Five Years and Counting
By
Debbie Lindsey
When once asked if I would ever parachute from a plane or climb a mountain I replied with a “Hell no! Hurricane season provides me with more than enough thrills and chills”. I sounded sensible and cautious. But what I meant was that I looked forward to our annual convergence of storms. I too was a thrill seeker—but one that passively waited to be sweep into adrenaline overload. That was until August of 2005 when all my previous experiences with hurricanes amounted to no more than a kid’s bumper car ride – Katrina was a plane ride that dumped me out without a parachute. The thrill was gone.
I thought we would die that day. Yet her roar was worse than the bite she gave us. And after she passed we thought all any of us had were a few scratches and nips. But she had enlisted an engineering sham and an indifferent government and rode roughshod over depleted and fragile wetlands. The disaster just continued to grow even after she was long gone. For six days, despite being on high ground, I thought we were screwed. But we made it out just fine, frightened and only a little worse for wear. Many, too many were not so lucky.
I have often written in this column about ‘The Event’. I talk about it constantly, stare transfixed at the many remaining water lines, view documentaries again and again. I am a veteran of this ‘Thing’. Yet, I have come to discover more and more the gifts that I have received from it. I can NOT put gratitude into the heart of someone who lost loved ones in those waters or on a bridge trying to find safety only to be shot by men who dishonored their vow to serve and protect. My water line was two inches high from the sidewalk; my friend’s was two inches from her ceiling. Try and tell her that there is a silver lining. Ask the folks from Buras, Lakeview, the Lower Nine, or Bay St. Louis if the glass is half full or half empty—they’ll tell ya it doesn’t matter, the crap is toxic anyway. And sometimes lemons just don’t make lemon-aid.
But if you are one of the just slightly dampened ones, if you didn’t have to bury someone or gut your home and your heart, then…you and I have the luxury of finding some good among the ruins. Make no mistake, dry or wet, rich or poor we all suffered deep and lasting wounds, never again a stranger to depression and the resulting prescription bottles. We all live among the ghosts. Yet, if you listen, the ghosts tell stories of a world nearly lost and in need of respect. I found that I was given a second chance to pay those respects to my city and her people.
A couple of months ago when asked by my editor to write about the positive encountered since Katrina I was full of feel-good things to say. Jazz Fest was approaching; the after glow of the Saints victory was still evident; Treme, our city’s new ambassador, had just premiered on HBO; and our new and potentially good mayor was here--everything was smelling like Jasmine. It was spring 2010 and it was looking like that light at the end of the tunnel was getting brighter. That glass half full was starting to look kinda tasty and it seemed time to fill her up again. But then the glass cracked.
It is early summer as I write and submit to a June 10th deadline for this issue. An oil storm is upon us and hurricane season has officially begun with some serious implications. I do not know how this will read in August. So with ‘not knowing’ as my guide I will precede with the positives I gained from Katrina as I may need them again and again as I continue to enjoy the privilege of living in this uncertain place.
The storm brought to bear the sheer ugliness of some folks and the callousness of governments. A disaster will damn sure excavate the evil as well as the good in people. Yet I came to appreciate that there are more decent people than not, ironically it took so much human failure, ineptness and greed to come to this conclusion.
I was a bit jaded because for the most part, I had only tourists to inform my worldview of human nature until Katrina. I allowed the Bourbon Street driven Spring Breakers to represent all students and twenty-somethings. And my only exposure to card carrying “Christians” were those who spewed hate and bigotry during Mardi Gras and Gay events. I often allowed the extremes, the caricature of tourists to delineate all our visitors.
But the sheer magnitude of volunteers that began immediately to come (and keep on coming to this day) and to help us is something to behold. I’ve seen thousands and met hundreds of those folks who consistently respond to my thank you with “It was our pleasure”. I witnessed faith-based groups putting their Christianity into practice givin’ hell to mold-infested houses. Met a couple on their honeymoon who came to help rebuild; but, it’s the young people and students swapping beach vacations for menial labor assignments in some truly godforsaken places that got to me. These guys had our back. They taught me that the hope and idealism I feared was long gone is alive and well. And let’s not forget the post storm visitors who came to spend and support our butchered economy.
And now it all begins again. A different storm. This one even more insidious, one that we ourselves contributed to—there is blood, oil on all our hands. Will we learn from this? One can only hope.
To those who championed our city I hope that you have the reserves to continue because god knows we will need more heroes in the coming months, months that will stretch into years, perhaps decades, as we deal with this latest assault. All I can say is that it took me twenty years and the near decimation of a city, an entire region, rich in culture, quirks and verve to know what’s worth fighting for. Let us ready ourselves—it’s gonna be a long haul.
Comments: debbie@whereyat.com
Want more? talesofthequarter.blogspot.com
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Mobile Summers
June Bug
By
Debbie Lindsey
June, n. [L. Junius, perhaps from Junius Brutus; same root as junior, L.
juvenis, a youth; E. young.] The sixth month of the year, containing 30 days.
Perhaps I am able to romanticize June, and the summertime it heralds, because today as I sit here typing it is still spring and the warmth is perfect. I know I will curse and whine come July and worship before the alter of my air conditioner praying that the decades old window unit will continue to wheeze some semblance of cool air. I will threaten to check into a hotel just to sleep through one sweat-free night. Plants will require a staggering amount of water. Mosquitoes and fleas will proliferate. And my vacuum cleaner will cower as tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair shed throughout the house. But June, June has promise.
Spring, of course, is when it all begins—the rebirth, nature waking up from the doldrums of winter. And June gets caught up in that fresh growth spurt before the relentless heat starts to override some of the euphoria. But as a kid did we even notice the heat? Searching my summertime memories I don’t recall the heat being a deal breaker. All us kids just couldn’t get enough of being outdoors. The world was our oyster and we didn’t give a flip about how warm the waters were.
Not being anything close to studious, the only great thing about school was how appreciative it made me of summer vacation. I didn’t take summer lightly, I had priorities: three months of bare feet; dodging Mom and becoming one with my inner Tarzan (Mom didn’t take kindly to me climbing forty feet into treetops or swinging from rotting vines across ravines); and, of course, swimming.
My hero was Tarzan—the real one, Johnny Weissmuller. I could never differentiate between actor and character. Weissmuller was Tarzan. And all school year, while other kids focused upon the chalkboard, I watched the black and white clock above it. I would time myself against its second hand and practice holding my breath. My goal was two minutes, as that seemed to be about the time it took Tarzan to wrestle an alligator under water. My brain cells fought to survive this exercise and so one minute was all I could muster. This was all practice for my personal summer Olympics.
When I was eight my summers really picked up. That was when I began to realize my full potential as a tomboy. It was also the summer my family moved to the new frontier—the suburbs, and ours was the best kind, a not fully developed neighborhood where unspoiled land still outweighed manicured lawns and track homes. And like most kids I saw adventure in those woods rather than future real estate. I hated every “sold” sign that claimed a piece of our stomping ground. Yet we had to wonder what a new family might bring to the mix. We were a pragmatic lot, my new friends and I, we knew each new home would bring more kids, bikes, basket ball hoops and parents to mooch snacks from. And wonderful as nature might be, a swimming pool trumped a wooded acre everytime.
The Gales, our neighbors down the street, had a swimming pool. Of course I adopted them. It was high time that I learned to swim and I had a new swimsuit so the Gales became my extended family (I’m not sure if they viewed this arrangement as a win/win). From the moment school let out until well into September I swam. My addiction to swimming pools with their intoxicating scent of chlorine, the gentle humming of a filtration system, and the mesmerizing blue of their depths did not begin in the Gales backyard but it grew there.
The Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama, had the largest pool in the South. And our family was lucky enough to snag a pool membership there off and on through the years. Day trips to this hotel pool are among my most treasured memories. But nothing could beat a pool within striking distance of my front door, full of neighborhood kids splashing, laughing and playing endless games of Marco Polo. We stayed in that pool until our skin puckered, sneaking pees in the water so as not to waste a moment drying off to run inside (“You kids better not get my new shag carpet wet”). And there ya had it: you just weren’t allowed to pee in the Grand Hotel pool.
Like I said before, I have no recollection of oppressive heat marring my summers. Of course I had no idea what a “heat index” was and that I should be feeling much hotter than the thermostat outside the backdoor stated. And really, did I care? I had trees to climb, forts to build, chlorine to ingest and just a world of trouble to get into.
I never really stopped being a tomboy, but the summer of ’67 I promised myself would be my last summer to beat up boys. This was a sport I loved. I was approaching the eighth grade and I’d finally figured out how to snap my bra rather than having to fasten it beforehand and wiggle it over my head and shoulders. So I knew it was time to live up to the standards of womanhood and simmer down a notch.
Summers began to change after that. I don’t remember feeling sad when I began to switch from being lacquered in grimy sweat and skinned-up knees tattooed with those extra large Band-Aids into a deodorized, Coppertoned, and shaved legs teenager. My abandoned bicycle rusted away somewhere in back of the tool shed. And I guess Mom happily tossed out my baseball cap and red clay stained cut-offs. My swimsuits began to change to accommodate fashion (and some semblance of breasts). And the urge to beat up boys began to lessen.
Yes my summers changed and if memory serves in any small way to reveal what was real and true then I must say I left the better part of myself behind as adulthood began to reach out to me. And only years later did I find my place upon a bicycle again laughing at how easy it still was to remove my hands and coast, steering only with sways. Swimming never left me and sometimes during my laps I stop and dive under and see how long I can hold my breath and wait for the alligator.
Comments: Debbie@whereyat.com and Talesofthequarter.blogspot.com
By
Debbie Lindsey
June, n. [L. Junius, perhaps from Junius Brutus; same root as junior, L.
juvenis, a youth; E. young.] The sixth month of the year, containing 30 days.
Perhaps I am able to romanticize June, and the summertime it heralds, because today as I sit here typing it is still spring and the warmth is perfect. I know I will curse and whine come July and worship before the alter of my air conditioner praying that the decades old window unit will continue to wheeze some semblance of cool air. I will threaten to check into a hotel just to sleep through one sweat-free night. Plants will require a staggering amount of water. Mosquitoes and fleas will proliferate. And my vacuum cleaner will cower as tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair shed throughout the house. But June, June has promise.
Spring, of course, is when it all begins—the rebirth, nature waking up from the doldrums of winter. And June gets caught up in that fresh growth spurt before the relentless heat starts to override some of the euphoria. But as a kid did we even notice the heat? Searching my summertime memories I don’t recall the heat being a deal breaker. All us kids just couldn’t get enough of being outdoors. The world was our oyster and we didn’t give a flip about how warm the waters were.
Not being anything close to studious, the only great thing about school was how appreciative it made me of summer vacation. I didn’t take summer lightly, I had priorities: three months of bare feet; dodging Mom and becoming one with my inner Tarzan (Mom didn’t take kindly to me climbing forty feet into treetops or swinging from rotting vines across ravines); and, of course, swimming.
My hero was Tarzan—the real one, Johnny Weissmuller. I could never differentiate between actor and character. Weissmuller was Tarzan. And all school year, while other kids focused upon the chalkboard, I watched the black and white clock above it. I would time myself against its second hand and practice holding my breath. My goal was two minutes, as that seemed to be about the time it took Tarzan to wrestle an alligator under water. My brain cells fought to survive this exercise and so one minute was all I could muster. This was all practice for my personal summer Olympics.
When I was eight my summers really picked up. That was when I began to realize my full potential as a tomboy. It was also the summer my family moved to the new frontier—the suburbs, and ours was the best kind, a not fully developed neighborhood where unspoiled land still outweighed manicured lawns and track homes. And like most kids I saw adventure in those woods rather than future real estate. I hated every “sold” sign that claimed a piece of our stomping ground. Yet we had to wonder what a new family might bring to the mix. We were a pragmatic lot, my new friends and I, we knew each new home would bring more kids, bikes, basket ball hoops and parents to mooch snacks from. And wonderful as nature might be, a swimming pool trumped a wooded acre everytime.
The Gales, our neighbors down the street, had a swimming pool. Of course I adopted them. It was high time that I learned to swim and I had a new swimsuit so the Gales became my extended family (I’m not sure if they viewed this arrangement as a win/win). From the moment school let out until well into September I swam. My addiction to swimming pools with their intoxicating scent of chlorine, the gentle humming of a filtration system, and the mesmerizing blue of their depths did not begin in the Gales backyard but it grew there.
The Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama, had the largest pool in the South. And our family was lucky enough to snag a pool membership there off and on through the years. Day trips to this hotel pool are among my most treasured memories. But nothing could beat a pool within striking distance of my front door, full of neighborhood kids splashing, laughing and playing endless games of Marco Polo. We stayed in that pool until our skin puckered, sneaking pees in the water so as not to waste a moment drying off to run inside (“You kids better not get my new shag carpet wet”). And there ya had it: you just weren’t allowed to pee in the Grand Hotel pool.
Like I said before, I have no recollection of oppressive heat marring my summers. Of course I had no idea what a “heat index” was and that I should be feeling much hotter than the thermostat outside the backdoor stated. And really, did I care? I had trees to climb, forts to build, chlorine to ingest and just a world of trouble to get into.
I never really stopped being a tomboy, but the summer of ’67 I promised myself would be my last summer to beat up boys. This was a sport I loved. I was approaching the eighth grade and I’d finally figured out how to snap my bra rather than having to fasten it beforehand and wiggle it over my head and shoulders. So I knew it was time to live up to the standards of womanhood and simmer down a notch.
Summers began to change after that. I don’t remember feeling sad when I began to switch from being lacquered in grimy sweat and skinned-up knees tattooed with those extra large Band-Aids into a deodorized, Coppertoned, and shaved legs teenager. My abandoned bicycle rusted away somewhere in back of the tool shed. And I guess Mom happily tossed out my baseball cap and red clay stained cut-offs. My swimsuits began to change to accommodate fashion (and some semblance of breasts). And the urge to beat up boys began to lessen.
Yes my summers changed and if memory serves in any small way to reveal what was real and true then I must say I left the better part of myself behind as adulthood began to reach out to me. And only years later did I find my place upon a bicycle again laughing at how easy it still was to remove my hands and coast, steering only with sways. Swimming never left me and sometimes during my laps I stop and dive under and see how long I can hold my breath and wait for the alligator.
Comments: Debbie@whereyat.com and Talesofthequarter.blogspot.com
Sunday, March 14, 2010
We are Family in New Orleans
We Are Family
By
Debbie Lindsey
Today I was feeling jumpy as a cockroach staring down a can of raid, all the while a rather serious malaise, a lethargy, was settling over me. Anxious, gassy, and just plain moody. I told Boyfriend I just didn't know what was wrong with me. He reminded me: "It's that time of the month darlin". "You know you always get like this the first day of every month -- it's your deadline week".
And he was right. Instead of writing my column at a relaxed pace a little each day, I always tell myself that one week will do it – no sweat, no angst (lots of angst, lots of sweat). I back myself into that deadline corner every time and bingo I hit the block.
Today my blocked brain has me miserably dull witted. So dull witted that I just stepped right into a puddle of piddle. Nothing like warm urine between your toes to remind you that Rosie was not auditioning for Hollywood when she danced in those frantic little circle -- her way to warn me of the impending flood. Sorry Rosie that you had to suffer that indignity but thanks, for sometimes I find my stories in the oddest places -- urine not being the strangest to date.
Those of you who read my column (a select few since I lack the funds to bribe more) have probably more information about my life than even the most self-absorbed FaceBook could provide. Therefore my leap from writer’s block to a tale with a brief touchdown in urine is no surprise, especially if it involves my little loved ones.
