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.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
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!
Donna Reed in New Orleans
Donna Reed Lend Me a Hand
By
Debbie Lindsey
Back in the bra burning days when freeing a woman from the bondage of her apron, inspiring her to career climbing heights, breaking that glass ceiling, and achieving… her own office cubicle, I too, had no interest in marriage, birthing babies, or being house bound.
But there I was, bound to a restaurant slugging it out with dirty dishes, demanding customers and bosses that made the most insensitive husband seem like a saint. Not quite the career move my sisters of the sixties envisioned. Still, I proudly kept my distance from Donna Reed and her gang.
Mea culpa mea culpa to all the mothers, housewives, and househusbands that my generation of well-intentioned liberators of the feminine condition, unwittingly belittled as slaves to the unimportant.
I also ask forgiveness for having turned a smug nose up towards living in the burbs. Here, French Quarter digs are to New Orleans what Manhattan is to Yonkers. There is pride among Quarterites and perhaps a shared fear of the mundane. But now, to my surprise, Boyfriend and I are totally ensconced in old-fashioned neighborhood bliss and all its domesticity (and demands).
For nearly 16 years I lived in an apartment so small that I kept my vacuum cleaner on the balcony, hung my clothes in the kitchen, and when visited by out-of-town company their suitcases had to be stowed in the bathtub. I simply did not have the space to inspire my domestic skills.
When I first met Boyfriend I was given a tour of his apartment which contained almost as much bric-a-brac as I had amassed over the years. I knew we were decorative soul-mates, curators of second-hand treasures.
For nearly ten years we lived in and around each other’s apartments, feeling each was home depending on the moment. I did the girlfriend thing, occasionally lugging my trusty Electrolux over to his place to tackle dog hair and dust (more for my benefit– Boyfriend could inhale sawdust without complaint). In turn he would do manly things like stomping cockroaches for me.
Being a chef he elevated my kitchen with culinary tools and spices. And taught me the art of baking and raining flour upon every kitchen surface. With his creativity and my vacuum cleaner we were destined for domestic greatness.
And on the day we decided to unite forces, combine blenders, and merge households into one large expanse of hard wood floors Mrs. Reed nodded to June Cleaver and they smiled down upon us.
We are now “all about our lawn” sodding and sowing, mowing and mulching. My pride and joy is my old fashion push mower powered only by my calorie burning efforts. A new pair of garden shears from Boyfriend sends me into romantic flutters, only out done by flowers – the kind you plant.
Boyfriend cooks and I garden. And when I say cook I mean everything -- baking, canning, pickling, juicing, you name it he creates it. I’m in charge of the crock-pot but he’s the slicing and dicing creative force preparing nearly every meal for close to two years now. He’s even discovered the joy of dishwashing.
We are the newly weds (sans the marriage license – I must maintain some semblance of non-conformity) picking through thrift stores for household delights. And then there’s grocery shopping. We both become heady as we enter the market with our matching Winn Dixie saver cards in tow. Among the aisles of fresh produce my man, my chef, never looks better than when tenderly choosing between cantaloupes or honeydews.
Now I know this all sounds like fun and games -- life in the burbs, playing house. There’s barbecuing at the neighbor’s, going to crime watch parties, and proudly scooping dog pooh as we strut our four legged family down sidewalks past homes that would make June and Donna proud (of course today they’d be lovers having ditched the husbands, and Aunt Bea would be meeting us for drinks at Liuzza’s).
But for all the thrills of nesting there is the dark side – the relentless cleaning.
Tackling the indomitable tumbleweeds of dog hair and bales of cat fur that cover every square inch of our five-room house is vigilant work -- important work. Yet it almost pales next to dirty dishes – they simply breed among themselves. Surely we must be washing the entire neighborhood’s; perhaps my next door neighbor is dropping his off when we’re at work – I must change the locks.
The litter boxes take on a life of their own, the water bowls never stay full, mop a floor and Rosie promptly pees buckets, mop again and she soaks the area rug. Thanks to Pepper and Sophia with their black fur the house looks like a manufacturing plant for toupees.
And then there’s Zack the Kitten gliding through the house like a flying squirrel, shredding newspapers, and scattering everything in sight, hiding his toys of beer caps, jewelry, pencils, and medicine bottles under every rug or stick of furniture.
The urine wars do not confine themselves to rugs and litter boxes; there’s the routine visit to our Vet with the sterilized Miller High Life bottle filled with Pepper’s urine. Have you ever tried to get a cat to pee on command? And oh those dog walkin’ nights when bone tired, half asleep, and Sophia simple can’t decide which blade of grass she feels right about before gracing it with her presence. Of course Rosie the Incontinent will sniff and reply to every (and there are sooooo many) pee-mail.
Around every corner the dog hair mounts its attack, dirty dishes wait to pounce, and the toilet bowl rallies its troops of germs. Boyfriend has my back, and I am armed, Electrolux and mop in ready positions, but we will lose.
Still, there are days when Donna Reed would give me her blessing and admit that she made it look all too easy. And I think of the women out there without a man, or a woman, to partner with and help them at every turn, which have to face grueling jobs and children of the two-legged variety and far more meals, laundry, and doctor visits than there are hours in the day. They are the unsung heroes who are often too tired to enjoy the pleasures I have found.
This is not the diary of a mad housewife, but rather a love song to a bit of peace and happiness I have found – New York or Paris may beckon one day but for now I have contentment in our dusty old cottage.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Back in the bra burning days when freeing a woman from the bondage of her apron, inspiring her to career climbing heights, breaking that glass ceiling, and achieving… her own office cubicle, I too, had no interest in marriage, birthing babies, or being house bound.
But there I was, bound to a restaurant slugging it out with dirty dishes, demanding customers and bosses that made the most insensitive husband seem like a saint. Not quite the career move my sisters of the sixties envisioned. Still, I proudly kept my distance from Donna Reed and her gang.
Mea culpa mea culpa to all the mothers, housewives, and househusbands that my generation of well-intentioned liberators of the feminine condition, unwittingly belittled as slaves to the unimportant.
I also ask forgiveness for having turned a smug nose up towards living in the burbs. Here, French Quarter digs are to New Orleans what Manhattan is to Yonkers. There is pride among Quarterites and perhaps a shared fear of the mundane. But now, to my surprise, Boyfriend and I are totally ensconced in old-fashioned neighborhood bliss and all its domesticity (and demands).
For nearly 16 years I lived in an apartment so small that I kept my vacuum cleaner on the balcony, hung my clothes in the kitchen, and when visited by out-of-town company their suitcases had to be stowed in the bathtub. I simply did not have the space to inspire my domestic skills.
