dense, the weather awful, the bathroom lines long and yet courtesy and kindness prevail – always.
The price of admission will allow you eight hours of nonstop music. The many food tents combine to offer over 100 selections. Lectures, cooking demonstration, crafts, photography exhibits, book signings vie for your attention. And a good time is had by all!
Money, money, money seems to be something that one feels compelled to address when it comes to Jazz Fest. We are not talkin’ a million bucks, but folks sure seem to have a million reasons not to invest in culture, live music, and an event that seems to bring out the very best in people.
I’m not suggesting that a single parent of three with two jobs and night classes at UNO who’s Road Home To Nowhere money is still in limbo try and budget non-existent disposable income so as to go festing. But, the average working stiff does owe it to themselves to attend at least one day at the Fair Grounds. And as for the rest of you out there that do have a wee bit of mad money (and those who are just stinkin’ well off) consider attending as many days as time permits.
How much does a ticket set ya back this year? Advance purchase: $40.00 a day, $50.00 at the gate and Jazz Fest Thursdays are back for $30.00 advance, $40.00 at the gate. Yes, this is a helluva increase and I for one will not be attending everyday as I once did. But if I had planned ahead and saved 75 cents a day I could afford to go everyday. In fact there are even MORE advanced purchase deals if tickets are acquired by January. Too late to save now and too late for those early bird deals but next year I will be wiser. As for having time off to go – well, that’s what a lottery ticket is for.
By the time you read this column it will be too late to get the best deal in town – WWOZ’s Brass Pass. This year it went for $375.00. And that is for both weekends of Jazz Fest and it includes some extra perks like unlimited use of the WWOZ hospitality tent (code for restrooms) and the freedom to wander in and out of the Fair Grounds. If you were planning to attend everyday it’s a deal PLUS you support our Jazz and Heritage radio station when you obtain your tickets this way.
Now, a word to the Jazz Fest powers-that-be.
What in the Hell are you guys thinking? No one earning minimum wage can even consider entering those gates more than maybe once. And those of us that earn a wee bit more than minimum find it very difficult to chose between paying the electric bill and Festing. I used to go everyday. I only had to save my waitress tips for a few weeks and then I was there painlessly buying my way into the absolute best reason to live here.
Have the promoters of Jazz Fest ever heard of the French Quarter Festival? It’s free!!!!! It’s around the same time. It’s free. Tourists from all over the world are making New Orleans a destination because of the FQF. There is food, music and friendly people. Restrooms are easy to find in any nice hotel lobby. And it’s free. Folks do not have to deal with TicketMaster or standing in lines for advance savings because it is FREE!
I promise that next year I will write my Jazz Fest column well in advance of this issue so as to remind you guys of the deals that are out there. And do yourself a favor and get that Jazz Fest piggy bank going now and save a buck a day.
Yeah, the good ole days of cheap tickets are long gone. But, the quality and quirkiness of our Jazz and Heritage Festive is alive and well and a shot in the arm of feel good medicine for the soul. Jazz Fest gives us back some of that which was taken from us. And we can pay it forward simply by going and passin’ a good time.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Why go to Jazz Fest? If you have to ask you really should be sent to bed without your beer; made to stand in the corner wearing plaid polyester golf pants; or forced to eat Hungry Man frozen dinners for eternity. This has been my feeling on the matter for sometime, but I have begun to think I have been a bit hasty and harsh in the past. I mean, what if someone REALLY wants an answer to the “why go” question? Maybe that someone is willing to listen and consider being a part of the greatest show on Earth. Okay, maybe I am a wee bit grandiose in my view – but hey it’s one hell of a festival.
Jazz Festival is so uniquely New Orleans despite the commercialism and corporate sponsorships of recent years. This festival is not only a venue for more music, food and crafts than one person can possibly view, hear, or taste in a day; it is a venue for festers to strut their stuff (festival attire is an event unto itself) and dance their toes off. Once-a-year friendships reacquaint themselves. Mardi Gras Indians roam about. It’s hard to put into words the lost-in-the-moment feeling of this celebration of talent, soul and camaraderie. Something kinda magical happens. The crowds can be dense, the weather awful, the bathroom lines long and yet courtesy and kindness prevail – always.
The price of admission will allow you eight hours of nonstop music. The many food tents combine to offer over 100 selections. Lectures, cooking demonstration, crafts, photography exhibits, book signings vie for your attention. And a good time is had by all!
Money, money, money seems to be something that one feels compelled to address when it comes to Jazz Fest. We are not talkin’ a million bucks, but folks sure seem to have a million reasons not to invest in culture, live music, and an event that seems to bring out the very best in people.
I’m not suggesting that a single parent of three with two jobs and night classes at UNO who’s Road Home To Nowhere money is still in limbo try and budget non-existent disposable income so as to go festing. But, the average working stiff does owe it to themselves to attend at least one day at the Fair Grounds. And as for the rest of you out there that do have a wee bit of mad money (and those who are just stinkin’ well off) consider attending as many days as time permits.
How much does a ticket set ya back this year? Advance purchase: $40.00 a day, $50.00 at the gate and Jazz Fest Thursdays are back for $30.00 advance, $40.00 at the gate. Yes, this is a helluva increase and I for one will not be attending everyday as I once did. But if I had planned ahead and saved 75 cents a day I could afford to go everyday. In fact there are even MORE advanced purchase deals if tickets are acquired by January. Too late to save now and too late for those early bird deals but next year I will be wiser. As for having time off to go – well, that’s what a lottery ticket is for.
By the time you read this column it will be too late to get the best deal in town – WWOZ’s Brass Pass. This year it went for $375.00. And that is for both weekends of Jazz Fest and it includes some extra perks like unlimited use of the WWOZ hospitality tent (code for restrooms) and the freedom to wander in and out of the Fair Grounds. If you were planning to attend everyday it’s a deal PLUS you support our Jazz and Heritage radio station when you obtain your tickets this way.
Now, a word to the Jazz Fest powers-that-be.
What in the Hell are you guys thinking? No one earning minimum wage can even consider entering those gates more than maybe once. And those of us that earn a wee bit more than minimum find it very difficult to chose between paying the electric bill and Festing. I used to go everyday. I only had to save my waitress tips for a few weeks and then I was there painlessly buying my way into the absolute best reason to live here.
Have the promoters of Jazz Fest ever heard of the French Quarter Festival? It’s free!!!!! It’s around the same time. It’s free. Tourists from all over the world are making New Orleans a destination because of the FQF. There is food, music and friendly people. Restrooms are easy to find in any nice hotel lobby. And it’s free. Folks do not have to deal with TicketMaster or standing in lines for advance savings because it is FREE!
I promise that next year I will write my Jazz Fest column well in advance of this issue so as to remind you guys of the deals that are out there. And do yourself a favor and get that Jazz Fest piggy bank going now and save a buck a day.
Yeah, the good ole days of cheap tickets are long gone. But, the quality and quirkiness of our Jazz and Heritage Festive is alive and well and a shot in the arm of feel good medicine for the soul. Jazz Fest gives us back some of that which was taken from us. And we can pay it forward simply by going and passin’ a good time.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)