Unless you have kids or manage livestock you have no idea what joy (expense, worry and exhaustion) cats and dogs can provide. Having a herd of critters is much like raising a bunch of children. And for me, they are our children. I say this not only as one of those folks that have put all their maternal instincts into the anthropomorphic conversion of animal into human, but because they will drain ya of every bit of energy, money and time you have and then suck the love right out of you.
As of last count there are two dogs, one cat and one kitten. Our kitten should count as more due to his ability to upend the household contents with the force of twenty playful terrors. And I am sure there is another critter with a hard luck story out there circling the house looking for a way inside. Most of you already know Rosie the small reddish brown rump roast with eyes like Audrey Hepburn (through my friend Chris swears she’s a dead-ringer for Joan Rivers).
And there’s Pepper, the black beauty, svelte and mean as snake, striking fear in the hearts of those daring to even look her in the eye. Now age has actually softened her disposition and Zack the new kitten is teaching her to play (a first for her ever). Zack the Whirling Dervish, is another story.
Unlike Pepper, who has always preferred lounging to any form of movement other than attack, Zack is perpetual motion. It’s been almost thirty years since I’ve had a kitten and…wow. Are they all this way? Will he ever stay still long enough for me to pet him? Zack was kinda intended to be my cat but the little guy has a mind of his own (and too much energy to waste on some boring old lady like me). He immediately claimed Sophia as his mom and playmate. Sophia, a black Lab mix, whose head is larger than Zack and in no way resembles a cat, has adopted the kitten or should I say the kitten adopted Sophia. Sophia nurses (at least goes through the motions), grooms, and lends a protective watch over Zack.
Sophia, named by our friend Gloria who said she was as beautiful as Sophia Loren was, came to us as a rescue from the SPCA. Like so many young girls, Sophia fell for some sweet talking player and ended up pregnant and alone on the doorsteps of the SPCA. Her litter was adopted but she seemed doomed to languish a ward of the state. She had so many advocates-- volunteers who took a special interest in her, fostering her, funding her heart worm treatment, but none were able to adopt her. Her hero Galivan, a volunteer, made sure she escaped the Big Sleep by hooking us up with her. He knew we would be a soft touch, as we had a big empty space in our family since Ginger the Lab had passed away. It was love at first sight. Sophia is simply all about the love.
If Sophia is the love machine then Rosie is the love vampire. She’s an independent little lady who has somehow crawled inside my heart – she drains love from me. She’s an aloof Auntie Mame that doesn’t fawn all over you but is a swell drinking buddy. Many a happy hour Rosie would take a seat at the bar -- perched too high to jump she would then succumb to my patting and gaze attentively, yet demurely at her bartender melting his heart and depleting his supply of dog treats. She’s sweet as all get out but her true devotion is to food -- except when it came to Ginger. She loved that dog. Little Rosie would climb up on Ginger’s back just a humpin’ and a ridin’ that pony. Oh folks would tell us it was just a dominance thing but I swear to God Rosie would smile like a drunken sailor.
Here I sit, intending to write about the unintended servitude of motherhood that has been placed upon me – me the never-wanted-children gal who was so relieved when menopause sealed the deal. Never say never; motherhood found me. And, make no mistake; motherhood is not species specific, just look at Sophia wet nursing her kitten. Motherhood is when you love without cause or simply because they need you and I promise you the feeling of need goes both ways. In spite of all the urine samples gathered, the endless litter boxes, pooper scooping, flea baths, pee soaked rugs, endless visits to the vet and endless tears when the prognosis is awful – in spite of all this the sense of duty and love is overriding.
And I will remind myself of this when Boyfriend and I visit Walgreen to replenish the supply of adult-size incontinence pads for my little old lady, Rosie who still prefers my oriental rugs. The cashier just looks at us with a sympathy reserved for old geezers – it will do no good to blame it on the dog.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Today I was feeling jumpy as a cockroach staring down a can of raid, all the while a rather serious malaise, a lethargy, was settling over me. Anxious, gassy, and just plain moody. I told Boyfriend I just didn't know what was wrong with me. He reminded me: "It's that time of the month darlin". "You know you always get like this the first day of every month -- it's your deadline week".
And he was right. Instead of writing my column at a relaxed pace a little each day, I always tell myself that one week will do it – no sweat, no angst (lots of angst, lots of sweat). I back myself into that deadline corner every time and bingo I hit the block.
Today my blocked brain has me miserably dull witted. So dull witted that I just stepped right into a puddle of piddle. Nothing like warm urine between your toes to remind you that Rosie was not auditioning for Hollywood when she danced in those frantic little circle -- her way to warn me of the impending flood. Sorry Rosie that you had to suffer that indignity but thanks, for sometimes I find my stories in the oddest places -- urine not being the strangest to date.
Those of you who read my column (a select few since I lack the funds to bribe more) have probably more information about my life than even the most self-absorbed FaceBook could provide. Therefore my leap from writer’s block to a tale with a brief touchdown in urine is no surprise, especially if it involves my little loved ones.
Unless you have kids or manage livestock you have no idea what joy (expense, worry and exhaustion) cats and dogs can provide. Having a herd of critters is much like raising a bunch of children. And for me, they are our children. I say this not only as one of those folks that have put all their maternal instincts into the anthropomorphic conversion of animal into human, but because they will drain ya of every bit of energy, money and time you have and then suck the love right out of you.
As of last count there are two dogs, one cat and one kitten. Our kitten should count as more due to his ability to upend the household contents with the force of twenty playful terrors. And I am sure there is another critter with a hard luck story out there circling the house looking for a way inside. Most of you already know Rosie the small reddish brown rump roast with eyes like Audrey Hepburn (through my friend Chris swears she’s a dead-ringer for Joan Rivers).
And there’s Pepper, the black beauty, svelte and mean as snake, striking fear in the hearts of those daring to even look her in the eye. Now age has actually softened her disposition and Zack the new kitten is teaching her to play (a first for her ever). Zack the Whirling Dervish, is another story.
Unlike Pepper, who has always preferred lounging to any form of movement other than attack, Zack is perpetual motion. It’s been almost thirty years since I’ve had a kitten and…wow. Are they all this way? Will he ever stay still long enough for me to pet him? Zack was kinda intended to be my cat but the little guy has a mind of his own (and too much energy to waste on some boring old lady like me). He immediately claimed Sophia as his mom and playmate. Sophia, a black Lab mix, whose head is larger than Zack and in no way resembles a cat, has adopted the kitten or should I say the kitten adopted Sophia. Sophia nurses (at least goes through the motions), grooms, and lends a protective watch over Zack.
Sophia, named by our friend Gloria who said she was as beautiful as Sophia Loren was, came to us as a rescue from the SPCA. Like so many young girls, Sophia fell for some sweet talking player and ended up pregnant and alone on the doorsteps of the SPCA. Her litter was adopted but she seemed doomed to languish a ward of the state. She had so many advocates-- volunteers who took a special interest in her, fostering her, funding her heart worm treatment, but none were able to adopt her. Her hero Galivan, a volunteer, made sure she escaped the Big Sleep by hooking us up with her. He knew we would be a soft touch, as we had a big empty space in our family since Ginger the Lab had passed away. It was love at first sight. Sophia is simply all about the love.
If Sophia is the love machine then Rosie is the love vampire. She’s an independent little lady who has somehow crawled inside my heart – she drains love from me. She’s an aloof Auntie Mame that doesn’t fawn all over you but is a swell drinking buddy. Many a happy hour Rosie would take a seat at the bar -- perched too high to jump she would then succumb to my patting and gaze attentively, yet demurely at her bartender melting his heart and depleting his supply of dog treats. She’s sweet as all get out but her true devotion is to food -- except when it came to Ginger. She loved that dog. Little Rosie would climb up on Ginger’s back just a humpin’ and a ridin’ that pony. Oh folks would tell us it was just a dominance thing but I swear to God Rosie would smile like a drunken sailor.
Here I sit, intending to write about the unintended servitude of motherhood that has been placed upon me – me the never-wanted-children gal who was so relieved when menopause sealed the deal. Never say never; motherhood found me. And, make no mistake; motherhood is not species specific, just look at Sophia wet nursing her kitten. Motherhood is when you love without cause or simply because they need you and I promise you the feeling of need goes both ways. In spite of all the urine samples gathered, the endless litter boxes, pooper scooping, flea baths, pee soaked rugs, endless visits to the vet and endless tears when the prognosis is awful – in spite of all this the sense of duty and love is overriding.
And I will remind myself of this when Boyfriend and I visit Walgreen to replenish the supply of adult-size incontinence pads for my little old lady, Rosie who still prefers my oriental rugs. The cashier just looks at us with a sympathy reserved for old geezers – it will do no good to blame it on the dog.
Tit for Tat in new Orleans
Tit For Tat
By
Debbie Lindsey
Don’t forget to cross your ts and dot your is and then get ready to erase.
It all starts with a letter. The one that gets lost for two weeks in a pile of junk mail and No Payment Due statements. Nothing really catches your eye. The pile grows larger with membership drives, more junk, and the occasional menu flyers. Then when some real bills arrive along with your NetFlix rentals, you find it. It is the letter that changes everything.
Your recent mammogram examination showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation…This is where I switch to first person and begrudgingly. I often write about me, me, me. Well, this time it’s not just an egocentric exercise, it’s an exorcism of sorts. I have always found, for myself, that if I expect the worst it just doesn’t happen. The gods of fate enjoy confusing me. Well, I say let ‘em throw me good results, let ‘em tell me I have worried for naught. Make a liar of me!!
It’s the waiting. When I finally found the letter from the radiology place where I had a date with a machine that felt me up like a high school back seat ooh baby baby baby tiddy twister I almost didn’t open it. I thought it was a bill for additional charges. You see, my people at the womens’ clinic never called. They always say that all is fine if I don’t hear from them, but of course they invite me to call and double check results. Cross your ts and dot the is. I did not take my own advice. Check results yourself. Never assume. Because we all know what happens when you assume: you make an ass of you and a breast-less wonder of me.
Time out! I am running with a ball I was not even passed yet. They said it could be nothing – nothing. But I know what the something is, and I can’t even afford it. It’s a rotten shame when folks (trust me there are too many out there) have to focus not on a life-threatening situation but on how to pay to have a life-threatening situation. Oh, It’s our fault, that’s right. We, the uninsured should have been insured. Not always so easy.
I recently decided to join the ranks of the play-by-the-rules and get myself insured. I set up an appointment with an agent from Cross Your Fingers and it became apparent that most of my medical needs would be considered PRE-EXISTING. We talked and crunched numbers and he was to get back with me as to whether this or that might work for me and my piggy bank. Never heard from him again. I was just too problematic or he simply gave up trying to live here in New Orleans.
Trying to live here is a real, albeit stupid, reason behind so much of my procrastination, forgetfulness and just plain old “I have no damn time to take care of myself”. Stupid, I know. Just because my potential insurance guy dropped me doesn’t mean there are not a gazillion agents ready to write me a policy. The only prob is money. Sure I can insure myself but then how do I pay my rent? I already work seven days a week. I work for myself and I don’t give benefits! Excuses, excuses. I just feel so stupid for having no net to catch me. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. And now if…if this thing is something, it will be considered pre-existing.
I have a friend who found herself with symptoms indicative of Hodgkin’s disease, cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. She had to tough it out for nine months as she waited for her new insurance to kick in because diagnosis prior would have ruled her cancer pre-existing. She was one of the lucky ones. Her guess was right, she did have cancer and she got in just under the wire. Her insurance covered her because she was forced to feign good health until eligibility kicked in. She got treatment in the nick of time. And now, wears her scars with genuine pride.
Scars. They never bother me. I have my physical points of interest, don’t get me wrong, but scars always seemed kinda cool to me. They are like nature’s little tattoos – reminders of some misadventure as a tomboy, that first razor nick when finally old enough to shave my legs, or a kitchen mishap. But I’m not too sure about having my tits sliced up. Hell, if that’s the case, I say just take ‘em. Yep, just remove the whole kit and kaboodle. I want to live a ridiculously long life; not win a beauty pageant.
I speak, write and think with no real medical knowledge. And if very very lucky I will need little knowledge this time around, because within days, perhaps even hours I hope to hear the words: “It was nothing”. But for many women, numbers too large to comprehend, happy words, words of good health are not in the cards for them. And as words of remission become the next best sound to hear -- some never will.
Will I learn from this debacle? Oh yeah. I will never put off those annoying annual check-ups that truly save lives. Never allow myself to be lulled into thinking No news is good news – no news merely means someone dropped the ball or in my case I wasn’t even looking to catch that ball. Follow up! Cross those ts and dot those is. And if my luck goes south then I will use every eraser known to science until my slate is clean.
Promise me, dear reader, that you will never take your life for granted. I never have, and yet I have been careless with the one and only body I have. And I need and depend on it to carry me through what I hope to be a long and interesting life. Feet don’t fail me now!
By
Debbie Lindsey
Don’t forget to cross your ts and dot your is and then get ready to erase.
It all starts with a letter. The one that gets lost for two weeks in a pile of junk mail and No Payment Due statements. Nothing really catches your eye. The pile grows larger with membership drives, more junk, and the occasional menu flyers. Then when some real bills arrive along with your NetFlix rentals, you find it. It is the letter that changes everything.
Your recent mammogram examination showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation…This is where I switch to first person and begrudgingly. I often write about me, me, me. Well, this time it’s not just an egocentric exercise, it’s an exorcism of sorts. I have always found, for myself, that if I expect the worst it just doesn’t happen. The gods of fate enjoy confusing me. Well, I say let ‘em throw me good results, let ‘em tell me I have worried for naught. Make a liar of me!!
It’s the waiting. When I finally found the letter from the radiology place where I had a date with a machine that felt me up like a high school back seat ooh baby baby baby tiddy twister I almost didn’t open it. I thought it was a bill for additional charges. You see, my people at the womens’ clinic never called. They always say that all is fine if I don’t hear from them, but of course they invite me to call and double check results. Cross your ts and dot the is. I did not take my own advice. Check results yourself. Never assume. Because we all know what happens when you assume: you make an ass of you and a breast-less wonder of me.
Time out! I am running with a ball I was not even passed yet. They said it could be nothing – nothing. But I know what the something is, and I can’t even afford it. It’s a rotten shame when folks (trust me there are too many out there) have to focus not on a life-threatening situation but on how to pay to have a life-threatening situation. Oh, It’s our fault, that’s right. We, the uninsured should have been insured. Not always so easy.
I recently decided to join the ranks of the play-by-the-rules and get myself insured. I set up an appointment with an agent from Cross Your Fingers and it became apparent that most of my medical needs would be considered PRE-EXISTING. We talked and crunched numbers and he was to get back with me as to whether this or that might work for me and my piggy bank. Never heard from him again. I was just too problematic or he simply gave up trying to live here in New Orleans.
Trying to live here is a real, albeit stupid, reason behind so much of my procrastination, forgetfulness and just plain old “I have no damn time to take care of myself”. Stupid, I know. Just because my potential insurance guy dropped me doesn’t mean there are not a gazillion agents ready to write me a policy. The only prob is money. Sure I can insure myself but then how do I pay my rent? I already work seven days a week. I work for myself and I don’t give benefits! Excuses, excuses. I just feel so stupid for having no net to catch me. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. And now if…if this thing is something, it will be considered pre-existing.