When I first met Boyfriend I was given a tour of his apartment which contained almost as much bric-a-brac as I had amassed over the years. I knew we were decorative soul-mates, curators of second-hand treasures.
For nearly ten years we lived in and around each other’s apartments, feeling each was home depending on the moment. I did the girlfriend thing, occasionally lugging my trusty Electrolux over to his place to tackle dog hair and dust (more for my benefit– Boyfriend could inhale sawdust without complaint). In turn he would do manly things like stomping cockroaches for me.
Being a chef he elevated my kitchen with culinary tools and spices. And taught me the art of baking and raining flour upon every kitchen surface. With his creativity and my vacuum cleaner we were destined for domestic greatness.
And on the day we decided to unite forces, combine blenders, and merge households into one large expanse of hard wood floors Mrs. Reed nodded to June Cleaver and they smiled down upon us.
We are now “all about our lawn” sodding and sowing, mowing and mulching. My pride and joy is my old fashion push mower powered only by my calorie burning efforts. A new pair of garden shears from Boyfriend sends me into romantic flutters, only out done by flowers – the kind you plant.
Boyfriend cooks and I garden. And when I say cook I mean everything -- baking, canning, pickling, juicing, you name it he creates it. I’m in charge of the crock-pot but he’s the slicing and dicing creative force preparing nearly every meal for close to two years now. He’s even discovered the joy of dishwashing.
We are the newly weds (sans the marriage license – I must maintain some semblance of non-conformity) picking through thrift stores for household delights. And then there’s grocery shopping. We both become heady as we enter the market with our matching Winn Dixie saver cards in tow. Among the aisles of fresh produce my man, my chef, never looks better than when tenderly choosing between cantaloupes or honeydews.
Now I know this all sounds like fun and games -- life in the burbs, playing house. There’s barbecuing at the neighbor’s, going to crime watch parties, and proudly scooping dog pooh as we strut our four legged family down sidewalks past homes that would make June and Donna proud (of course today they’d be lovers having ditched the husbands, and Aunt Bea would be meeting us for drinks at Liuzza’s).
But for all the thrills of nesting there is the dark side – the relentless cleaning.
Tackling the indomitable tumbleweeds of dog hair and bales of cat fur that cover every square inch of our five-room house is vigilant work -- important work. Yet it almost pales next to dirty dishes – they simply breed among themselves. Surely we must be washing the entire neighborhood’s; perhaps my next door neighbor is dropping his off when we’re at work – I must change the locks.
The litter boxes take on a life of their own, the water bowls never stay full, mop a floor and Rosie promptly pees buckets, mop again and she soaks the area rug. Thanks to Pepper and Sophia with their black fur the house looks like a manufacturing plant for toupees.
And then there’s Zack the Kitten gliding through the house like a flying squirrel, shredding newspapers, and scattering everything in sight, hiding his toys of beer caps, jewelry, pencils, and medicine bottles under every rug or stick of furniture.
The urine wars do not confine themselves to rugs and litter boxes; there’s the routine visit to our Vet with the sterilized Miller High Life bottle filled with Pepper’s urine. Have you ever tried to get a cat to pee on command? And oh those dog walkin’ nights when bone tired, half asleep, and Sophia simple can’t decide which blade of grass she feels right about before gracing it with her presence. Of course Rosie the Incontinent will sniff and reply to every (and there are sooooo many) pee-mail.
Around every corner the dog hair mounts its attack, dirty dishes wait to pounce, and the toilet bowl rallies its troops of germs. Boyfriend has my back, and I am armed, Electrolux and mop in ready positions, but we will lose.
Still, there are days when Donna Reed would give me her blessing and admit that she made it look all too easy. And I think of the women out there without a man, or a woman, to partner with and help them at every turn, which have to face grueling jobs and children of the two-legged variety and far more meals, laundry, and doctor visits than there are hours in the day. They are the unsung heroes who are often too tired to enjoy the pleasures I have found.
This is not the diary of a mad housewife, but rather a love song to a bit of peace and happiness I have found – New York or Paris may beckon one day but for now I have contentment in our dusty old cottage.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
driven mad in New Orleans
It’s Driving Me Mad
By
Debbie Lindsey
You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
Well, do you? Do you want to change the world? Yeah you. I am talking about a last chance to right some pretty large wrongs. Wrongs that just may have taken us to a point of no return. The eleventh hour is just seconds away from running out. There are actions incumbent upon us to perform if we want to face the future generation – and to face ourselves in the mirror. In November you can pull the plug on an administration that has brought shame even to Republicans. You can hit the reset button with your vote. With due respect to McCain I believe he is unable to embrace the amount of change we need.
Yes, you are right, I am standing tippy toe on top of my upturned recycle bin soapbox. And I am pointing my finger at those of you out there that think hippie dread locks and retro tie-dye are enough of a political statement. Where is that righteous anger you felt while stranded in your own piss on that overpass three years ago as you watched Bush flying over head? Do your grandparents who marched on Selma know you aren’t even registered to vote?
Yes, I am pissed that we lost our country to Bush eight years ago. I am furious with those of you that sat out the election because you could not see the clear difference between Bush and Gore. Do you really think we’d be in this war if Gore had won? The world is a far more dangerous place now. Our environment has lost precious time during the past eight years. Did you know that scientists predict that for the first time in our human history ice is due to disappear entirely from the North Pole THIS year? Bush turned a blind eye to climate change and the realistic steps that could have been taken to address global warming.
John McCain is “too little, too late”. I credit him with intelligence and integrity and if he had been the Republican president for these past two terms I suspect we’d have fared far better than with Bush. But the sad reality is that we have lost so much ground in the fight for our environment; gotten so deep into a no-win war; lost so many jobs to other countries. And the list of problems that took root during Bush’s tenure grows and grows. In my opinion, McCain will not bring on the serious changes we need.
You say you got a real solution
Well, you know
We’d all love to see the plan
You ask me for a contribution
It is a given that all politicians put forth more than they actually deliver. And you never really know the man or woman until they take office. Yet sometimes you simply have to take that ride with them and hope and pray they will make good on more promised than not. A guy I work with had always been Republican, always voted Republican. But not this time he told me. He is supporting Obama and he said: “If Obama can accomplish just one third of what he says he can do then he will make this country better”.
I too, am realistic enough to know that one man’s dreams, hopes and ideals are contingent upon others of like mind and will, and circumstances that favor miracles. But if you don’t set your goals high enough to endure the gravitational pull of opposition then you are left with nothing. I believe we need the solutions Obama offers and I am asking you for one contribution – your vote.
