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.