I have a friend who found herself with symptoms indicative of Hodgkin’s disease, cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. She had to tough it out for nine months as she waited for her new insurance to kick in because diagnosis prior would have ruled her cancer pre-existing. She was one of the lucky ones. Her guess was right, she did have cancer and she got in just under the wire. Her insurance covered her because she was forced to feign good health until eligibility kicked in. She got treatment in the nick of time. And now, wears her scars with genuine pride.
Scars. They never bother me. I have my physical points of interest, don’t get me wrong, but scars always seemed kinda cool to me. They are like nature’s little tattoos – reminders of some misadventure as a tomboy, that first razor nick when finally old enough to shave my legs, or a kitchen mishap. But I’m not too sure about having my tits sliced up. Hell, if that’s the case, I say just take ‘em. Yep, just remove the whole kit and kaboodle. I want to live a ridiculously long life; not win a beauty pageant.
I speak, write and think with no real medical knowledge. And if very very lucky I will need little knowledge this time around, because within days, perhaps even hours I hope to hear the words: “It was nothing”. But for many women, numbers too large to comprehend, happy words, words of good health are not in the cards for them. And as words of remission become the next best sound to hear -- some never will.
Will I learn from this debacle? Oh yeah. I will never put off those annoying annual check-ups that truly save lives. Never allow myself to be lulled into thinking No news is good news – no news merely means someone dropped the ball or in my case I wasn’t even looking to catch that ball. Follow up! Cross those ts and dot those is. And if my luck goes south then I will use every eraser known to science until my slate is clean.
Promise me, dear reader, that you will never take your life for granted. I never have, and yet I have been careless with the one and only body I have. And I need and depend on it to carry me through what I hope to be a long and interesting life. Feet don’t fail me now!
Time in New Orleans
Time
By
Debbie Lindsey
Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it straight in the eye. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe with acute awareness that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Year’s Eve, we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure, but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty, you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Year’s resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange? Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future just might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, reminding me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it straight in the eye. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe with acute awareness that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Year’s Eve, we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure, but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty, you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Year’s resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange? Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future just might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, reminding me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Cycles, Cynicism and Change in New Orleans
Tales From The Quarter
By
Debbie Lindsey
Cycles, Cynicism and Change
Today is August 17th 2006. I have to remind myself of this. And tomorrow I will have to remind myself that it is August 18th 2006. Days run all over each other like new fabric on old-yellowed whites during mishandled laundry. All my new days just seem to fade backwards. One step forward and five steps back – stumbling back at that. The only comfort is in the uncomforting knowledge that we are all in this together. God help us.
Back in September 2005 we, boyfriend and I and our herd of critters, made the conscience decision to return to New Orleans. San Francisco was turning quickly into home but everyday we felt more and more like we were leaving our dying mamma, New Orleans. So we knew we had to return for the healing or pay our respects and bury her. Now, some days it seems like mamma is on crack. Point is: I have lost my place in this story of ours that changes with each chapter.
Just like the laundry that takes on unwanted tints or shrinks, my story, our city’s story is ever changing. Soaking, agitating, spinning…out of control. Some days are good. But then you find one more rip in the fabric of our lives. It can be something as seemingly unimportant as the hotel next door being put up for sale. Except, that it’s my special place.
When boyfriend and I were living (exiled) in San Francisco the one place I missed, more than my apartment, missed passionately was the hotel’s bar. Why? Because, I think, when we finally got the hell out of here six days after the city turned into a toilet who’s dry rim was a war zone plagued by smoke and explosions I guess I kinda figured I’d never see my apartment of thirteen years again.
And at the moment we drove our quasi-stolen car filled to the brim with our animals out, passing body bags and fires, it seemed our French Quarter would not survive. All I wanted was for us to get out alive. I said my good-byes to everything I owned and loved. But I must have forgotten to say goodbye to the living-room-like bar that had been a constant respite through the years; because from across the country I would remember every detail of that room yet forget what my apartment looked like. Go figure.
California here we come! We had wanted to relocate there for some time but being forced out of town was not the closure we needed. We just never could wrap our heads around the beautiful bay city. Not when everyday you watched from afar your home, New Orleans, drowning. Just overhearing folks having normal conversations was maddening for the mere normalcy of them. Didn’t they know how god damn minor everything else was! Or so it seemed to me. I think I knew, we knew, that life somewhere other than New Orleans would seem so ridiculously trivial. When the music’s over turn out the lights…turn out the lights.
So, as the soak cycle ended and the days gave way to drip dry we realized it was no good. We could not live in the real world just yet. Another day, another world, but for then our hearts were in New Orleans, hell our lungs were there and just breathing in the cool, clean air of San Francisco was labored. It was time for the unrelenting humidity (mold, filth and stench) of home.
Back home we were in clothesline mode – no spin cycle was available to wring out the flood damage, nothing so quick. In fact a year later it truly feels like we have been hung out to dry. But back then in October ’05 we were so full of piss and vinegar, optimism and the old ‘we’re/all in this together/welcome home/welcome back/how’d ya make out?/yes we are so blessed/it’s all just stuff/we’re lucky to be alive/we will come back better even if smaller’…and it now feels like bullshit. Is it? NO WAY. But there were those early days of our return that I miss so dearly, like riding my bike down Dauphine Street and saying hello to everyone and loving every single person I saw. It was a miracle and we all felt the euphoria of having survived and being part of the greatest come back in our country’s recent history.
Now I ride down Dauphine and see too many hookers and pimps; dealers and buyers. I see a black line from our parish to Jefferson parish and it is unrelenting. Should the line be washed away? No. Should there be something else to stare at like homes and businesses and schools filled with folks whose hearts are healing? Yes.
They say the anniversary will bring back memories, I guess they are right. I am as weepy as I was in San Francisco so long, long ago last year when separated from my New Orleans and my favorite little haunt, the sweet bar next door where the hotel would turn a blind eye and let our dogs join us for cocktails and good cheer. There are two anniversaries – one of a drowning and one of an October that promised so much and has been drowning in apathy, bureaucracy, not enough spin. It is time for the spin cycle and then hopefully some starching and pressing and then maybe we can, I can, neatly fold and put away the memories. And wear them only on anniversaries…not everyday. Till then I plan to make the most of my little haven around the corner and hope it will not be thrown out with the bath water.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Cycles, Cynicism and Change
Today is August 17th 2006. I have to remind myself of this. And tomorrow I will have to remind myself that it is August 18th 2006. Days run all over each other like new fabric on old-yellowed whites during mishandled laundry. All my new days just seem to fade backwards. One step forward and five steps back – stumbling back at that. The only comfort is in the uncomforting knowledge that we are all in this together. God help us.
Back in September 2005 we, boyfriend and I and our herd of critters, made the conscience decision to return to New Orleans. San Francisco was turning quickly into home but everyday we felt more and more like we were leaving our dying mamma, New Orleans. So we knew we had to return for the healing or pay our respects and bury her. Now, some days it seems like mamma is on crack. Point is: I have lost my place in this story of ours that changes with each chapter.
Just like the laundry that takes on unwanted tints or shrinks, my story, our city’s story is ever changing. Soaking, agitating, spinning…out of control. Some days are good. But then you find one more rip in the fabric of our lives. It can be something as seemingly unimportant as the hotel next door being put up for sale. Except, that it’s my special place.
When boyfriend and I were living (exiled) in San Francisco the one place I missed, more than my apartment, missed passionately was the hotel’s bar. Why? Because, I think, when we finally got the hell out of here six days after the city turned into a toilet who’s dry rim was a war zone plagued by smoke and explosions I guess I kinda figured I’d never see my apartment of thirteen years again.
And at the moment we drove our quasi-stolen car filled to the brim with our animals out, passing body bags and fires, it seemed our French Quarter would not survive. All I wanted was for us to get out alive. I said my good-byes to everything I owned and loved. But I must have forgotten to say goodbye to the living-room-like bar that had been a constant respite through the years; because from across the country I would remember every detail of that room yet forget what my apartment looked like. Go figure.
California here we come! We had wanted to relocate there for some time but being forced out of town was not the closure we needed. We just never could wrap our heads around the beautiful bay city. Not when everyday you watched from afar your home, New Orleans, drowning. Just overhearing folks having normal conversations was maddening for the mere normalcy of them. Didn’t they know how god damn minor everything else was! Or so it seemed to me. I think I knew, we knew, that life somewhere other than New Orleans would seem so ridiculously trivial. When the music’s over turn out the lights…turn out the lights.
So, as the soak cycle ended and the days gave way to drip dry we realized it was no good. We could not live in the real world just yet. Another day, another world, but for then our hearts were in New Orleans, hell our lungs were there and just breathing in the cool, clean air of San Francisco was labored. It was time for the unrelenting humidity (mold, filth and stench) of home.
Back home we were in clothesline mode – no spin cycle was available to wring out the flood damage, nothing so quick. In fact a year later it truly feels like we have been hung out to dry. But back then in October ’05 we were so full of piss and vinegar, optimism and the old ‘we’re/all in this together/welcome home/welcome back/how’d ya make out?/yes we are so blessed/it’s all just stuff/we’re lucky to be alive/we will come back better even if smaller’…and it now feels like bullshit. Is it? NO WAY. But there were those early days of our return that I miss so dearly, like riding my bike down Dauphine Street and saying hello to everyone and loving every single person I saw. It was a miracle and we all felt the euphoria of having survived and being part of the greatest come back in our country’s recent history.
Now I ride down Dauphine and see too many hookers and pimps; dealers and buyers. I see a black line from our parish to Jefferson parish and it is unrelenting. Should the line be washed away? No. Should there be something else to stare at like homes and businesses and schools filled with folks whose hearts are healing? Yes.
They say the anniversary will bring back memories, I guess they are right. I am as weepy as I was in San Francisco so long, long ago last year when separated from my New Orleans and my favorite little haunt, the sweet bar next door where the hotel would turn a blind eye and let our dogs join us for cocktails and good cheer. There are two anniversaries – one of a drowning and one of an October that promised so much and has been drowning in apathy, bureaucracy, not enough spin. It is time for the spin cycle and then hopefully some starching and pressing and then maybe we can, I can, neatly fold and put away the memories. And wear them only on anniversaries…not everyday. Till then I plan to make the most of my little haven around the corner and hope it will not be thrown out with the bath water.
Tales From the Quarter
Happy Birthday
By
Debbie Lindsey
Not once did my dad get to open the mailbox on his birthday and find a card to celebrate his birthday. I am not sure if this ever bothered him but I always thought it rotten luck – his being born on a legal holiday. But lucky for me, the procrastinator, he never had to know that my cards were doomed to arrive a bit late regardless.
As a kid I thought all the hoopla of Veterans Day -- red, white, and blue decorations, speeches, tributes, the fireworks -- was all about my dad, seeing how November 11th was his birthday. And it never really made sense to me since he was not even a Vet. And again, what about that no birthday card mail? Give me a break--I was five when I attempted to put this two and two thing together. So… by the time I was say, thirty, I figured it out…go ahead, laugh you idiot, I was hip to the difference by high school.
Any hoot, Phil Lindsey Day may not appear on your calendar but I can assure you it is a day worth celebrating. He is worth celebrating. Phil was my dad, my mentor, my best friend. Oh, he had a rotten temper at times, voted Republican and smoked cigarettes but he was sensitive, believed in women’s rights and wanted to quit smoking. He loved musicals, swimming, newspapers, and sweets.
He, and my mom, believed there was no distance too far to drive for a good meal. This drive to dine introduced me at an early age to New Orleans. I suspect that Mom and Dad happily haunt Galatoire’s to this day. He believed in eating out as a treat, a respite from the kitchen for Mom, and simply as an exercise in civility.
When I was eight Dad lost his lumber business and my folks had to do the bankruptcy thing and start over again. But dining out remained a priority even if Morrison’s Cafeteria was the extent of our culinary escapades. I guess my folks taught me that one could be poor and pragmatic within those constraints and still pass a good time. As finances improved through the years so did the restaurants. And of course vacations resumed as the family dollars stabilized -- but always for Dad it was the planning of the trip, extravagant or modest, which meant the most.
Dad may have been a registered Republican yet he was idealistic and progressive. He cared little for sports, would rather read or listen to his music. When he retired he joined the YMCA and swam daily, dove into volunteer work, and did not believe in boredom.
Last year, for my November column I was planning to honor Dad but he got bumped by a beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon was about to be removed from our draft selection at work and well, I had to take issue with this. So, as a bartender I felt duty bound to write a farewell to my favorite pour. And I think Dad would have approved. He certainly appreciated a cold beer and a sense of humor – and both would serve him well with me for a daughter.
He and Mom became my best friends as I emerged from my hideous teenage years and misguided early twenties. They were Phil and Veronica to my friends – never Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey, as that would be too formal. They were always invited to parties that my friends and I threw or those big dinners out when a dozen or so of the gang would crowd into our favorite restaurant that was congenial to our boisterous crowd.
For a Christmas present, Mom often renewed the pool membership for the family at the Grand Hotel in Point Clear, a resort on Mobile Bay that also accommodated locals. But this gift really was given to Dad because he loved nothing more than driving across the bay to spend the day swimming and napping in the sun with the Mobile Press Register draped across his face as a sun block. He never could get the poolside look quite right. He would emerge from the cabana dressing room in his swim trunks, still sporting his Florsheims and dark dress socks. I have this great photo of him lazing in a chase lounge on the beach in a suit. My sister and mom finally got him into white socks and Topsiders and finally sandals. Eventually Bermuda shorts made they’re way into the wardrobe.
Sometimes for a spilt second I forget and think, "I’ll ask Dad". It would be so good to pick up the phone and ask him just what it was like during that Hurricane of 1915 or did aunt what’s-her-name really sleep with her sister's husband? But sadly I can not gossip or share news with Dad. He died 15 years ago. He may have been 85 but his death came too soon. He had so many places still to visit, newspapers to read, laps to swim, music to enjoy and most important -- too much love still left to give to my mom. And I still had so much to learn from my dearest friend, Dad.
To Dad, and to all that knew him, I apologize for such a lame and rather contrived tribute. I have written better words to honor him in previous columns. But, just like for so many folks along our gulf coast it has been a long three years and I am tired. And now is when I think of him as November approaches. Now is when I could use a long chat with him and a drive across the causeway to our memories by the bay.
**********************************
Phil Lindsey, by way of his ashes, now resides in the bay off the pier of the Grand Hotel. He might have preferred the swimming pool but hotel management would have frowned upon that idea – and at that time his membership had lapsed.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Not once did my dad get to open the mailbox on his birthday and find a card to celebrate his birthday. I am not sure if this ever bothered him but I always thought it rotten luck – his being born on a legal holiday. But lucky for me, the procrastinator, he never had to know that my cards were doomed to arrive a bit late regardless.
As a kid I thought all the hoopla of Veterans Day -- red, white, and blue decorations, speeches, tributes, the fireworks -- was all about my dad, seeing how November 11th was his birthday. And it never really made sense to me since he was not even a Vet. And again, what about that no birthday card mail? Give me a break--I was five when I attempted to put this two and two thing together. So… by the time I was say, thirty, I figured it out…go ahead, laugh you idiot, I was hip to the difference by high school.
Any hoot, Phil Lindsey Day may not appear on your calendar but I can assure you it is a day worth celebrating. He is worth celebrating. Phil was my dad, my mentor, my best friend. Oh, he had a rotten temper at times, voted Republican and smoked cigarettes but he was sensitive, believed in women’s rights and wanted to quit smoking. He loved musicals, swimming, newspapers, and sweets.
He, and my mom, believed there was no distance too far to drive for a good meal. This drive to dine introduced me at an early age to New Orleans. I suspect that Mom and Dad happily haunt Galatoire’s to this day. He believed in eating out as a treat, a respite from the kitchen for Mom, and simply as an exercise in civility.