“So what good is my one vote? It’s not gonna make a difference.” Well it does. How do think Bush won? With one vote at a time. I must give it to the Republican – they believe in the power of the vote and they do it. If just 5% more Democrats had turned out to vote in 2000 we wouldn’t be in Iraq right now. Think about it. And why would you not want to have your voice heard – don’t you believe in the worth of your opinion. You have a right to be heard.
There is much to fear and too much to regret in the world today. We, along with our leaders, have not been the stewards this world needs. Yes, we have failed. I have bitched you out, but none of our hands are squeaky clean. Everyday there are the high roads I detour with the promise to travel them tomorrow. Regardless of whether we have actively created this mess or simply sat back, passively, and watched it happen -- now is the time, perhaps our last chance to take that high road.
In my lifetime folks were murdered for merely attempting to register a vote. A cup of coffee at the Woolworth could land you in jail. And in a seemingly staid and respectable neighborhood in my hometown a young man going out to buy a pack cigarettes never returned – he was found castrated and hanging from a tree. Prejudice attacks beyond skin color. It was not until my mother’s youth that women could vote. Gay soldiers still endure the humiliation of “Don’t ask, Don’t tell”.
Instead of the slap-in-the-face of indifference, honor those who have given us the vote through struggle. Be part of this historic election. Clinton and Obama, by their mere presence, have already defied many prejudices. Just by having run for office, Hillary has put the White House within the sights of every woman out there. And if we use the power of our vote we just might place Obama and therefore a bit of ourselves in Washington, in history, in change.
Registering to vote is quick and easy. And NO, you are not any more likely to be summoned to jury duty because you are registered. Non-voters get jury duty also – it is a random thing. The point being, there are no excuses not to vote. The Registrar of Voters office is just a phone call away (504-658-0195) and they are ready to help you. This is not only about the November 4th election it’s about having a say in who governs our city and state.
And you tell me over and over and over again my friend, ahh, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.
…But we are. Unless we do some reconstruction now. Don’t you want to tell your grandchildren you helped to bring us back from the brink? Vote.
My views are my own (along with lyrical assistance from the Beatles and Barry McGuire) and do not necessarily reflect this magazine.
By
Debbie Lindsey
You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
Well, do you? Do you want to change the world? Yeah you. I am talking about a last chance to right some pretty large wrongs. Wrongs that just may have taken us to a point of no return. The eleventh hour is just seconds away from running out. There are actions incumbent upon us to perform if we want to face the future generation – and to face ourselves in the mirror. In November you can pull the plug on an administration that has brought shame even to Republicans. You can hit the reset button with your vote. With due respect to McCain I believe he is unable to embrace the amount of change we need.
Yes, you are right, I am standing tippy toe on top of my upturned recycle bin soapbox. And I am pointing my finger at those of you out there that think hippie dread locks and retro tie-dye are enough of a political statement. Where is that righteous anger you felt while stranded in your own piss on that overpass three years ago as you watched Bush flying over head? Do your grandparents who marched on Selma know you aren’t even registered to vote?
Yes, I am pissed that we lost our country to Bush eight years ago. I am furious with those of you that sat out the election because you could not see the clear difference between Bush and Gore. Do you really think we’d be in this war if Gore had won? The world is a far more dangerous place now. Our environment has lost precious time during the past eight years. Did you know that scientists predict that for the first time in our human history ice is due to disappear entirely from the North Pole THIS year? Bush turned a blind eye to climate change and the realistic steps that could have been taken to address global warming.
John McCain is “too little, too late”. I credit him with intelligence and integrity and if he had been the Republican president for these past two terms I suspect we’d have fared far better than with Bush. But the sad reality is that we have lost so much ground in the fight for our environment; gotten so deep into a no-win war; lost so many jobs to other countries. And the list of problems that took root during Bush’s tenure grows and grows. In my opinion, McCain will not bring on the serious changes we need.
You say you got a real solution
Well, you know
We’d all love to see the plan
You ask me for a contribution
It is a given that all politicians put forth more than they actually deliver. And you never really know the man or woman until they take office. Yet sometimes you simply have to take that ride with them and hope and pray they will make good on more promised than not. A guy I work with had always been Republican, always voted Republican. But not this time he told me. He is supporting Obama and he said: “If Obama can accomplish just one third of what he says he can do then he will make this country better”.
I too, am realistic enough to know that one man’s dreams, hopes and ideals are contingent upon others of like mind and will, and circumstances that favor miracles. But if you don’t set your goals high enough to endure the gravitational pull of opposition then you are left with nothing. I believe we need the solutions Obama offers and I am asking you for one contribution – your vote.
“So what good is my one vote? It’s not gonna make a difference.” Well it does. How do think Bush won? With one vote at a time. I must give it to the Republican – they believe in the power of the vote and they do it. If just 5% more Democrats had turned out to vote in 2000 we wouldn’t be in Iraq right now. Think about it. And why would you not want to have your voice heard – don’t you believe in the worth of your opinion. You have a right to be heard.
There is much to fear and too much to regret in the world today. We, along with our leaders, have not been the stewards this world needs. Yes, we have failed. I have bitched you out, but none of our hands are squeaky clean. Everyday there are the high roads I detour with the promise to travel them tomorrow. Regardless of whether we have actively created this mess or simply sat back, passively, and watched it happen -- now is the time, perhaps our last chance to take that high road.
In my lifetime folks were murdered for merely attempting to register a vote. A cup of coffee at the Woolworth could land you in jail. And in a seemingly staid and respectable neighborhood in my hometown a young man going out to buy a pack cigarettes never returned – he was found castrated and hanging from a tree. Prejudice attacks beyond skin color. It was not until my mother’s youth that women could vote. Gay soldiers still endure the humiliation of “Don’t ask, Don’t tell”.
Instead of the slap-in-the-face of indifference, honor those who have given us the vote through struggle. Be part of this historic election. Clinton and Obama, by their mere presence, have already defied many prejudices. Just by having run for office, Hillary has put the White House within the sights of every woman out there. And if we use the power of our vote we just might place Obama and therefore a bit of ourselves in Washington, in history, in change.
Registering to vote is quick and easy. And NO, you are not any more likely to be summoned to jury duty because you are registered. Non-voters get jury duty also – it is a random thing. The point being, there are no excuses not to vote. The Registrar of Voters office is just a phone call away (504-658-0195) and they are ready to help you. This is not only about the November 4th election it’s about having a say in who governs our city and state.
And you tell me over and over and over again my friend, ahh, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.
…But we are. Unless we do some reconstruction now. Don’t you want to tell your grandchildren you helped to bring us back from the brink? Vote.
My views are my own (along with lyrical assistance from the Beatles and Barry McGuire) and do not necessarily reflect this magazine.