When I was eight Dad lost his lumber business and my folks had to do the bankruptcy thing and start over again. But dining out remained a priority even if Morrison’s Cafeteria was the extent of our culinary escapades. I guess my folks taught me that one could be poor and pragmatic within those constraints and still pass a good time. As finances improved through the years so did the restaurants. And of course vacations resumed as the family dollars stabilized -- but always for Dad it was the planning of the trip, extravagant or modest, which meant the most.
Dad may have been a registered Republican yet he was idealistic and progressive. He cared little for sports, would rather read or listen to his music. When he retired he joined the YMCA and swam daily, dove into volunteer work, and did not believe in boredom.
Last year, for my November column I was planning to honor Dad but he got bumped by a beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon was about to be removed from our draft selection at work and well, I had to take issue with this. So, as a bartender I felt duty bound to write a farewell to my favorite pour. And I think Dad would have approved. He certainly appreciated a cold beer and a sense of humor – and both would serve him well with me for a daughter.
He and Mom became my best friends as I emerged from my hideous teenage years and misguided early twenties. They were Phil and Veronica to my friends – never Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey, as that would be too formal. They were always invited to parties that my friends and I threw or those big dinners out when a dozen or so of the gang would crowd into our favorite restaurant that was congenial to our boisterous crowd.
For a Christmas present, Mom often renewed the pool membership for the family at the Grand Hotel in Point Clear, a resort on Mobile Bay that also accommodated locals. But this gift really was given to Dad because he loved nothing more than driving across the bay to spend the day swimming and napping in the sun with the Mobile Press Register draped across his face as a sun block. He never could get the poolside look quite right. He would emerge from the cabana dressing room in his swim trunks, still sporting his Florsheims and dark dress socks. I have this great photo of him lazing in a chase lounge on the beach in a suit. My sister and mom finally got him into white socks and Topsiders and finally sandals. Eventually Bermuda shorts made they’re way into the wardrobe.
Sometimes for a spilt second I forget and think, "I’ll ask Dad". It would be so good to pick up the phone and ask him just what it was like during that Hurricane of 1915 or did aunt what’s-her-name really sleep with her sister's husband? But sadly I can not gossip or share news with Dad. He died 15 years ago. He may have been 85 but his death came too soon. He had so many places still to visit, newspapers to read, laps to swim, music to enjoy and most important -- too much love still left to give to my mom. And I still had so much to learn from my dearest friend, Dad.
To Dad, and to all that knew him, I apologize for such a lame and rather contrived tribute. I have written better words to honor him in previous columns. But, just like for so many folks along our gulf coast it has been a long three years and I am tired. And now is when I think of him as November approaches. Now is when I could use a long chat with him and a drive across the causeway to our memories by the bay.
**********************************
Phil Lindsey, by way of his ashes, now resides in the bay off the pier of the Grand Hotel. He might have preferred the swimming pool but hotel management would have frowned upon that idea – and at that time his membership had lapsed.
Spirits in New Orleans
Sometimes, for a split second I think something like: ‘I’ll ask Dad whatever 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 cognicient. Yet in my waking hours every befuddled and stooped 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 shed some tears. The best tears are the ones that honor those loved ones lost not only to Katrina, loved ones like my parents. 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 the importance of life, their lives.
If my reserviour 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 accompanying friend, Paul, had to remind me “Debbie, your father is dead, not deaf!” Mom had a similar moment as I visited her grave site 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. There I was sitting on top of their great grandmother with a cold beer in hand telling Mom some off color joke. Ya can’t take me anywhere.
This is not just a Mom and Dad mish mush Hallmark moment. Since Katrina everyone here has been touched by death in some form. The beloved dog swept from loving arms during the flood; the husband who stayed behind making room for the elderly neighbor to evacuate with his family – he drowned in his Lazy Boy recliner; the suicide, heart attack, gun shot, dogs and cats left for ‘just gonna be gone three days’ victims.
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 in there of a heart attack. It utterly breaks my heart. 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. Ones 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 door step of a certain restaurant. I talk very loud and very silly and happy to my Mom and Dad. And cry tears to honor all the loved ones taken by the storm, the war, and our government.
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 cognicient. Yet in my waking hours every befuddled and stooped 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 shed some tears. The best tears are the ones that honor those loved ones lost not only to Katrina, loved ones like my parents. 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 the importance of life, their lives.
If my reserviour 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 accompanying friend, Paul, had to remind me “Debbie, your father is dead, not deaf!” Mom had a similar moment as I visited her grave site 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. There I was sitting on top of their great grandmother with a cold beer in hand telling Mom some off color joke. Ya can’t take me anywhere.
This is not just a Mom and Dad mish mush Hallmark moment. Since Katrina everyone here has been touched by death in some form. The beloved dog swept from loving arms during the flood; the husband who stayed behind making room for the elderly neighbor to evacuate with his family – he drowned in his Lazy Boy recliner; the suicide, heart attack, gun shot, dogs and cats left for ‘just gonna be gone three days’ victims.
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 in there of a heart attack. It utterly breaks my heart. 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. Ones 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 door step of a certain restaurant. I talk very loud and very silly and happy to my Mom and Dad. And cry tears to honor all the loved ones taken by the storm, the war, and our government.
Tale of two New Orleans
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 lot can happen in a month… or not.
Currently 85 million gallons of drinking water a day is 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. A city of extremes.
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 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 who risk 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, and 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 citizens.
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 hotel managers 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 coming to the rescue. The love/hate, pride/shame thing is s 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 sweep 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 remember 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.
So, there ya have it. A day never goes by without thinking this, the returning to New Orleans, was a mistake followed by pride in my water line and a thank you for being allowed to be here. As boyfriend succinctly 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”. It is a helluva road we are traveling
Currently 85 million gallons of drinking water a day is 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. A city of extremes.
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 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 who risk 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, and 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 citizens.
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 hotel managers 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 coming to the rescue. The love/hate, pride/shame thing is s 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 sweep 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 remember 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.
So, there ya have it. A day never goes by without thinking this, the returning to New Orleans, was a mistake followed by pride in my water line and a thank you for being allowed to be here. As boyfriend succinctly 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”. It is a helluva road we are traveling
Monday, March 1, 2010
Time in New Orleans
Time
By
Debbie Lindsey
Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it dead in the face. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe the passing of time with acute awareness during that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Years Eve we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Years’ resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange. Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, regaling me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it dead in the face. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe the passing of time with acute awareness during that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Years Eve we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Years’ resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange. Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, regaling me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.
Riding the Sexy Beast in New Orleans
The Night I Rode the Sexy Beast
By
Debbie Lindsey
It began like any unpredictable New Orleans evening. The range of our random stardom led us out of our more familiar environs. Boyfriend and I were to read, sign and sip wine at Octavia Books as part of the statewide book signing of Louisiana In Words. Never having been published in
a format requiring a purchase we were feeling kinda hot, kinda literary. Okay sure, there were 110 other writers published in this $19.95 paperback, but hey, the book was getting lots of local press and our fearless leader and editor, Josh Clark, could really work a crowd.
Near the end of our soirée I was pretty pleased with myself – the reading I had dreaded with wallflower reticence went smoothly with no embarrassing faux pas like passing gas or biting my tongue and bleeding out. Boyfriend, on the other hand, rarely suffers a “case of the nerves” and therefore read beautifully without incident. With the wine running dangerously low and our reputations still intact it was time to beg a ride back to the Quarters.
We volunteered our editor extraordinaire to be our chauffeur. He said sure but we’d have to climb in through the windows. That didn’t sound odd to me -- having once been pushed home in a grocery cart -- so, into the night we went.
Following Boyfriend and Josh backwards, so I could ramble aloud to no one interested about how much I wanted “that little cottage with the funky awning” we just passed, had me a bit distracted. So when I turned to them, after a near plunge into a pothole, my distraction changed to…whoa! There before us was the Sexy Beast. I had never seen it outside the Quarter; yet how could something so obviously meant to roam be corralled? How could one confine such a spirit?
Face to face with it I realized the Beast was no kid – it was an ’86 Chevy Monte Carlo Super Sport. And just like some tough guy rendered toothless from one brawl too many, the Beast had two gaping spaces on either side of its T-top. In a junkyard somewhere the missing panels were laid to rest like the tusks of fallen elephants -- except this Beast was far from fallen – you could sense this. The Chevy’s body was gussied-up (albeit rather ominously) with enameled flames and its name, Sexy Beast, painted bold and large for all the world to see.
Where was the driver, the owner, the trainer of this Beast?
For years I had seen the Beast and wondered who belonged to it. Some twenty-something drenched in tattoos and flesh pierced with more metal than the Beast? Perhaps an ex-con scarred from too many years in the Big House whose trust would never go beyond his car. Or, maybe some 21st century cowboy – I could just picture Hank Williams serenading from the radio as man and beast cruised the lonely flatlands of the city, an unfiltered smoke dangling from the cowboy’s lips and time on his hands.
“What are you two doing?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Boyfriend was disappearing into the Beast and Josh was already swallowed and in the driver’s seat. Well, hot damn! The master of the beast had been there all along. This was bigger than discovering the guy behind Spider Man, the man inside the Santa suit, the Rove behind the Bush. Our mild mannered editor was behind the wheel of the Sexy Beast!
So, after much flailing, twisting and twirling I climbed inside the beast via the hole in the roof. As we took off we were warned that we may run out of gas (the gas gauge is broken) but not to worry -- a gas can is ever present and sometimes filled. He asked if we were going too fast for our taste because he could slow down – the speedometer no longer works but rest assured, the brakes do.
Yes, the seatbelts were operable, but we were encouraged to please help with hand gestures, full-throated honks, and eagle eye glances out the passenger windows (“careful, the seats are loose”). Apparently the turn signals, rear view mirror, and horn were all retired -- along with the glove compartment latch (it really did not hurt so much when it flipped open on my kneecaps).
Remember those desperate over-sexed dates in high school and the get-to-first-base maneuvers? You know, the classic “Oh gosh, we are out of gas here in the middle of nowhere, don’t be scared come a little closer”. Well, I’d always hoped for that date but my sweet nerds always picked me up in a just-washed-and-waxed car with a full tank of gas. Try as I may to surreptitiously siphon the gasoline from Dependable Date’s car as he waited patiently for my return from the powder room, I never got to succumb to that scenario.
So, as forewarned by our Josh/editor/driver, we ran out of gas. Had poor Josh waited for this moment to happen with a willing damsel in tow? If so, all he got were two middle-aged goons, a romantic view of the nursing home at Jefferson and Magazine and the only thing getting “ a little bit” was a determined mosquito.
The emergency gas can yielded enough fuel to transport us to the Exxon at Lee Circle. As we pulled into the station I felt certain the cops would surely swarm us. They must have seen us flying through the night. But Josh had learned long ago how to rein in the Beast with or without a speedometer. As he climbed out and began feeding the Beast at the pump, a quite inebriated crackhead, short in statue and short on teeth, came over and stood next to my car door.
Maybe it was the booze or the rock; perhaps the moonlight or the glow of neon; or…maybe he too fell under the spell of the Sexy Beast. Regardless, the ever-swaying little man began to profess his adoration for me and my hair (that I must admit really looks good in fluorescent lighting). He even went so far as to tell Josh and Boyfriend, “Man she’s beauuuuutifuuuul”. This went on for several minutes. I knew it was true infatuation -- he never once asked for money or a cigarette. As we drove away he was still declaring his devotions. And they say a good man is hard to find.
The road trip home may have lasted only twenty minutes but I will always remember it as the night I rode the Sexy Beast. Those Uptown miles flowed into Lower Garden streets, turned and straightened onto St. Charles and with every inch of asphalt I felt dizzy with the sense of trespassing. The Beast made you feel like an outlaw and every mile an adventure. I felt certain that if there were a rearview mirror it would reflect a young girl – giddy and brazen.
By
Debbie Lindsey
It began like any unpredictable New Orleans evening. The range of our random stardom led us out of our more familiar environs. Boyfriend and I were to read, sign and sip wine at Octavia Books as part of the statewide book signing of Louisiana In Words. Never having been published in
a format requiring a purchase we were feeling kinda hot, kinda literary. Okay sure, there were 110 other writers published in this $19.95 paperback, but hey, the book was getting lots of local press and our fearless leader and editor, Josh Clark, could really work a crowd.
Near the end of our soirée I was pretty pleased with myself – the reading I had dreaded with wallflower reticence went smoothly with no embarrassing faux pas like passing gas or biting my tongue and bleeding out. Boyfriend, on the other hand, rarely suffers a “case of the nerves” and therefore read beautifully without incident. With the wine running dangerously low and our reputations still intact it was time to beg a ride back to the Quarters.
We volunteered our editor extraordinaire to be our chauffeur. He said sure but we’d have to climb in through the windows. That didn’t sound odd to me -- having once been pushed home in a grocery cart -- so, into the night we went.
Following Boyfriend and Josh backwards, so I could ramble aloud to no one interested about how much I wanted “that little cottage with the funky awning” we just passed, had me a bit distracted. So when I turned to them, after a near plunge into a pothole, my distraction changed to…whoa! There before us was the Sexy Beast. I had never seen it outside the Quarter; yet how could something so obviously meant to roam be corralled? How could one confine such a spirit?
Face to face with it I realized the Beast was no kid – it was an ’86 Chevy Monte Carlo Super Sport. And just like some tough guy rendered toothless from one brawl too many, the Beast had two gaping spaces on either side of its T-top. In a junkyard somewhere the missing panels were laid to rest like the tusks of fallen elephants -- except this Beast was far from fallen – you could sense this. The Chevy’s body was gussied-up (albeit rather ominously) with enameled flames and its name, Sexy Beast, painted bold and large for all the world to see.
Where was the driver, the owner, the trainer of this Beast?
For years I had seen the Beast and wondered who belonged to it. Some twenty-something drenched in tattoos and flesh pierced with more metal than the Beast? Perhaps an ex-con scarred from too many years in the Big House whose trust would never go beyond his car. Or, maybe some 21st century cowboy – I could just picture Hank Williams serenading from the radio as man and beast cruised the lonely flatlands of the city, an unfiltered smoke dangling from the cowboy’s lips and time on his hands.
“What are you two doing?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Boyfriend was disappearing into the Beast and Josh was already swallowed and in the driver’s seat. Well, hot damn! The master of the beast had been there all along. This was bigger than discovering the guy behind Spider Man, the man inside the Santa suit, the Rove behind the Bush. Our mild mannered editor was behind the wheel of the Sexy Beast!
So, after much flailing, twisting and twirling I climbed inside the beast via the hole in the roof. As we took off we were warned that we may run out of gas (the gas gauge is broken) but not to worry -- a gas can is ever present and sometimes filled. He asked if we were going too fast for our taste because he could slow down – the speedometer no longer works but rest assured, the brakes do.
Yes, the seatbelts were operable, but we were encouraged to please help with hand gestures, full-throated honks, and eagle eye glances out the passenger windows (“careful, the seats are loose”). Apparently the turn signals, rear view mirror, and horn were all retired -- along with the glove compartment latch (it really did not hurt so much when it flipped open on my kneecaps).
Remember those desperate over-sexed dates in high school and the get-to-first-base maneuvers? You know, the classic “Oh gosh, we are out of gas here in the middle of nowhere, don’t be scared come a little closer”. Well, I’d always hoped for that date but my sweet nerds always picked me up in a just-washed-and-waxed car with a full tank of gas. Try as I may to surreptitiously siphon the gasoline from Dependable Date’s car as he waited patiently for my return from the powder room, I never got to succumb to that scenario.