22 MONTH FROM KATRINA IN NEW ORLEANS
You know ya need a change of scene when a sleep deprived early morning visit to the dentist feels like an outing. If the closest you get to a vacation is sitting in the dentist chair, forced to revisit the 80’s by way of really bad top 40 and staring at an utter waste of oil paint made to resemble a bucolic country side, with the obligatory creek running throughout – you are . You know you are tired, very tired, when you relax into the pretend nature and fall asleep despite a drill, suction tube and a hand inside your mouth.
It has been a long twenty-two months that feels like twenty-two years. Boyfriend and I belong to the lucky few that lost nothing in terms of worldly poccessions and never had to travel that Road Home. But, ever since we returned in October of 05 we have been working, working and working. Boyfriend is no stranger to long hours and long years – it was just part of being a chef. But me – now that’s a different story. I believed in working to live not living to work. And my 27 to 35 hour work week suited my needs just fine. Mind you, as a waitress, those hours could be brutal and challenging but my free time was always there to lick my wounds.
As you may already know, we opened a cook book shop and considering the economic landscape here nowadays we ain’t doin’ too shabby. I have fallen in love with our little shop and while it’s a love child of our business union – it’s time for the child to start doin’ the dishes.
Speaking of dishes, I actually yearn for the free time to clean house. And when I take time away from the shop to work up a little sweat with my Electrolux I feel anxious and guilty.
There are so many things I don’t do anymore – some I miss desperately some I just have forgotten to miss. Going to the movies or a museum now seems too time consuming when those two hours could be used for: the vet, making groceries, Office Depot, the thrift store, recycling drop offs, dentist, doctor, and another vet visit before it’s all over. Oh, and don’t forget to walk the dog – she looks like she’s gonna pee right about now – and in walks a customer – and there goes another little puddle to clean up – again.
Multi-tasking, for me, is like performance art – sometimes I excel and then sometimes I dance myself into a corner. Lately my back is bruised from backing into corners. I know I am not alone. These days, it seems, everyone here is running on empty. Katrina? Yes, but in my case it’s the we/opened/a/new/business/work/seven/days/a/week/plus/the/rent/paying/jobs syndrome. Fall into this life style and ya hardly have time for a cocktail (not to worry my doctor suggests xanax).
Okay, my life is stylin’ compared to what’s dished out to most. I have a business that teaches me, stokes creativity and I have the joy of sharing this with a man I love and a small herd of animals. But, day in day out smiling through all the details has begun to make a little cranky. Why, just take the other day…
There I was at my rent-paying-restaurant-job when a very nice customer complimented my smiling attitude to which I replied: “Thanks, but on the inside I am cutting you up into tiny little pieces”. Thank god he thought this to be very funny. Yeah right. So…I immediately made reservations for a mini-vacation.
Ever find yourself wanting to slap the daylights out of some sweet hapless tourist as they blithely comment, “…well things seem to be getting back to normal”? Do you bite your tongue till it bleeds rather than risk words than can never ever be retrieved? Are you taking time to see, hear, feel any of the precious things that New Orleans has to offer? Do you wonder at least ten times a day “Why the hell did I move back here”?
Yes? Then, as the song goes, pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again. Take my advice: Don’t wait till you’ve hurt someone’s feelings or burned yourself out of a job you really like or need. Get away for a while and if money and time do not allow then go to Audubon Park and sit under a tree. Too hot? The lose yourself in a movie (not a netflix, I mean a real go-to-the-movies-and-eat popcorn outing); lay by a pool for the day -- sneak into a hotel pool if need be (these on desperate times that call for desperate measures. Just do something to head off going stark raving mad.
A complete melt-down is not something I expect to encounter; but to be on the safe side it’s time to take a chill pill -- for I am truly beginning to melt at the edges. And that pill comes in the form of a trip to my beloved Fairhope on Mobile Bay.
A trip around the world couldn’t thrill me as much as swimming among a lifetime of memories in the waters of my hometown bay. alongside jumping mullets in my Alabama estuary I have almost forgotten what life outside the French Quarter is like. But as I put the ole Gone Fishin’ sign on the door and get ready to blow this joint for a couple of daysam humming pack up all my cares and woes, here I go, bye bye black mood.
It has been a long twenty-two months that feels like twenty-two years. Boyfriend and I belong to the lucky few that lost nothing in terms of worldly poccessions and never had to travel that Road Home. But, ever since we returned in October of 05 we have been working, working and working. Boyfriend is no stranger to long hours and long years – it was just part of being a chef. But me – now that’s a different story. I believed in working to live not living to work. And my 27 to 35 hour work week suited my needs just fine. Mind you, as a waitress, those hours could be brutal and challenging but my free time was always there to lick my wounds.
As you may already know, we opened a cook book shop and considering the economic landscape here nowadays we ain’t doin’ too shabby. I have fallen in love with our little shop and while it’s a love child of our business union – it’s time for the child to start doin’ the dishes.
Speaking of dishes, I actually yearn for the free time to clean house. And when I take time away from the shop to work up a little sweat with my Electrolux I feel anxious and guilty.
There are so many things I don’t do anymore – some I miss desperately some I just have forgotten to miss. Going to the movies or a museum now seems too time consuming when those two hours could be used for: the vet, making groceries, Office Depot, the thrift store, recycling drop offs, dentist, doctor, and another vet visit before it’s all over. Oh, and don’t forget to walk the dog – she looks like she’s gonna pee right about now – and in walks a customer – and there goes another little puddle to clean up – again.
Multi-tasking, for me, is like performance art – sometimes I excel and then sometimes I dance myself into a corner. Lately my back is bruised from backing into corners. I know I am not alone. These days, it seems, everyone here is running on empty. Katrina? Yes, but in my case it’s the we/opened/a/new/business/work/seven/days/a/week/plus/the/rent/paying/jobs syndrome. Fall into this life style and ya hardly have time for a cocktail (not to worry my doctor suggests xanax).
Okay, my life is stylin’ compared to what’s dished out to most. I have a business that teaches me, stokes creativity and I have the joy of sharing this with a man I love and a small herd of animals. But, day in day out smiling through all the details has begun to make a little cranky. Why, just take the other day…
There I was at my rent-paying-restaurant-job when a very nice customer complimented my smiling attitude to which I replied: “Thanks, but on the inside I am cutting you up into tiny little pieces”. Thank god he thought this to be very funny. Yeah right. So…I immediately made reservations for a mini-vacation.
Ever find yourself wanting to slap the daylights out of some sweet hapless tourist as they blithely comment, “…well things seem to be getting back to normal”? Do you bite your tongue till it bleeds rather than risk words than can never ever be retrieved? Are you taking time to see, hear, feel any of the precious things that New Orleans has to offer? Do you wonder at least ten times a day “Why the hell did I move back here”?
Yes? Then, as the song goes, pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again. Take my advice: Don’t wait till you’ve hurt someone’s feelings or burned yourself out of a job you really like or need. Get away for a while and if money and time do not allow then go to Audubon Park and sit under a tree. Too hot? The lose yourself in a movie (not a netflix, I mean a real go-to-the-movies-and-eat popcorn outing); lay by a pool for the day -- sneak into a hotel pool if need be (these on desperate times that call for desperate measures. Just do something to head off going stark raving mad.
A complete melt-down is not something I expect to encounter; but to be on the safe side it’s time to take a chill pill -- for I am truly beginning to melt at the edges. And that pill comes in the form of a trip to my beloved Fairhope on Mobile Bay.
A trip around the world couldn’t thrill me as much as swimming among a lifetime of memories in the waters of my hometown bay. alongside jumping mullets in my Alabama estuary I have almost forgotten what life outside the French Quarter is like. But as I put the ole Gone Fishin’ sign on the door and get ready to blow this joint for a couple of daysam humming pack up all my cares and woes, here I go, bye bye black mood.
NE ORLEANS BEAUTIFUL DREAMER
“Songs of the Rude World Heard Through the Day…Beautiful Dreamer…”
By
Debbie Lindsey
According to Abe Lincoln and his Hedgehog sidekick, “Your Dreams Miss You”. It is a clever television sleep aid advertisement and would catch my attention under any circumstance. But now it truly makes sense. It’s an idea I can wrap my head around because it’s so easy to miss your dreams, yet it’s a two-way street – you being missed by them as well.
Not all dreams play out upon a pillowcase stage. And not all insomnia occurs when the lights go out. A malaise can rob our daylight hours as viciously as sleeplessness. I know this because Honest Abe and the Hedgehog are staring me down right now.
I see waterlines everywhere, real and imagined. The coffee cup ringed with waterlines; the grimy Coppertone nimbus encircling the blue tile of the swimming pool; the calcified crust of sediment left lingering inside a half forgotten bottle of Merlot; all scream broken levees to me. And what’s worse is that I seem to willingly look for them.
I never thought of myself as a rubber-necker. Car wrecks and house fires were not for viewing; to gawk, stare, get in the way was in poor taste at best, and more to point, ghoulish. I am now the devastation diva, starring in my very own disaster film.
So, I figure the Dreams are missing me right about now. I am the insomniac unable to appreciate the diamonds in the refuse. Is the glass full or half full? I don’t know – all I see is its waterline.
But, in spite of myself my Dreams are about to woo me and seduce me back. Back to believing in living here or at least relishing every moment of reprieve from the gnawing negatives.
If my New Orleans dreams were to flash before my eyes they would be accompanied by music, the setting would be springtime, and if one event were to hold center stage it would be Jazz Fest. Spring and Jazz Fest are like milk and cookies—each can stand alone on their own merits, but hey they are great sex together.
Before this city’s dark side started to wear me out, before we were drowned like an unwanted litter of kittens, before all that, I could feel giddy with love just belonging here. And the feeling would reach euphoric proportions every year as I entered the Fair Grounds. Jazz Fest was and still is an annual dedication to New Orleans; a repetitive epiphany about how special this place is and therefore how special we are to live it.
They sang and played their hearts out for me last year. I found them in the Gospel tent, prancing as Indians, singing “Love for Sale”, doing a cooking demonstration, playing back-up for Paul Simon, dishing up my vegetarian red beans and rice. And despite their best efforts I have been out of touch with my Dreams for much of the past year. They tried to warn me that our Road Home would continue to be riddled with potholes and to not give up on them…but at times, I did.
My Dreams have enlisted assistance (outside the Fair Grounds and Spring) in their mission to soften my cynicism, fluff my pillow of memories. Meet their new recruit: Gretchen. Gretchen is everything this city needs right about now. As so many of our folks have been flung across the country with no means to maneuver the Road-Home-To-What?, those that did make it back are now questioning that decision. Not Gretchen, she made it back and has put super glue within her foothold.
She is a mirror of myself and the relationship I once had with my Dreams. She “gets” the city. Yet for some reason I pick apart my new friend’s slaphappy immersion, her baptism into our culture. I do this with a divorcee’s love-lost eye roll in the face of another’s love-at-first-sight verve. And still, she, the emissary, remains defiantly loyal to her new love, her Dream – New Orleans.
Funny thing about my Dreams, they nudge me and nip at my ankles when I least expect them. While a new friend, Jazz Fest, or spring fever might showcase or typify the positive and the potential it really comes down to the bits and pieces of everyday life. We all know too well the day in/day out splinters of crime, ineptness, broken water mains, broken lives that fester. But the small dear things like green parrots in flight, a brilliant street performance of “Caravan”, the smell of baking cakes drifting up from a sidewalk ventilation grate, the endless “Hey dawlin’”, all work hard to keep the nightmares at bay.
And then there are my friends.
Cultural stimulus aside, because all the feathers, fleur-de-lis and fanfare can not equal my friends here. My Dreams are the friends that hold you when your dog dies, remember your birthday even when you wanna forget it, worry over your cancer scare, rejoice in your good fortunes, and buy you that cold beer when ya feel like punching the world out.
Will my Dreams prevail; will any of our dreams prevail? We all came back with grand expectations and nervous anticipations. Dreams and nightmares. I guess all any of us can hope for are the occasional cease-fires. And when a new friend sees beyond the waterline, let her, encourage her. She is merely letting you know that your Dreams miss you.
By
Debbie Lindsey
According to Abe Lincoln and his Hedgehog sidekick, “Your Dreams Miss You”. It is a clever television sleep aid advertisement and would catch my attention under any circumstance. But now it truly makes sense. It’s an idea I can wrap my head around because it’s so easy to miss your dreams, yet it’s a two-way street – you being missed by them as well.
Not all dreams play out upon a pillowcase stage. And not all insomnia occurs when the lights go out. A malaise can rob our daylight hours as viciously as sleeplessness. I know this because Honest Abe and the Hedgehog are staring me down right now.
I see waterlines everywhere, real and imagined. The coffee cup ringed with waterlines; the grimy Coppertone nimbus encircling the blue tile of the swimming pool; the calcified crust of sediment left lingering inside a half forgotten bottle of Merlot; all scream broken levees to me. And what’s worse is that I seem to willingly look for them.
I never thought of myself as a rubber-necker. Car wrecks and house fires were not for viewing; to gawk, stare, get in the way was in poor taste at best, and more to point, ghoulish. I am now the devastation diva, starring in my very own disaster film.