So, as forewarned by our Josh/editor/driver, we ran out of gas. Had poor Josh waited for this moment to happen with a willing damsel in tow? If so, all he got were two middle-aged goons, a romantic view of the nursing home at Jefferson and Magazine and the only thing getting “ a little bit” was a determined mosquito.
The emergency gas can yielded enough fuel to transport us to the Exxon at Lee Circle. As we pulled into the station I felt certain the cops would surely swarm us. They must have seen us flying through the night. But Josh had learned long ago how to rein in the Beast with or without a speedometer. As he climbed out and began feeding the Beast at the pump, a quite inebriated crackhead, short in statue and short on teeth, came over and stood next to my car door.
Maybe it was the booze or the rock; perhaps the moonlight or the glow of neon; or…maybe he too fell under the spell of the Sexy Beast. Regardless, the ever-swaying little man began to profess his adoration for me and my hair (that I must admit really looks good in fluorescent lighting). He even went so far as to tell Josh and Boyfriend, “Man she’s beauuuuutifuuuul”. This went on for several minutes. I knew it was true infatuation -- he never once asked for money or a cigarette. As we drove away he was still declaring his devotions. And they say a good man is hard to find.
The road trip home may have lasted only twenty minutes but I will always remember it as the night I rode the Sexy Beast. Those Uptown miles flowed into Lower Garden streets, turned and straightened onto St. Charles and with every inch of asphalt I felt dizzy with the sense of trespassing. The Beast made you feel like an outlaw and every mile an adventure. I felt certain that if there were a rearview mirror it would reflect a young girl – giddy and brazen.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Off the menu in New Orleans
Off The Menu
By
Debbie Lindsey
I do not require food to enjoy a restaurant. A glass of wine or a cold beer will do. This pleasure is best enjoyed from a barstool were tip hungry waitresses can not arrest me with those sullen why are you taking up my tip producing table with your small to nothing order glares. And as a waitress/bartender myself I understand that table space is serious real estate. However I am Vegetarian and most dining establishments are designed to serve cuisine not quite friendly to vegans and even less sympathic to the creatures they plate. I trust through the years I have made myself clear to my fellow vegetarians and readers that I frown upon eating critters for so many reasons – but I have to admit to a love affair with the smell of pork.
I am the Vicarious Carnivore.
I was born a meat and potatoes kinda gal. Is this justifacation for meat eating? No, otherwise I’d be ordering a medium rare steak topped with one of those big fat battered and deep fried onion rings. And don’t come near me with a bag of fried chicken unless you want to see me stick my head inside the confines of that paper and inhale deeply. I lust in my heart but not on my plate.
As a waitress my customers have replied with cynicism whenever I tell them with honesty that I have never actually eaten a single thing on the menu – they were hoping I’d give them an insiders pick on the offerings. But then the carniviore of my youth, despite my reform, rears it’s flesh eating head and my customers see my tongue as it dabs at my mouth watering memory of the foods so forbidden to me; they note my eyes as they begin to glaze. And so they believe me as I tell them what I’d eat if all my personal ethics and beliefs were to dissolve. I have shared my dirty little secret with them as they snicker at thinking they have weakened my resolve – taken me down, corrupted a vegetarian.
You’d think working in food and beverage for as many years as I have been vegetarian (both since I was eighteen) I would not have such affection for restaurants and bars in my spare time as a civilian. But off duty, the immediate time spent in a bar is R&R and that beverage, anesthesia, for my battle weary body. Besides the commiseration over drinks with fellow workers, I have an affection for bars that go beyond libations.
I am fascinated by the customers, sometimes repulsed, but more often than not I meet wonderful folks and some turn into dear friends. Face it, churches and bars are two of the great meeting grounds for socializing – I prefer the latter.
New bars, especially those in hotel or restaurant lounges, can be a bit cookie-cutter in design and funkless. Yet sometimes those are just what I need to remove me from the messier details of everyday life and feel suspended in a vacation mode. They are cleaner than reality.
But as a rule I’ll take the smudgy glass in a tavern where the only garnish is the straw. And as for décor -- years of character, quirks, and funk are my decorations of choice. If it is a truly old establishment then I take on an acheological eye to the details of the past. And the same goes for restaurants of a certain age.
In New Orleans time seems to segue effortlessly from past to present, especially in our restaurants. Our food culture and its history play out daily, even in our brand new establishments where traditional dishes hold court with nouvelle cuisine. But for me the physical history that an old café or restaurant holds is what tweaks my anachronistic appetite. Rip out my taste buds, and I could still feast upon the aged ambience of an eatery that relishes its maturity and shows its years.
Drinking and dining in an atmosphere steeped in history, old-school rituals, and memories allows me to time travel and escape to another era. With just a smidgen of imagination I can vacation, for an hour or so, to a time not filled with cell phones, poor manners, and ugly fashion. And lucky for me I live in a city still flush with uniquely lost-in-time venues for food and drink -- from fine dining at the regal Antoine’s to the brash wham-bam-thank ya-ma’am (and worth it for the mammoth portions at 1980-like prices) at Café Maspero.
Tripping down the memory lane of past diners and reveling in the milieu of smoky old bars can be a bit tricky at times for a vegetarian and once a year Lenten teetotaler. But with the help of Boyfriend, who has no culinary hesitations or restrictions and is more than willing to drink my share of libations as I sip doggedly at an Odouls during those inconvenient annual forty-six days, I can visit all the restaurants and cocktail establishments that I fancy.
While there are many chefs more than willing to accommodate a vegetarian I rather doubt the oyster shuckers at Casamento’s could improvise with tofu. But this is where Boyfriend benefits from my being the Vicarious Carnivore. He doesn’t have to share his oysters with me, or his macaroni and cheese at Rocky and Carlos, or Galatoire’s sweetbreads. He is my perfect date -- ordering enough to satisfy the waiter and thereby allowing me to trespass into forbidden territory, indulging my senses and my heart with all the flavors that a venerable restaurant or seasoned tavern has to offer. Happy.
By
Debbie Lindsey
I do not require food to enjoy a restaurant. A glass of wine or a cold beer will do. This pleasure is best enjoyed from a barstool were tip hungry waitresses can not arrest me with those sullen why are you taking up my tip producing table with your small to nothing order glares. And as a waitress/bartender myself I understand that table space is serious real estate. However I am Vegetarian and most dining establishments are designed to serve cuisine not quite friendly to vegans and even less sympathic to the creatures they plate. I trust through the years I have made myself clear to my fellow vegetarians and readers that I frown upon eating critters for so many reasons – but I have to admit to a love affair with the smell of pork.
I am the Vicarious Carnivore.
I was born a meat and potatoes kinda gal. Is this justifacation for meat eating? No, otherwise I’d be ordering a medium rare steak topped with one of those big fat battered and deep fried onion rings. And don’t come near me with a bag of fried chicken unless you want to see me stick my head inside the confines of that paper and inhale deeply. I lust in my heart but not on my plate.
As a waitress my customers have replied with cynicism whenever I tell them with honesty that I have never actually eaten a single thing on the menu – they were hoping I’d give them an insiders pick on the offerings. But then the carniviore of my youth, despite my reform, rears it’s flesh eating head and my customers see my tongue as it dabs at my mouth watering memory of the foods so forbidden to me; they note my eyes as they begin to glaze. And so they believe me as I tell them what I’d eat if all my personal ethics and beliefs were to dissolve. I have shared my dirty little secret with them as they snicker at thinking they have weakened my resolve – taken me down, corrupted a vegetarian.
You’d think working in food and beverage for as many years as I have been vegetarian (both since I was eighteen) I would not have such affection for restaurants and bars in my spare time as a civilian. But off duty, the immediate time spent in a bar is R&R and that beverage, anesthesia, for my battle weary body. Besides the commiseration over drinks with fellow workers, I have an affection for bars that go beyond libations.
I am fascinated by the customers, sometimes repulsed, but more often than not I meet wonderful folks and some turn into dear friends. Face it, churches and bars are two of the great meeting grounds for socializing – I prefer the latter.
New bars, especially those in hotel or restaurant lounges, can be a bit cookie-cutter in design and funkless. Yet sometimes those are just what I need to remove me from the messier details of everyday life and feel suspended in a vacation mode. They are cleaner than reality.
But as a rule I’ll take the smudgy glass in a tavern where the only garnish is the straw. And as for décor -- years of character, quirks, and funk are my decorations of choice. If it is a truly old establishment then I take on an acheological eye to the details of the past. And the same goes for restaurants of a certain age.
In New Orleans time seems to segue effortlessly from past to present, especially in our restaurants. Our food culture and its history play out daily, even in our brand new establishments where traditional dishes hold court with nouvelle cuisine. But for me the physical history that an old café or restaurant holds is what tweaks my anachronistic appetite. Rip out my taste buds, and I could still feast upon the aged ambience of an eatery that relishes its maturity and shows its years.
Drinking and dining in an atmosphere steeped in history, old-school rituals, and memories allows me to time travel and escape to another era. With just a smidgen of imagination I can vacation, for an hour or so, to a time not filled with cell phones, poor manners, and ugly fashion. And lucky for me I live in a city still flush with uniquely lost-in-time venues for food and drink -- from fine dining at the regal Antoine’s to the brash wham-bam-thank ya-ma’am (and worth it for the mammoth portions at 1980-like prices) at Café Maspero.
Tripping down the memory lane of past diners and reveling in the milieu of smoky old bars can be a bit tricky at times for a vegetarian and once a year Lenten teetotaler. But with the help of Boyfriend, who has no culinary hesitations or restrictions and is more than willing to drink my share of libations as I sip doggedly at an Odouls during those inconvenient annual forty-six days, I can visit all the restaurants and cocktail establishments that I fancy.
While there are many chefs more than willing to accommodate a vegetarian I rather doubt the oyster shuckers at Casamento’s could improvise with tofu. But this is where Boyfriend benefits from my being the Vicarious Carnivore. He doesn’t have to share his oysters with me, or his macaroni and cheese at Rocky and Carlos, or Galatoire’s sweetbreads. He is my perfect date -- ordering enough to satisfy the waiter and thereby allowing me to trespass into forbidden territory, indulging my senses and my heart with all the flavors that a venerable restaurant or seasoned tavern has to offer. Happy.
Post Katrina Shop Reopenings in New Orleans
Before the A&P grocery opened, before you could find a cup of coffee, before Walgreens, video shops, most restaurants, before most of the French Quarter re-opened in the autumn of 2005 Arcadian Books was open for business. On September 1st Russell opened the door of his Orleans Street bookshop to a very empty city. And one by one our independent book shops in, near, and dear to the Quarter reopened.
We joined this band of bibliophiles ten days after our return to New Orleans. Boyfriend and I were blessed with dry French Quarter apartments and his library of 5,000 cookbooks were no mustier than before Katrina. Next thing I knew we were signing a five-year lease. On that day I stood in the middle of the street and saw no one, zip, ya could shoot a canon down Royal and not hit a single drunk much less potential book buyer. Yet, Kitchen Witch Cook Books opened on an even quieter block off Royal in late November. And it has been a love affair ever since.
On October 5th Crescent City Books returned. Steve propped up his fallen sign and resumed business hours at Dauphine Street Books October 8th. Kaboom Books, across the street from a tornado damaged park opened also on the 8th. Beckham’s Book Store not only opened October 10th but also served as living quarters for two weeks with the owners sleeping on the floor of the shop awaiting electricity to be restored to their home. Faulkner House, Librairie Books, De Ville Books, Faubourg Marigny Art & Books, and Beth’s Books all followed quickly in above and beyond timely manners.
Johnny White’s Bar received major press for remaining open 24/7 throughout our government sponsored debacle. And that’s fine and good, god knows I enjoyed my share of warm beers during those horrible days before we escaped. But most folks overlooked the quiet yet remarkably fast comeback of the booksmen. The small, independent book purveyors were off the media radar. And again, fine and good – food, medical, clean water, electricity, mail, and an endless ETC. list were the priorities.
I do not count our shop among the first responders of print, I am just proud to be among these folks who, by their mere presence, made us want to be a part of this grand sub-culture of book dealers and collectors.
In a world of online shopping where the only “Thank You for Shopping with Us” is a computer generated message that appears after your credit card is processed, it is nice to hear a voice and shake the hand of that voice. The big box stores certainly have polite sales folks but ya still don’t get that Ma & Pop feel or, in the case of the Quarter, that intellectual, quirky, avant-garde shop cat and its side-kick the book dealer.
And you certainly will never enter any two shops that are alike. Inside Dauphine Street Books you will find Steve’s lack of square footage to be in constant conflict with an enormous wealth of cloth, leather, and paper bounded print. Same thing goes for Russell at Arcadian where shelves seemingly tippy-toe to the ceiling and precariously stacked books rise like skyscrapers. Yet, even with public library sized inventories stuffed within the girdles of four small walls Steve and Russell both will hone in like radar upon a requested book, knowing its placement among the multitudes.
If the near claustrophobic envelopment of books is a bit much for some then there’s the more rambling spaces of Beckham’s, Crescent City and Kaboom. The Librairie Books on Chartres offers a more mid-size vehicle for its selection. And the award for most tasteful and well-appointed digs goes to Faulkner House. Of course we at Kitchen Witch win the “Bling and Mini Garden Center” award.
We live in a world where Wal-Mart and the Internet can wipe out a small business in the blink of an eye, and Barnes and Noble can cause extinction to an independent bookstore. But here in my neighborhood the big guys folded and we still survive.
Frankly I preferred the boxy Book Star to what resides there now. Despite its corporate status is was a part of our community. And to this day a New Yorker magazine is no where to found short of a road trip or subscription. Of course we all know Tower Records closed nation wide leaving many scrambling for jobs and making NetFlixs a must for Quarterites. Virgin Records, for reasons I assume were related to post-K, never reopened. Winn-Dixie Food Store never came back to Basin and St.Louis.
So, even with great concern for jobs lost and appreciation for these businesses’ ability to acclimate to our off-the-wall neighborhood, I still gotta say, “Well what do ya know – the little guy, the indies, dug in and came back with no help from corporate America”. Just wish I was a little bigger so as to throw a job or two to some of the great guys I know who were left hanging from those giants’ tumble.
Word on the street is that one of our French Quarter family owned bookshops is closing. But the great news is that they are to reopen in another city, a larger city – and they will be running with the big dogs. And so it would seem that being small and independent does not necessarily place you in retirement with the dinosaurs.
Today, life in New Orleans could make dinosaurs of all of us. Large or small. Everyday we loose another friend, associate, or business to Katrina. Take time to notice the quiet desperation of the person next to you -- lend an ear, a shoulder and a hand to them. And shop locally, as if your life depended on it. We are all like the small shop – on our own.
We joined this band of bibliophiles ten days after our return to New Orleans. Boyfriend and I were blessed with dry French Quarter apartments and his library of 5,000 cookbooks were no mustier than before Katrina. Next thing I knew we were signing a five-year lease. On that day I stood in the middle of the street and saw no one, zip, ya could shoot a canon down Royal and not hit a single drunk much less potential book buyer. Yet, Kitchen Witch Cook Books opened on an even quieter block off Royal in late November. And it has been a love affair ever since.
On October 5th Crescent City Books returned. Steve propped up his fallen sign and resumed business hours at Dauphine Street Books October 8th. Kaboom Books, across the street from a tornado damaged park opened also on the 8th. Beckham’s Book Store not only opened October 10th but also served as living quarters for two weeks with the owners sleeping on the floor of the shop awaiting electricity to be restored to their home. Faulkner House, Librairie Books, De Ville Books, Faubourg Marigny Art & Books, and Beth’s Books all followed quickly in above and beyond timely manners.