So, I figure the Dreams are missing me right about now. I am the insomniac unable to appreciate the diamonds in the refuse. Is the glass full or half full? I don’t know – all I see is its waterline.
But, in spite of myself my Dreams are about to woo me and seduce me back. Back to believing in living here or at least relishing every moment of reprieve from the gnawing negatives.
If my New Orleans dreams were to flash before my eyes they would be accompanied by music, the setting would be springtime, and if one event were to hold center stage it would be Jazz Fest. Spring and Jazz Fest are like milk and cookies—each can stand alone on their own merits, but hey they are great sex together.
Before this city’s dark side started to wear me out, before we were drowned like an unwanted litter of kittens, before all that, I could feel giddy with love just belonging here. And the feeling would reach euphoric proportions every year as I entered the Fair Grounds. Jazz Fest was and still is an annual dedication to New Orleans; a repetitive epiphany about how special this place is and therefore how special we are to live it.
They sang and played their hearts out for me last year. I found them in the Gospel tent, prancing as Indians, singing “Love for Sale”, doing a cooking demonstration, playing back-up for Paul Simon, dishing up my vegetarian red beans and rice. And despite their best efforts I have been out of touch with my Dreams for much of the past year. They tried to warn me that our Road Home would continue to be riddled with potholes and to not give up on them…but at times, I did.
My Dreams have enlisted assistance (outside the Fair Grounds and Spring) in their mission to soften my cynicism, fluff my pillow of memories. Meet their new recruit: Gretchen. Gretchen is everything this city needs right about now. As so many of our folks have been flung across the country with no means to maneuver the Road-Home-To-What?, those that did make it back are now questioning that decision. Not Gretchen, she made it back and has put super glue within her foothold.
She is a mirror of myself and the relationship I once had with my Dreams. She “gets” the city. Yet for some reason I pick apart my new friend’s slaphappy immersion, her baptism into our culture. I do this with a divorcee’s love-lost eye roll in the face of another’s love-at-first-sight verve. And still, she, the emissary, remains defiantly loyal to her new love, her Dream – New Orleans.
Funny thing about my Dreams, they nudge me and nip at my ankles when I least expect them. While a new friend, Jazz Fest, or spring fever might showcase or typify the positive and the potential it really comes down to the bits and pieces of everyday life. We all know too well the day in/day out splinters of crime, ineptness, broken water mains, broken lives that fester. But the small dear things like green parrots in flight, a brilliant street performance of “Caravan”, the smell of baking cakes drifting up from a sidewalk ventilation grate, the endless “Hey dawlin’”, all work hard to keep the nightmares at bay.
And then there are my friends.
Cultural stimulus aside, because all the feathers, fleur-de-lis and fanfare can not equal my friends here. My Dreams are the friends that hold you when your dog dies, remember your birthday even when you wanna forget it, worry over your cancer scare, rejoice in your good fortunes, and buy you that cold beer when ya feel like punching the world out.
Will my Dreams prevail; will any of our dreams prevail? We all came back with grand expectations and nervous anticipations. Dreams and nightmares. I guess all any of us can hope for are the occasional cease-fires. And when a new friend sees beyond the waterline, let her, encourage her. She is merely letting you know that your Dreams miss you.
CANINE VIEW OF KATRINA
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.
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.
vacation in new orleans
New Orleans Holiday
By
Debbie Lindsey
Ah, a villa in the South of France, a London flat, or a cottage in Scotland where all the cobblestone streets lead to a quaint little pub. And then there’s Italy, Sicily and don’t forget Barcelona. Or, how about N. Dupre Street, centrally located and just a hop, skip and a jump to Metairie or Kenner.
The Vacation -- that annual escape to sights unknown, adventure, romance, immersion into new cultures – is what most of us set our sights on when working our fingers to the bone all year long. Lord knows Boyfriend and I had high hopes of distancing our selves from everyday life by either flying off somewhere or road-tripping to new vistas. And then came Gustav. Little did we know that our evacuation last year to exotic Birmingham, Alabama would be it for the time being. Sure it set us back money-wise for the moment but no big deal we thought, that is until the world economy began to fizzle. Now it’s time to place those passports back in the drawer, put on some rose-colored glasses and take a fresh look at what’s in our own back yard.
For the past couple of weeks Boyfriend and I have been writing our Picks for the Best of the Big Easy and together compiling a list of “we gotta do this and see that”. Next thing I knew, we were planning a vacation right here at home and realizing that we might need an extra week because our play list was getting as long as our itinerary in London and Paris was last year. And that was when we decided not to be vacation over-achievers but to allow relaxation to guide us.
Like so many folks these days, we are working longer and harder just to keep our heads above the bills. So, the idea of keeping it simple and therefore utterly inexpensive has become the goal. There will be no rushing to make connecting flights; no eye strain from reading maps while maneuvering exits on unfamiliar freeways; no jet lag and no mountain of bills to face after going on holiday.
There is a reason why so many tourists visit our city. We are flush with history, culture, music, art, and amazing wildlife and fauna. And then there’s our food, which rivals just about anywhere. You could eat your way through this city and still only nibble at the tip of that iceberg. Also, I just checked the yellow pages and found twenty different museums listed and I know there are more than that not listed. Some offer free admission, others a free day or discount and those with fees are all priced low to reasonable.
Many of our first time tourists are day-trippers – volunteers taking a break from house gutting or visitors brought in by charter buses from Mississippi and turned lose for just an afternoon. I am a magnet for these folks and they always wanna know, “What would you recommend we see or do in such short time?” and my answer is “Go sit down…and ride the St.Charles Street Car”. I take my own advice on this and suggest that other locals do the same. Get on that pony and ride.
It’s easy to take our city for granted and she certainly has her difficult moments. Yet every time for the past twenty years that I board the streetcar I become a born-again New Orleanian. The first streetcar line dates to 1835 and today the St. Charles line of cars in current use were built in 1923 (can ya imagine anything built nowadays to last that long). In 1973 the St. Charles Streetcar line was placed on the National Register of Historic Places and is the oldest urban passenger rail system in the nation. So, whether you’re a visitor on the run or a local with time to spare, go sit your butt down on a piece of history. I certainly will be using the streetcars (including the newer Canal and Carrollton lines) to sightsee. And note: you can purchase a one-day RTA VisiTour pass for $5 or a three-day pass for $12 for unlimited travel, good on buses as well; so save money and call 248-3900 for info.
I stress the use of our transit system because many folks do not have cars and that should never keep one tethered to the fence. Get out there and visit Audubon Park and if ya have some bucks to spare spend the day at the Zoo. Also check out the Park’s public swimming pool located at 6500 Magazine Street, phone 864-8139 or its horse riding stables on 700 East Drive, phone 891-2246.