Johnny White’s Bar received major press for remaining open 24/7 throughout our government sponsored debacle. And that’s fine and good, god knows I enjoyed my share of warm beers during those horrible days before we escaped. But most folks overlooked the quiet yet remarkably fast comeback of the booksmen. The small, independent book purveyors were off the media radar. And again, fine and good – food, medical, clean water, electricity, mail, and an endless ETC. list were the priorities.
I do not count our shop among the first responders of print, I am just proud to be among these folks who, by their mere presence, made us want to be a part of this grand sub-culture of book dealers and collectors.
In a world of online shopping where the only “Thank You for Shopping with Us” is a computer generated message that appears after your credit card is processed, it is nice to hear a voice and shake the hand of that voice. The big box stores certainly have polite sales folks but ya still don’t get that Ma & Pop feel or, in the case of the Quarter, that intellectual, quirky, avant-garde shop cat and its side-kick the book dealer.
And you certainly will never enter any two shops that are alike. Inside Dauphine Street Books you will find Steve’s lack of square footage to be in constant conflict with an enormous wealth of cloth, leather, and paper bounded print. Same thing goes for Russell at Arcadian where shelves seemingly tippy-toe to the ceiling and precariously stacked books rise like skyscrapers. Yet, even with public library sized inventories stuffed within the girdles of four small walls Steve and Russell both will hone in like radar upon a requested book, knowing its placement among the multitudes.
If the near claustrophobic envelopment of books is a bit much for some then there’s the more rambling spaces of Beckham’s, Crescent City and Kaboom. The Librairie Books on Chartres offers a more mid-size vehicle for its selection. And the award for most tasteful and well-appointed digs goes to Faulkner House. Of course we at Kitchen Witch win the “Bling and Mini Garden Center” award.
We live in a world where Wal-Mart and the Internet can wipe out a small business in the blink of an eye, and Barnes and Noble can cause extinction to an independent bookstore. But here in my neighborhood the big guys folded and we still survive.
Frankly I preferred the boxy Book Star to what resides there now. Despite its corporate status is was a part of our community. And to this day a New Yorker magazine is no where to found short of a road trip or subscription. Of course we all know Tower Records closed nation wide leaving many scrambling for jobs and making NetFlixs a must for Quarterites. Virgin Records, for reasons I assume were related to post-K, never reopened. Winn-Dixie Food Store never came back to Basin and St.Louis.
So, even with great concern for jobs lost and appreciation for these businesses’ ability to acclimate to our off-the-wall neighborhood, I still gotta say, “Well what do ya know – the little guy, the indies, dug in and came back with no help from corporate America”. Just wish I was a little bigger so as to throw a job or two to some of the great guys I know who were left hanging from those giants’ tumble.
Word on the street is that one of our French Quarter family owned bookshops is closing. But the great news is that they are to reopen in another city, a larger city – and they will be running with the big dogs. And so it would seem that being small and independent does not necessarily place you in retirement with the dinosaurs.
Today, life in New Orleans could make dinosaurs of all of us. Large or small. Everyday we loose another friend, associate, or business to Katrina. Take time to notice the quiet desperation of the person next to you -- lend an ear, a shoulder and a hand to them. And shop locally, as if your life depended on it. We are all like the small shop – on our own.
Car theft in New Orleans
Drive it Like Ya Stole It!
By
Debbie Lindsey
“She’s gone.”
“No. Noooooooooo…”
On Nov. 24th as New Orleans was splayed across national headlines as the number one city in overall crime, she fell victim to New Orleans' dark side, becoming one more statistic--one more to flounder into the perilous abyss.
She is now known to Detective Watt as case #75624-A23. The crime report lists her as a 1997 blue Ford Econoline van. But to us she was a periwinkle blue beauty despite her rather ungainly stature. We had assumed that her somewhat homely look would immune her to theft, protect her from rogue advances.
“Why’d anybody wanna steal that piece of junk?” Scott our bartender asked.
“The keys were in the door”
Scott, ever the sage bartender and quick to dispel the wisdom that is honed over years of public relations, reflected and said, “hmm”.
Yes, to some she was just a workhorse, but her humble looks belied the noble-deed-doer she was. And to those whose welfare rested within her Spartan
interior she was a hero, not to mention an ambulance, moving van, delivery truck, vacation wheels and all-a-round good sport.
After Katrina, our move back to New Orleans was contingent upon having an evacuation vehicle for the next time. Having to remain six days in the aftermath of busted levees with responsibilities to seven animals depending on us to get them safely out taught us some lessons. Stealing a car (well…kinda, returned to owner three days later) will not always be an option…so we set out to find the perfect evacuation clunker for under 2,000. And we did.
I was a bit put off at first. Her previous owner/owners had little regard for her. The inside had been stripped of all luxury trappings such as panels, back seats, flooring. The driver and passenger seats were worn, torn and scooped out leaving butt size hollows of foam rubber. The fabric (of sorts) that remained over head had graffiti etched into it with a rather varied assortment of colorful words.
It took a little time to appreciate her but with our first hurricane season since Katrina brewing I rushed my affections. And with some bed pillows in the seats, the wooden floor Boyfriend designed for the van, “Shop Local” and “Save our Lake” bumper stickers and a pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror our periwinkle blue evacuation clunker became ours, rust and all. And it even took on the role of “shop van” when we slapped on our magnetic “Kitchen Witch Cook Books” signs--allowing us to park with the big boys in freight zones.
I have never been a cheerleader for car (truck or van) ownership, hell I don’t even drive, but for two years our periwinkle blue metal tank drove us. The interior was about the size of my apartment and therefore we were enlisted to play the role of a moving company. And lucky for us, because when Boyfriend and I assisted our friend Gallivan in his move from love-gone-bad to a place out near the Fair Grounds we found our new home and a quality of life we’d been sorely in need of. Next door to Gallivan was the perfect place for the van to move us a month later.
Yes, she rushed sick pets to the vets; evacuated us from Gustav despite her huffing and puffing through the gridlock with a damaged radiator; took us on vacations and allowed us to visit hospitalized friends where buses or bikes could not go.
Oh, the good times we had tooling about in our periwinkle clunker—until that fateful day.
Grief often leads to anger and in the case of a
crime – vengeful thoughts. I would comfort myself with the vindictive assertion that crime itself would corral the perpetrator and street justice would prevail.
You see, unknown to the thief, the van would continue to roll backwards even in park with the engine off (the only way to prevent this was with the emergence brakes applied). The scenario of poetic justice I enjoyed most was: Idiot van-napper parallel parks in front of this big nasty fancy and very expensive drug dealin’ SUV and of course Idiot unwittingly rams the front-in of the very big nasty fancy and expensive SUV. And who do think steps out of said chassis but a really big and very nasty drug dealin’ and gun totin’ motherfucker. When threatened with a pistol-whippin Idiot van- napper screams like a girl and wets his pants. The cops respond to the commotion (it’s my fantasy and they can come to the rescue quickly if I want) and surprise, surprise – Idiot and Motherfucker both have outstanding warrants against them.
The periwinkle blue van, emboldened by the events, assumes the alias of “Super Van”, kicks on the ignition, slips into gear and is off to rid the city of crime.
So after the grief, anger and vengeful flights of fantasy next you move on. It was time to let go and face the future.
We found our future on Craig’s List. A 1994 Lincoln Town Car Cartier fully loaded with every useless luxury gizmo. She was no Periwinkle Blue Van but she was a beauty to behold. And most important, this aging prima donna, once listed at forty grand, was ours for 1,900.00. She’s one big car. You could place a dance floor on the hood and a small wedding party would have room to spare. You could rent the trunk out as a studio apartment. And the back seat with its pillow top leather upholstery is the perfect spare bedroom for company.
When we sealed the deal and drove her away from her neighborhood we just knew she had a suppressed wild side. She may have looked like a Metaire country club roadster but we could sense the Gentilly spirit in her. We kicked on some hip hop, hung our fuzzy dice from the rearview mirror and drove home to fetch the dogs for a cruise through our hood. She is now our low ridin’ evacuation, shop car, pet mobile wheels.
And if our periwinkle blue beauty is ever recovered (after heroic adventures) I guess we will have to become a two car family despite the fact that I still do not drive.
By
Debbie Lindsey
“She’s gone.”
“No. Noooooooooo…”
On Nov. 24th as New Orleans was splayed across national headlines as the number one city in overall crime, she fell victim to New Orleans' dark side, becoming one more statistic--one more to flounder into the perilous abyss.
She is now known to Detective Watt as case #75624-A23. The crime report lists her as a 1997 blue Ford Econoline van. But to us she was a periwinkle blue beauty despite her rather ungainly stature. We had assumed that her somewhat homely look would immune her to theft, protect her from rogue advances.
“Why’d anybody wanna steal that piece of junk?” Scott our bartender asked.
“The keys were in the door”
Scott, ever the sage bartender and quick to dispel the wisdom that is honed over years of public relations, reflected and said, “hmm”.
Yes, to some she was just a workhorse, but her humble looks belied the noble-deed-doer she was. And to those whose welfare rested within her Spartan
interior she was a hero, not to mention an ambulance, moving van, delivery truck, vacation wheels and all-a-round good sport.
After Katrina, our move back to New Orleans was contingent upon having an evacuation vehicle for the next time. Having to remain six days in the aftermath of busted levees with responsibilities to seven animals depending on us to get them safely out taught us some lessons. Stealing a car (well…kinda, returned to owner three days later) will not always be an option…so we set out to find the perfect evacuation clunker for under 2,000. And we did.
I was a bit put off at first. Her previous owner/owners had little regard for her. The inside had been stripped of all luxury trappings such as panels, back seats, flooring. The driver and passenger seats were worn, torn and scooped out leaving butt size hollows of foam rubber. The fabric (of sorts) that remained over head had graffiti etched into it with a rather varied assortment of colorful words.
It took a little time to appreciate her but with our first hurricane season since Katrina brewing I rushed my affections. And with some bed pillows in the seats, the wooden floor Boyfriend designed for the van, “Shop Local” and “Save our Lake” bumper stickers and a pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror our periwinkle blue evacuation clunker became ours, rust and all. And it even took on the role of “shop van” when we slapped on our magnetic “Kitchen Witch Cook Books” signs--allowing us to park with the big boys in freight zones.
I have never been a cheerleader for car (truck or van) ownership, hell I don’t even drive, but for two years our periwinkle blue metal tank drove us. The interior was about the size of my apartment and therefore we were enlisted to play the role of a moving company. And lucky for us, because when Boyfriend and I assisted our friend Gallivan in his move from love-gone-bad to a place out near the Fair Grounds we found our new home and a quality of life we’d been sorely in need of. Next door to Gallivan was the perfect place for the van to move us a month later.
Yes, she rushed sick pets to the vets; evacuated us from Gustav despite her huffing and puffing through the gridlock with a damaged radiator; took us on vacations and allowed us to visit hospitalized friends where buses or bikes could not go.
Oh, the good times we had tooling about in our periwinkle clunker—until that fateful day.
Grief often leads to anger and in the case of a
crime – vengeful thoughts. I would comfort myself with the vindictive assertion that crime itself would corral the perpetrator and street justice would prevail.
You see, unknown to the thief, the van would continue to roll backwards even in park with the engine off (the only way to prevent this was with the emergence brakes applied). The scenario of poetic justice I enjoyed most was: Idiot van-napper parallel parks in front of this big nasty fancy and very expensive drug dealin’ SUV and of course Idiot unwittingly rams the front-in of the very big nasty fancy and expensive SUV. And who do think steps out of said chassis but a really big and very nasty drug dealin’ and gun totin’ motherfucker. When threatened with a pistol-whippin Idiot van- napper screams like a girl and wets his pants. The cops respond to the commotion (it’s my fantasy and they can come to the rescue quickly if I want) and surprise, surprise – Idiot and Motherfucker both have outstanding warrants against them.
The periwinkle blue van, emboldened by the events, assumes the alias of “Super Van”, kicks on the ignition, slips into gear and is off to rid the city of crime.
So after the grief, anger and vengeful flights of fantasy next you move on. It was time to let go and face the future.
We found our future on Craig’s List. A 1994 Lincoln Town Car Cartier fully loaded with every useless luxury gizmo. She was no Periwinkle Blue Van but she was a beauty to behold. And most important, this aging prima donna, once listed at forty grand, was ours for 1,900.00. She’s one big car. You could place a dance floor on the hood and a small wedding party would have room to spare. You could rent the trunk out as a studio apartment. And the back seat with its pillow top leather upholstery is the perfect spare bedroom for company.
When we sealed the deal and drove her away from her neighborhood we just knew she had a suppressed wild side. She may have looked like a Metaire country club roadster but we could sense the Gentilly spirit in her. We kicked on some hip hop, hung our fuzzy dice from the rearview mirror and drove home to fetch the dogs for a cruise through our hood. She is now our low ridin’ evacuation, shop car, pet mobile wheels.
And if our periwinkle blue beauty is ever recovered (after heroic adventures) I guess we will have to become a two car family despite the fact that I still do not drive.
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 to her touching her toes, knees straight, 100 times each day.
At an age when most folks sell their homes to move into assisted 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 and beaucoup fish, with 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 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 parent’s 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: a collection of small cottages scattered among oaks and snowy blossom-topped dogwoods across the road from the bay. For the past ten 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 one hundred and four 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.
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 to her touching her toes, knees straight, 100 times each day.
At an age when most folks sell their homes to move into assisted 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 and beaucoup fish, with 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 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 parent’s 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: a collection of small cottages scattered among oaks and snowy blossom-topped dogwoods across the road from the bay. For the past ten 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 one hundred and four 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.
Dog tales in New Orleans
Dog Tales
By
Debbie Lindsey – as told by Rosie the wonder dog
We had no reliable information from the outside. Sure there was the beat up battery operated radio they listened to at night. And solely at night. They only seemed able to hear, to bear the bad stories when nothing could be done – curfew seemed to suspend time, action; decisions needn’t be made then. Their rations of warm wine calmed them and so they ate then, during the only time they could keep it down. We watched and ate as often as they fed us. Sure we were scared but had we stopped eating they would have panicked. If doctors were in short supply then surely the same held for veterinarians.
Why they chose to stay was beyond us. We knew it was gonna be bad. The birds were the first to tell us. Cautionary tales spread rapid fire through the Quarter. And none so frightening as those told by the rodents. They simply had their ears to ground. Not to mention, being privy to the alligator and reptile community. Early on there was talk of swimming deep into the metro area if the levees broke. Well there ya go – they simply knew it was going to happen.
Food Lady and Food Guy, as we affectionately call them, have two apartments so as to accommodate the feline faction of our family. In case you’ve yet to meet us on these pages before allow me a moment’s interruption to introduce everyone.
First there’s Ginger, my sister the yellow Lab who shares her birthday with me since I was adopted and my birth family is unknown to me. Residing full time at Food Lady’s are Phil, a distinguished gray tabby and Bob, who thinks he’s Fred Astaire just because he’s a long, lean manx sporting a tuxedo coat and is fairly agile – frankly I see no dancing ability. Bob joined the family just months before the storm and quickly endeared himself to everyone – even Pepper.
Pepper, a breathtaking feline beauty, with a cold heart, surprised us with her tolerance (her idea of affection) for Bob. God knows she’s tried to sharpen her claws on me. Ginger is the only one she has ever shown love and she is even rather protective of her. Pepper shares an apartment with Food Guy and Ginger. But since I came on the scene four years ago Ginger and I hang together and find home to be either apartment.
And during all this we had the company of our friend Molly, another Labrador. Her two-legged dad, Galivan, was on vacation when the storm arrived and needless to say he was worried sick. Later into the disaster a grieving family’s only means of escape meant giving Trey, a tiny ten-year-old chihuahua to folks willing to give him safety and love. Many dogs and cats were set loose at the convention center by families desperate to escape. Trey’s family made sure he would live.
Oh, and my name is Rosie. My lineage is varied. I am low to the ground and a bit thick in the middle but with my new diet I am slimming down rather nicely. And my mom, Food Lady, says I have Audrey Hepburn eyes. They do set off my fox toned coat.
Dear, dear, how I do digress. Sorry. I was saying that She (food lady) and He (the food guy) have two apartments in the Quarter and decided that His place would be sturdier if things got dicey. And decidedly dicey they got. As the barometric pressure dropped and the winds picked up we all hunkered down and even the boys became very quiet. Pepper announced a truce and even shared her litter box graciously.
I believed our humans were finally starting to realize the scope of the danger that was blowing into town. She was getting really nervous and He had Her throw a piece of stale french bread out the back door. I don’t think He really believed in the religious lore of blessed bread from a St. Joseph’s Day altar having the power to turn a hurricane away when tossed into the winds – but we learned later that the storm did actually turn east around then. Go figure. I am sure those poor souls in Mississippi were none too happy.
We spent a fitful night into early morning fearing the roof would go but after it passed we breathed, barked and mewed a collective sigh of relief. The cats napped and Ginger, Molly and I accompanied our peeps outside to survey and socialize a bit. While Miss and Mister and all their people talked of dodged bullets, near misses and close calls we sniffed about for some news. And it wasn’t pretty.
In fact it was down right awful. A couple of ferals over on Dumaine claimed to have caught some Lower Ninth rats. The cats released the rodents unharmed after hearing their harrowing tale of near drowning on St. Claude Ave. They spoke of dozens of canines, cats and rodents that didn’t make it out. Then our feral neighbors nodded their heads towards our people and said the humans were drowning too.
It was not until Tuesday morning, a day later, that the word reached our People. They went to bed Monday night thinking the worst was over and recovery ready to begin. Wrong. We listened all through the night as the howls of nearby dogs carried tales too gruesome for the fainthearted.
Those days, six if memory serves, are now a blessed blur except when I dream and embarrass myself by whimpering in the night. What is not blurred are constant stories we continue to hear of animals, some our friends, who died or suffered needlessly. So I am humbled by how blessed we are. Molly was reunited with Gallivan and Trey was adopted almost immediately in Shreveport where we all sought refuge briefly with a family we did not even know – but do now. Thank you David and Ashley.
We made it out and we made it back shaken but safe. And this year we have a 1997 reliable evacuation clunker of a van and ya can’t miss it – it’s periwinkle blue and is full of new cages, treats and toys and my very own pillow to sleep on and dreams to replace those whimpering ones of last year.
By
Debbie Lindsey – as told by Rosie the wonder dog
We had no reliable information from the outside. Sure there was the beat up battery operated radio they listened to at night. And solely at night. They only seemed able to hear, to bear the bad stories when nothing could be done – curfew seemed to suspend time, action; decisions needn’t be made then. Their rations of warm wine calmed them and so they ate then, during the only time they could keep it down. We watched and ate as often as they fed us. Sure we were scared but had we stopped eating they would have panicked. If doctors were in short supply then surely the same held for veterinarians.
Why they chose to stay was beyond us. We knew it was gonna be bad. The birds were the first to tell us. Cautionary tales spread rapid fire through the Quarter. And none so frightening as those told by the rodents. They simply had their ears to ground. Not to mention, being privy to the alligator and reptile community. Early on there was talk of swimming deep into the metro area if the levees broke. Well there ya go – they simply knew it was going to happen.
Food Lady and Food Guy, as we affectionately call them, have two apartments so as to accommodate the feline faction of our family. In case you’ve yet to meet us on these pages before allow me a moment’s interruption to introduce everyone.
First there’s Ginger, my sister the yellow Lab who shares her birthday with me since I was adopted and my birth family is unknown to me. Residing full time at Food Lady’s are Phil, a distinguished gray tabby and Bob, who thinks he’s Fred Astaire just because he’s a long, lean manx sporting a tuxedo coat and is fairly agile – frankly I see no dancing ability. Bob joined the family just months before the storm and quickly endeared himself to everyone – even Pepper.
Pepper, a breathtaking feline beauty, with a cold heart, surprised us with her tolerance (her idea of affection) for Bob. God knows she’s tried to sharpen her claws on me. Ginger is the only one she has ever shown love and she is even rather protective of her. Pepper shares an apartment with Food Guy and Ginger. But since I came on the scene four years ago Ginger and I hang together and find home to be either apartment.
And during all this we had the company of our friend Molly, another Labrador. Her two-legged dad, Galivan, was on vacation when the storm arrived and needless to say he was worried sick. Later into the disaster a grieving family’s only means of escape meant giving Trey, a tiny ten-year-old chihuahua to folks willing to give him safety and love. Many dogs and cats were set loose at the convention center by families desperate to escape. Trey’s family made sure he would live.
Oh, and my name is Rosie. My lineage is varied. I am low to the ground and a bit thick in the middle but with my new diet I am slimming down rather nicely. And my mom, Food Lady, says I have Audrey Hepburn eyes. They do set off my fox toned coat.
Dear, dear, how I do digress. Sorry. I was saying that She (food lady) and He (the food guy) have two apartments in the Quarter and decided that His place would be sturdier if things got dicey. And decidedly dicey they got. As the barometric pressure dropped and the winds picked up we all hunkered down and even the boys became very quiet. Pepper announced a truce and even shared her litter box graciously.
I believed our humans were finally starting to realize the scope of the danger that was blowing into town. She was getting really nervous and He had Her throw a piece of stale french bread out the back door. I don’t think He really believed in the religious lore of blessed bread from a St. Joseph’s Day altar having the power to turn a hurricane away when tossed into the winds – but we learned later that the storm did actually turn east around then. Go figure. I am sure those poor souls in Mississippi were none too happy.
We spent a fitful night into early morning fearing the roof would go but after it passed we breathed, barked and mewed a collective sigh of relief. The cats napped and Ginger, Molly and I accompanied our peeps outside to survey and socialize a bit. While Miss and Mister and all their people talked of dodged bullets, near misses and close calls we sniffed about for some news. And it wasn’t pretty.
In fact it was down right awful. A couple of ferals over on Dumaine claimed to have caught some Lower Ninth rats. The cats released the rodents unharmed after hearing their harrowing tale of near drowning on St. Claude Ave. They spoke of dozens of canines, cats and rodents that didn’t make it out. Then our feral neighbors nodded their heads towards our people and said the humans were drowning too.
It was not until Tuesday morning, a day later, that the word reached our People. They went to bed Monday night thinking the worst was over and recovery ready to begin. Wrong. We listened all through the night as the howls of nearby dogs carried tales too gruesome for the fainthearted.
Those days, six if memory serves, are now a blessed blur except when I dream and embarrass myself by whimpering in the night. What is not blurred are constant stories we continue to hear of animals, some our friends, who died or suffered needlessly. So I am humbled by how blessed we are. Molly was reunited with Gallivan and Trey was adopted almost immediately in Shreveport where we all sought refuge briefly with a family we did not even know – but do now. Thank you David and Ashley.
We made it out and we made it back shaken but safe. And this year we have a 1997 reliable evacuation clunker of a van and ya can’t miss it – it’s periwinkle blue and is full of new cages, treats and toys and my very own pillow to sleep on and dreams to replace those whimpering ones of last year.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Tennessee in New Orleans
Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival
A.K. A. TWNOLF
By Phil LaMancusa
And
Debbie Lindsey
Phil here: This year the 24th annual twnolf, march 24-28 is right on track to whack your stockings from your feet, a plethora of knowledge imparted with euphemisms abounding and entertainment without parallel. Being over a year in preparation a splendid time is guaranteed for all; Tennessee Williams, whose birth anniversary celebration will be included in this auspicious event, will top the bill. Twenty-five panel discussions and eight master classes will be available for your edification, education and enlightenment. Master thespians will entertain and astound to the amazement and delight of all attendees and audiences. Prerequisite mint juleps as well as contemporary and classic literary works will be provided for purchase and enjoyment. Commiseration over the great writer’s untimely demise and celebration of his prolific career, amongst those who aspire to erudition is encouraged.
That being said: try to put a finger on Tennessee and you’ve missed him completely. He considered success as a catastrophe and his fantasies as documentaries. His characters were nothing if not passionate, opinionated, outspoken, dangerous and charming. Nothing like the folks that we see in our lives, for the most part; people of our acquaintance simply do not have the stamina, freedom of expression or fortitude of a Tennessee Williams character. In comparison we are muted, and those that attend the event usually want to know why we just don’t measure up; in our writings and, very possible, in our lives.
Tennessee Williams to me is the peephole into the door of outrageous characters and unimaginable plot twists so common in Southern literature. From a Northern perspective, upon discovering Tennessee and his brethren I was amazed, confounded, flummoxed, overjoyed and thoroughly smitten.
Debbie puts it into a more Southern perspective and she points out that the fact of having been born and raised in Southern Alabama had little if any influence upon her being southern. If anything, she rejected her southern zip code. She did not notice whatever Southern sway her hometown may have had upon her until years later. She explains that “It’s like I was potted in the rich soil of the south and then moved away from my indigenous beginnings. I never physically left but my disconnect with this region placed me light years away – constantly in conflict with my root base. But that began to change with the reading of what has now come to be called books of Southern literature….by Southern writers”.
“Pat Conroy’s Prince of Tides spoke to me and put into words the love/hate I had felt towards the South. I had held more biased and preconceived negative notions about the South than any tight ass from afar might have. Somehow Conroy’s characters showed me that one can love an imperfect culture, that I need not distance myself from the beauty to avoid the evils. And evil does abound through ignorance and racism”.
And on and on through Faulkner, O’Conner, Nordan, Hiaasen, Welty, Percy, Hellman and Harper Lee. And on and on. Flagg, Bragg, Grafton, Albee, Gibbons and on and on and on again. The ramblings and imaging’s that have taken root like wild flowers in writers and aspiring writers brain pans, who come together at festivals and conferences to explore the tickings of the clocks, the workings of the gears, the firing of the synapses that cause one person to put to pen and paper the views from the inside of their image nations.
For those of us who are addicted to the written word, for those of us who had flashlights under the covers finishing a book after bed time, for us who need to know something more about language and possibility; festivals like this are our meat and bone.
Each year as we write about TWNOLF subconsciously we’re plotting our own attendance and how much of this experience we can cram into our lives. It’s always too fast, too short and over way too soon. For the line up of luminaries and schedules of events go to tennesseewilliams.net the program is now available and the box office is open. See you there.
A.K. A. TWNOLF
By Phil LaMancusa
And
Debbie Lindsey
Phil here: This year the 24th annual twnolf, march 24-28 is right on track to whack your stockings from your feet, a plethora of knowledge imparted with euphemisms abounding and entertainment without parallel. Being over a year in preparation a splendid time is guaranteed for all; Tennessee Williams, whose birth anniversary celebration will be included in this auspicious event, will top the bill. Twenty-five panel discussions and eight master classes will be available for your edification, education and enlightenment. Master thespians will entertain and astound to the amazement and delight of all attendees and audiences. Prerequisite mint juleps as well as contemporary and classic literary works will be provided for purchase and enjoyment. Commiseration over the great writer’s untimely demise and celebration of his prolific career, amongst those who aspire to erudition is encouraged.
That being said: try to put a finger on Tennessee and you’ve missed him completely. He considered success as a catastrophe and his fantasies as documentaries. His characters were nothing if not passionate, opinionated, outspoken, dangerous and charming. Nothing like the folks that we see in our lives, for the most part; people of our acquaintance simply do not have the stamina, freedom of expression or fortitude of a Tennessee Williams character. In comparison we are muted, and those that attend the event usually want to know why we just don’t measure up; in our writings and, very possible, in our lives.
Tennessee Williams to me is the peephole into the door of outrageous characters and unimaginable plot twists so common in Southern literature. From a Northern perspective, upon discovering Tennessee and his brethren I was amazed, confounded, flummoxed, overjoyed and thoroughly smitten.
Debbie puts it into a more Southern perspective and she points out that the fact of having been born and raised in Southern Alabama had little if any influence upon her being southern. If anything, she rejected her southern zip code. She did not notice whatever Southern sway her hometown may have had upon her until years later. She explains that “It’s like I was potted in the rich soil of the south and then moved away from my indigenous beginnings. I never physically left but my disconnect with this region placed me light years away – constantly in conflict with my root base. But that began to change with the reading of what has now come to be called books of Southern literature….by Southern writers”.
“Pat Conroy’s Prince of Tides spoke to me and put into words the love/hate I had felt towards the South. I had held more biased and preconceived negative notions about the South than any tight ass from afar might have. Somehow Conroy’s characters showed me that one can love an imperfect culture, that I need not distance myself from the beauty to avoid the evils. And evil does abound through ignorance and racism”.
And on and on through Faulkner, O’Conner, Nordan, Hiaasen, Welty, Percy, Hellman and Harper Lee. And on and on. Flagg, Bragg, Grafton, Albee, Gibbons and on and on and on again. The ramblings and imaging’s that have taken root like wild flowers in writers and aspiring writers brain pans, who come together at festivals and conferences to explore the tickings of the clocks, the workings of the gears, the firing of the synapses that cause one person to put to pen and paper the views from the inside of their image nations.
For those of us who are addicted to the written word, for those of us who had flashlights under the covers finishing a book after bed time, for us who need to know something more about language and possibility; festivals like this are our meat and bone.
Each year as we write about TWNOLF subconsciously we’re plotting our own attendance and how much of this experience we can cram into our lives. It’s always too fast, too short and over way too soon. For the line up of luminaries and schedules of events go to tennesseewilliams.net the program is now available and the box office is open. See you there.
Off the Menu in New Orleans
Off The Menu
By
Debbie Lindsey
I do not require food to enjoy a restaurant. A glass of wine or a cold beer will do. This pleasure is best enjoyed from a barstool were tip hungry waitresses can not arrest me with those sullen why are you taking up my tip producing table with your small to nothing order glares. And as a waitress/bartender myself I understand that table space is serious real estate. However I am Vegetarian and most dining establishments are designed to serve cuisine not quite friendly to vegans and even less sympathic to the creatures they plate. I trust through the years I have made myself clear to my fellow vegetarians and readers that I frown upon eating critters for so many reasons – but I have to admit to a love affair with the smell of pork.
I am the Vicarious Carnivore.
I was born a meat and potatoes kinda gal. Is this justifacation for meat eating? No, otherwise I’d be ordering a medium rare steak topped with one of those big fat battered and deep fried onion rings. And don’t come near me with a bag of fried chicken unless you want to see me stick my head inside the confines of that paper and inhale deeply. I lust in my heart but not on my plate.
As a waitress my customers have replied with cynicism whenever I tell them with honesty that I have never actually eaten a single thing on the menu – they were hoping I’d give them an insiders pick on the offerings. But then the carniviore of my youth, despite my reform, rears it’s flesh eating head and my customers see my tongue as it dabs at my mouth watering memory of the foods so forbidden to me; they note my eyes as they begin to glaze. And so they believe me as I tell them what I’d eat if all my personal ethics and beliefs were to dissolve. I have shared my dirty little secret with them as they snicker at thinking they have weakened my resolve – taken me down, corrupted a vegetarian.