City Park had always felt like my personal park with it being just a short bike ride away from my home in the Quarter. But now that I live in its neighborhood the Park feels like my back yard. Boyfriend and I might need several vacations just to reintroduce us to all the park has to offer. We will start with renewing our New Orleans Museum of Art membership (it’s cheap). And then visit the Amusement Park and Botanical gardens. Even take an urban wildlife hike and still be within strolling distance of a cold beer (Parkview Café in the old Casino building).
“What did you do on your day off?” If your answer is nothing more than a shrug of your shoulders then I need to pistol-whip you with a barrage of get-a-life-and-enjoy-it. There is no excuse for not having an adventure or passing a good time. I have touched on only a handful of things to do for little or nothing. And if you are blessed with something resembling ‘disposable income’ then get out there and go to a festival, movie, music gig, restaurant, road trip. Get on that streetcar, unleash yourself from that electronic device, and look out the window. You just might be surprised and I promise you’ll never be bored.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Ah, a villa in the South of France, a London flat, or a cottage in Scotland where all the cobblestone streets lead to a quaint little pub. And then there’s Italy, Sicily and don’t forget Barcelona. Or, how about N. Dupre Street, centrally located and just a hop, skip and a jump to Metairie or Kenner.
The Vacation -- that annual escape to sights unknown, adventure, romance, immersion into new cultures – is what most of us set our sights on when working our fingers to the bone all year long. Lord knows Boyfriend and I had high hopes of distancing our selves from everyday life by either flying off somewhere or road-tripping to new vistas. And then came Gustav. Little did we know that our evacuation last year to exotic Birmingham, Alabama would be it for the time being. Sure it set us back money-wise for the moment but no big deal we thought, that is until the world economy began to fizzle. Now it’s time to place those passports back in the drawer, put on some rose-colored glasses and take a fresh look at what’s in our own back yard.
For the past couple of weeks Boyfriend and I have been writing our Picks for the Best of the Big Easy and together compiling a list of “we gotta do this and see that”. Next thing I knew, we were planning a vacation right here at home and realizing that we might need an extra week because our play list was getting as long as our itinerary in London and Paris was last year. And that was when we decided not to be vacation over-achievers but to allow relaxation to guide us.
Like so many folks these days, we are working longer and harder just to keep our heads above the bills. So, the idea of keeping it simple and therefore utterly inexpensive has become the goal. There will be no rushing to make connecting flights; no eye strain from reading maps while maneuvering exits on unfamiliar freeways; no jet lag and no mountain of bills to face after going on holiday.
There is a reason why so many tourists visit our city. We are flush with history, culture, music, art, and amazing wildlife and fauna. And then there’s our food, which rivals just about anywhere. You could eat your way through this city and still only nibble at the tip of that iceberg. Also, I just checked the yellow pages and found twenty different museums listed and I know there are more than that not listed. Some offer free admission, others a free day or discount and those with fees are all priced low to reasonable.
Many of our first time tourists are day-trippers – volunteers taking a break from house gutting or visitors brought in by charter buses from Mississippi and turned lose for just an afternoon. I am a magnet for these folks and they always wanna know, “What would you recommend we see or do in such short time?” and my answer is “Go sit down…and ride the St.Charles Street Car”. I take my own advice on this and suggest that other locals do the same. Get on that pony and ride.
It’s easy to take our city for granted and she certainly has her difficult moments. Yet every time for the past twenty years that I board the streetcar I become a born-again New Orleanian. The first streetcar line dates to 1835 and today the St. Charles line of cars in current use were built in 1923 (can ya imagine anything built nowadays to last that long). In 1973 the St. Charles Streetcar line was placed on the National Register of Historic Places and is the oldest urban passenger rail system in the nation. So, whether you’re a visitor on the run or a local with time to spare, go sit your butt down on a piece of history. I certainly will be using the streetcars (including the newer Canal and Carrollton lines) to sightsee. And note: you can purchase a one-day RTA VisiTour pass for $5 or a three-day pass for $12 for unlimited travel, good on buses as well; so save money and call 248-3900 for info.
I stress the use of our transit system because many folks do not have cars and that should never keep one tethered to the fence. Get out there and visit Audubon Park and if ya have some bucks to spare spend the day at the Zoo. Also check out the Park’s public swimming pool located at 6500 Magazine Street, phone 864-8139 or its horse riding stables on 700 East Drive, phone 891-2246.
City Park had always felt like my personal park with it being just a short bike ride away from my home in the Quarter. But now that I live in its neighborhood the Park feels like my back yard. Boyfriend and I might need several vacations just to reintroduce us to all the park has to offer. We will start with renewing our New Orleans Museum of Art membership (it’s cheap). And then visit the Amusement Park and Botanical gardens. Even take an urban wildlife hike and still be within strolling distance of a cold beer (Parkview Café in the old Casino building).
“What did you do on your day off?” If your answer is nothing more than a shrug of your shoulders then I need to pistol-whip you with a barrage of get-a-life-and-enjoy-it. There is no excuse for not having an adventure or passing a good time. I have touched on only a handful of things to do for little or nothing. And if you are blessed with something resembling ‘disposable income’ then get out there and go to a festival, movie, music gig, restaurant, road trip. Get on that streetcar, unleash yourself from that electronic device, and look out the window. You just might be surprised and I promise you’ll never be bored.
FAMILY IN NEW ORLEANS
We Are Family
By
Debbie Lindsey
Today I was feeling as 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 those frantic little circles -- 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 feline 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 Gallivan, 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 Walgreens 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 as 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 those frantic little circles -- 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 feline 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 Gallivan, 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 Walgreens 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.
BLIND LOVE FROM NEW ORLEANS
Blind Love
By
Debbie Lindsey
What the world needs now is love sweet love.
Mike Joullian once told me that people suffer from skin hunger. Not from lack of sex or food, my friend explained, but from the lack of affection, of touch. Sometimes a person just needs a hug. This simple exercise does a body good and has been known to prevent hardening of the heart.
As with most holidays certain concerns or emotions are tapped into. At Halloween we are allowed to scream like a girl while confronting the boogey man from our childhood nightmares. During Thanksgiving we rear our self-absorbed heads long enough to see the homeless and hungry and, if only for a day, we serve food and dignity--then give nervous thanks for our lucky station in life. And at Christmas, amid the frivolous shopping and its resulting debt, we do actually feel and act upon the need to truly give. Charities will prosper. And that elderly neighbor with no family will be invited to share a day with those next door. The mere sharing of “Merry Christmas” to strangers at the bus stop can brighten a day.