You’d think working in food and beverage for as many years as I have been vegetarian (both since I was eighteen) I would not have such affection for restaurants and bars in my spare time as a civilian. But off duty, the immediate time spent in a bar is R&R and that beverage, anesthesia, for my battle weary body. Besides the commiseration over drinks with fellow workers, I have an affection for bars that go beyond libations.
I am fascinated by the customers, sometimes repulsed, but more often than not I meet wonderful folks and some turn into dear friends. Face it, churches and bars are two of the great meeting grounds for socializing – I prefer the latter.
New bars, especially those in hotel or restaurant lounges, can be a bit cookie-cutter in design and funkless. Yet sometimes those are just what I need to remove me from the messier details of everyday life and feel suspended in a vacation mode. They are cleaner than reality.
But as a rule I’ll take the smudgy glass in a tavern where the only garnish is the straw. And as for décor -- years of character, quirks, and funk are my decorations of choice. If it is a truly old establishment then I take on an acheological eye to the details of the past. And the same goes for restaurants of a certain age.
In New Orleans time seems to segue effortlessly from past to present, especially in our restaurants. Our food culture and its history play out daily, even in our brand new establishments where traditional dishes hold court with nouvelle cuisine. But for me the physical history that an old café or restaurant holds is what tweaks my anachronistic appetite. Rip out my taste buds, and I could still feast upon the aged ambience of an eatery that relishes its maturity and shows its years.
Drinking and dining in an atmosphere steeped in history, old-school rituals, and memories allows me to time travel and escape to another era. With just a smidgen of imagination I can vacation, for an hour or so, to a time not filled with cell phones, poor manners, and ugly fashion. And lucky for me I live in a city still flush with uniquely lost-in-time venues for food and drink -- from fine dining at the regal Antoine’s to the brash wham-bam-thank ya-ma’am (and worth it for the mammoth portions at 1980-like prices) at Café Maspero.
Tripping down the memory lane of past diners and reveling in the milieu of smoky old bars can be a bit tricky at times for a vegetarian and once a year Lenten teetotaler. But with the help of Boyfriend, who has no culinary hesitations or restrictions and is more than willing to drink my share of libations as I sip doggedly at an Odouls during those inconvenient annual forty-six days, I can visit all the restaurants and cocktail establishments that I fancy.
While there are many chefs more than willing to accommodate a vegetarian I rather doubt the oyster shuckers at Casamento’s could improvise with tofu. But this is where Boyfriend benefits from my being the Vicarious Carnivore. He doesn’t have to share his oysters with me, or his macaroni and cheese at Rocky and Carlos, or Galatoire’s sweetbreads. He is my perfect date -- ordering enough to satisfy the waiter and thereby allowing me to trespass into forbidden territory, indulging my senses and my heart with all the flavors that a venerable restaurant or seasoned tavern has to offer. Happy.
By
Debbie Lindsey
I do not require food to enjoy a restaurant. A glass of wine or a cold beer will do. This pleasure is best enjoyed from a barstool were tip hungry waitresses can not arrest me with those sullen why are you taking up my tip producing table with your small to nothing order glares. And as a waitress/bartender myself I understand that table space is serious real estate. However I am Vegetarian and most dining establishments are designed to serve cuisine not quite friendly to vegans and even less sympathic to the creatures they plate. I trust through the years I have made myself clear to my fellow vegetarians and readers that I frown upon eating critters for so many reasons – but I have to admit to a love affair with the smell of pork.
I am the Vicarious Carnivore.
I was born a meat and potatoes kinda gal. Is this justifacation for meat eating? No, otherwise I’d be ordering a medium rare steak topped with one of those big fat battered and deep fried onion rings. And don’t come near me with a bag of fried chicken unless you want to see me stick my head inside the confines of that paper and inhale deeply. I lust in my heart but not on my plate.
As a waitress my customers have replied with cynicism whenever I tell them with honesty that I have never actually eaten a single thing on the menu – they were hoping I’d give them an insiders pick on the offerings. But then the carniviore of my youth, despite my reform, rears it’s flesh eating head and my customers see my tongue as it dabs at my mouth watering memory of the foods so forbidden to me; they note my eyes as they begin to glaze. And so they believe me as I tell them what I’d eat if all my personal ethics and beliefs were to dissolve. I have shared my dirty little secret with them as they snicker at thinking they have weakened my resolve – taken me down, corrupted a vegetarian.
You’d think working in food and beverage for as many years as I have been vegetarian (both since I was eighteen) I would not have such affection for restaurants and bars in my spare time as a civilian. But off duty, the immediate time spent in a bar is R&R and that beverage, anesthesia, for my battle weary body. Besides the commiseration over drinks with fellow workers, I have an affection for bars that go beyond libations.
I am fascinated by the customers, sometimes repulsed, but more often than not I meet wonderful folks and some turn into dear friends. Face it, churches and bars are two of the great meeting grounds for socializing – I prefer the latter.
New bars, especially those in hotel or restaurant lounges, can be a bit cookie-cutter in design and funkless. Yet sometimes those are just what I need to remove me from the messier details of everyday life and feel suspended in a vacation mode. They are cleaner than reality.
But as a rule I’ll take the smudgy glass in a tavern where the only garnish is the straw. And as for décor -- years of character, quirks, and funk are my decorations of choice. If it is a truly old establishment then I take on an acheological eye to the details of the past. And the same goes for restaurants of a certain age.
In New Orleans time seems to segue effortlessly from past to present, especially in our restaurants. Our food culture and its history play out daily, even in our brand new establishments where traditional dishes hold court with nouvelle cuisine. But for me the physical history that an old café or restaurant holds is what tweaks my anachronistic appetite. Rip out my taste buds, and I could still feast upon the aged ambience of an eatery that relishes its maturity and shows its years.
Drinking and dining in an atmosphere steeped in history, old-school rituals, and memories allows me to time travel and escape to another era. With just a smidgen of imagination I can vacation, for an hour or so, to a time not filled with cell phones, poor manners, and ugly fashion. And lucky for me I live in a city still flush with uniquely lost-in-time venues for food and drink -- from fine dining at the regal Antoine’s to the brash wham-bam-thank ya-ma’am (and worth it for the mammoth portions at 1980-like prices) at Café Maspero.
Tripping down the memory lane of past diners and reveling in the milieu of smoky old bars can be a bit tricky at times for a vegetarian and once a year Lenten teetotaler. But with the help of Boyfriend, who has no culinary hesitations or restrictions and is more than willing to drink my share of libations as I sip doggedly at an Odouls during those inconvenient annual forty-six days, I can visit all the restaurants and cocktail establishments that I fancy.
While there are many chefs more than willing to accommodate a vegetarian I rather doubt the oyster shuckers at Casamento’s could improvise with tofu. But this is where Boyfriend benefits from my being the Vicarious Carnivore. He doesn’t have to share his oysters with me, or his macaroni and cheese at Rocky and Carlos, or Galatoire’s sweetbreads. He is my perfect date -- ordering enough to satisfy the waiter and thereby allowing me to trespass into forbidden territory, indulging my senses and my heart with all the flavors that a venerable restaurant or seasoned tavern has to offer. Happy.
Tit for Tat in New Orleans
Tit For Tat
By
Debbie Lindsey
Don’t forget to cross your ts and dot your is and then get ready to erase.
It all starts with a letter. The one that gets lost for two weeks in a pile of junk mail and No Payment Due statements. Nothing really catches your eye. The pile grows larger with membership drives, more junk, and the occasional menu flyers. Then when some real bills arrive along with your NetFlix rentals, you find it. It is the letter that changes everything.
Your recent mammogram examination showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation…This is where I switch to first person and begrudgingly. I often write about me, me, me. Well, this time it’s not just an egocentric exercise, it’s an exorcism of sorts. I have always found, for myself, that if I expect the worst it just doesn’t happen. The gods of fate enjoy confusing me. Well, I say let ‘em throw me good results, let ‘em tell me I have worried for naught. Make a liar of me!!
It’s the waiting. When I finally found the letter from the radiology place where I had a date with a machine that felt me up like a high school back seat ooh baby baby baby tiddy twister I almost didn’t open it. I thought it was a bill for additional charges. You see, my people at the womens’ clinic never called. They always say that all is fine if I don’t hear from them, but of course they invite me to call and double check results. Cross your ts and dot the is. I did not take my own advice. Check results yourself. Never assume. Because we all know what happens when you assume: you make an ass of you and a breast-less wonder of me.
Time out! I am running with a ball I was not even passed yet. They said it could be nothing – nothing. But I know what the something is, and I can’t even afford it. It’s a rotten shame when folks (trust me there are too many out there) have to focus not on a life-threatening situation but on how to pay to have a life-threatening situation. Oh, It’s our fault, that’s right. We, the uninsured should have been insured. Not always so easy.
I recently decided to join the ranks of the play-by-the-rules and get myself insured. I set up an appointment with an agent from Cross Your Fingers and it became apparent that most of my medical needs would be considered PRE-EXISTING. We talked and crunched numbers and he was to get back with me as to whether this or that might work for me and my piggy bank. Never heard from him again. I was just too problematic or he simply gave up trying to live here in New Orleans.
Trying to live here is a real, albeit stupid, reason behind so much of my procrastination, forgetfulness and just plain old “I have no damn time to take care of myself”. Stupid, I know. Just because my potential insurance guy dropped me doesn’t mean there are not a gazillion agents ready to write me a policy. The only prob is money. Sure I can insure myself but then how do I pay my rent? I already work seven days a week. I work for myself and I don’t give benefits! Excuses, excuses. I just feel so stupid for having no net to catch me. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. And now if…if this thing is something, it will be considered pre-existing.
I have a friend who found herself with symptoms indicative of Hodgkin’s disease, cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. She had to tough it out for nine months as she waited for her new insurance to kick in because diagnosis prior would have ruled her cancer pre-existing. She was one of the lucky ones. Her guess was right, she did have cancer and she got in just under the wire. Her insurance covered her because she was forced to feign good health until eligibility kicked in. She got treatment in the nick of time. And now, wears her scars with genuine pride.
Scars. They never bother me. I have my physical points of interest, don’t get me wrong, but scars always seemed kinda cool to me. They are like nature’s little tattoos – reminders of some misadventure as a tomboy, that first razor nick when finally old enough to shave my legs, or a kitchen mishap. But I’m not too sure about having my tits sliced up. Hell, if that’s the case, I say just take ‘em. Yep, just remove the whole kit and kaboodle. I want to live a ridiculously long life; not win a beauty pageant.
I speak, write and think with no real medical knowledge. And if very very lucky I will need little knowledge this time around, because within days, perhaps even hours I hope to hear the words: “It was nothing”. But for many women, numbers too large to comprehend, happy words, words of good health are not in the cards for them. And as words of remission become the next best sound to hear -- some never will.
Will I learn from this debacle? Oh yeah. I will never put off those annoying annual check-ups that truly save lives. Never allow myself to be lulled into thinking No news is good news – no news merely means someone dropped the ball or in my case I wasn’t even looking to catch that ball. Follow up! Cross those ts and dot those is. And if my luck goes south then I will use every eraser known to science until my slate is clean.
Promise me, dear reader, that you will never take your life for granted. I never have, and yet I have been careless with the one and only body I have. And I need and depend on it to carry me through what I hope to be a long and interesting life. Feet don’t fail me now!
By
Debbie Lindsey
Don’t forget to cross your ts and dot your is and then get ready to erase.
It all starts with a letter. The one that gets lost for two weeks in a pile of junk mail and No Payment Due statements. Nothing really catches your eye. The pile grows larger with membership drives, more junk, and the occasional menu flyers. Then when some real bills arrive along with your NetFlix rentals, you find it. It is the letter that changes everything.
Your recent mammogram examination showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation…This is where I switch to first person and begrudgingly. I often write about me, me, me. Well, this time it’s not just an egocentric exercise, it’s an exorcism of sorts. I have always found, for myself, that if I expect the worst it just doesn’t happen. The gods of fate enjoy confusing me. Well, I say let ‘em throw me good results, let ‘em tell me I have worried for naught. Make a liar of me!!
It’s the waiting. When I finally found the letter from the radiology place where I had a date with a machine that felt me up like a high school back seat ooh baby baby baby tiddy twister I almost didn’t open it. I thought it was a bill for additional charges. You see, my people at the womens’ clinic never called. They always say that all is fine if I don’t hear from them, but of course they invite me to call and double check results. Cross your ts and dot the is. I did not take my own advice. Check results yourself. Never assume. Because we all know what happens when you assume: you make an ass of you and a breast-less wonder of me.
Time out! I am running with a ball I was not even passed yet. They said it could be nothing – nothing. But I know what the something is, and I can’t even afford it. It’s a rotten shame when folks (trust me there are too many out there) have to focus not on a life-threatening situation but on how to pay to have a life-threatening situation. Oh, It’s our fault, that’s right. We, the uninsured should have been insured. Not always so easy.
I recently decided to join the ranks of the play-by-the-rules and get myself insured. I set up an appointment with an agent from Cross Your Fingers and it became apparent that most of my medical needs would be considered PRE-EXISTING. We talked and crunched numbers and he was to get back with me as to whether this or that might work for me and my piggy bank. Never heard from him again. I was just too problematic or he simply gave up trying to live here in New Orleans.
Trying to live here is a real, albeit stupid, reason behind so much of my procrastination, forgetfulness and just plain old “I have no damn time to take care of myself”. Stupid, I know. Just because my potential insurance guy dropped me doesn’t mean there are not a gazillion agents ready to write me a policy. The only prob is money. Sure I can insure myself but then how do I pay my rent? I already work seven days a week. I work for myself and I don’t give benefits! Excuses, excuses. I just feel so stupid for having no net to catch me. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. And now if…if this thing is something, it will be considered pre-existing.
I have a friend who found herself with symptoms indicative of Hodgkin’s disease, cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. She had to tough it out for nine months as she waited for her new insurance to kick in because diagnosis prior would have ruled her cancer pre-existing. She was one of the lucky ones. Her guess was right, she did have cancer and she got in just under the wire. Her insurance covered her because she was forced to feign good health until eligibility kicked in. She got treatment in the nick of time. And now, wears her scars with genuine pride.
Scars. They never bother me. I have my physical points of interest, don’t get me wrong, but scars always seemed kinda cool to me. They are like nature’s little tattoos – reminders of some misadventure as a tomboy, that first razor nick when finally old enough to shave my legs, or a kitchen mishap. But I’m not too sure about having my tits sliced up. Hell, if that’s the case, I say just take ‘em. Yep, just remove the whole kit and kaboodle. I want to live a ridiculously long life; not win a beauty pageant.
I speak, write and think with no real medical knowledge. And if very very lucky I will need little knowledge this time around, because within days, perhaps even hours I hope to hear the words: “It was nothing”. But for many women, numbers too large to comprehend, happy words, words of good health are not in the cards for them. And as words of remission become the next best sound to hear -- some never will.
Will I learn from this debacle? Oh yeah. I will never put off those annoying annual check-ups that truly save lives. Never allow myself to be lulled into thinking No news is good news – no news merely means someone dropped the ball or in my case I wasn’t even looking to catch that ball. Follow up! Cross those ts and dot those is. And if my luck goes south then I will use every eraser known to science until my slate is clean.
Promise me, dear reader, that you will never take your life for granted. I never have, and yet I have been careless with the one and only body I have. And I need and depend on it to carry me through what I hope to be a long and interesting life. Feet don’t fail me now!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)