There are gestures and attitudes associated with the various holidays that could easily be practiced daily – the screaming like a girl part may not be for everyone, but you get the picture. We don’t have to wait until Mother’s Day to make time for her or only honor our veterans on the eleventh of November. Or how about Valentine’s Day and the promise of love? This is an easy no fuss cost-free holiday to one can replicate daily.
Valentine’s Day is not just for sweethearts it’s for everyone, in fact, I suggest it be for every thing that we love. I love Miller High Life and intend to show my love by ordering one from my bartender, whom I love, at the bar I love tonight – just to get the ball rolling. Now, I realize that the word love has been cast about rather freely for years and that there are folks who take umbrage at how the word has become so commonplace, so casual. So, of course, love for a mother trumps an ice-cold beer or the bartender serving it but hey, in a world as tough as this one why not find a little love in everything.
I know too many folks who are not on the receiving end of love and there are millions more like them across the world. The guy in the wheel chair is avoided because his brilliant mind and his speech are camouflaged by cerebral palsy. That sullen twenty-something girl seems so haughty and self-contained…until you take the time and ask how are you today? Then she smiles, and you see an entirely different person.
I had backed away from writing this Valentine and love thing because it just felt too contrived, too damn corny. So I decided after my foot hit a puddle of piddle sending me skidding and slipping into a near perfect Dick Van Dyke pratfall that the dangers of dog pee on hardwood floors would make a better story than one about love.
But I simply could not get What the World Needs Now love fest out of my head. And I realized, as I starting taking my own advice -- saying and smiling salutations to passersby, that it does work. People do respond, for the most part, to little tokens of warmth. But also two other things happened today to make me continue in this saccharine sweet vein – Rosie (the urinator) and Mike (the skin hunger prophet).
There is a little someone that I love, she is the matriarch of my herd of fleabags, many of you know her as Rosie the Wonder Dog. She’s a tough old bird but today she had to undergo surgery. Her illness was leading towards total blindness with serious health risks along the way. The operation would end the pain; the blindness would be complete. We were prepared for the loss of sight (little sunglasses, hat with veil, white tipped cane and tin cup for begging donations) -- but not prepared to loose her.
Today she lived up the her Wonder Dog name and despite her age came through with flying colors, colors she will never see again. But Rosie still has more love in store for her. Every article, every trainer or veterinarian I reference, insist on the importance of a loving touch and an encouraging voice to guide a dog through its new world of darkness. Of course, Rosie the food whore likes the other aspect of her new training – extra treats. I am sure she’s already planned to fake fall down the steps every time unless incentive treats are provided, like forever. She’s got me trained.
While awaiting the results, my hometown friend, Mike, just happened to be in town and dropped by to visit. I gave him a hug that I hoped would let him know our much I have needed his friendship of forty years -- and today I really needed it and held on to him a bit longer. Sometimes ya just gotta feel the love.
There are famines throughout this world but the hunger of the soul, of one’s spirit is one famine that is all prevailing. It can affect even the otherwise well fed. You never know when someone is at their wits end, just trying to stay ahead of the mortgage or holding on to a job that may vanish tomorrow. How many do we know that have struggled for the past four years to rebuild only to discover they have to walk away from their home due to Chinese drywall – with only the cold comfort of a lingering class action suit.
A kind word, smile or touch will not restore one’s life, but it might give meaning to it. A little compassion might make the struggles worthwhile. People do die from skin hunger; their spirit can just wither and give up. And we all have the ability offer a little sustenance – a little reprieve from the darkness.
By
Debbie Lindsey
What the world needs now is love sweet love.
Mike Joullian once told me that people suffer from skin hunger. Not from lack of sex or food, my friend explained, but from the lack of affection, of touch. Sometimes a person just needs a hug. This simple exercise does a body good and has been known to prevent hardening of the heart.
As with most holidays certain concerns or emotions are tapped into. At Halloween we are allowed to scream like a girl while confronting the boogey man from our childhood nightmares. During Thanksgiving we rear our self-absorbed heads long enough to see the homeless and hungry and, if only for a day, we serve food and dignity--then give nervous thanks for our lucky station in life. And at Christmas, amid the frivolous shopping and its resulting debt, we do actually feel and act upon the need to truly give. Charities will prosper. And that elderly neighbor with no family will be invited to share a day with those next door. The mere sharing of “Merry Christmas” to strangers at the bus stop can brighten a day.
There are gestures and attitudes associated with the various holidays that could easily be practiced daily – the screaming like a girl part may not be for everyone, but you get the picture. We don’t have to wait until Mother’s Day to make time for her or only honor our veterans on the eleventh of November. Or how about Valentine’s Day and the promise of love? This is an easy no fuss cost-free holiday to one can replicate daily.
Valentine’s Day is not just for sweethearts it’s for everyone, in fact, I suggest it be for every thing that we love. I love Miller High Life and intend to show my love by ordering one from my bartender, whom I love, at the bar I love tonight – just to get the ball rolling. Now, I realize that the word love has been cast about rather freely for years and that there are folks who take umbrage at how the word has become so commonplace, so casual. So, of course, love for a mother trumps an ice-cold beer or the bartender serving it but hey, in a world as tough as this one why not find a little love in everything.
I know too many folks who are not on the receiving end of love and there are millions more like them across the world. The guy in the wheel chair is avoided because his brilliant mind and his speech are camouflaged by cerebral palsy. That sullen twenty-something girl seems so haughty and self-contained…until you take the time and ask how are you today? Then she smiles, and you see an entirely different person.
I had backed away from writing this Valentine and love thing because it just felt too contrived, too damn corny. So I decided after my foot hit a puddle of piddle sending me skidding and slipping into a near perfect Dick Van Dyke pratfall that the dangers of dog pee on hardwood floors would make a better story than one about love.
But I simply could not get What the World Needs Now love fest out of my head. And I realized, as I starting taking my own advice -- saying and smiling salutations to passersby, that it does work. People do respond, for the most part, to little tokens of warmth. But also two other things happened today to make me continue in this saccharine sweet vein – Rosie (the urinator) and Mike (the skin hunger prophet).
There is a little someone that I love, she is the matriarch of my herd of fleabags, many of you know her as Rosie the Wonder Dog. She’s a tough old bird but today she had to undergo surgery. Her illness was leading towards total blindness with serious health risks along the way. The operation would end the pain; the blindness would be complete. We were prepared for the loss of sight (little sunglasses, hat with veil, white tipped cane and tin cup for begging donations) -- but not prepared to loose her.
Today she lived up the her Wonder Dog name and despite her age came through with flying colors, colors she will never see again. But Rosie still has more love in store for her. Every article, every trainer or veterinarian I reference, insist on the importance of a loving touch and an encouraging voice to guide a dog through its new world of darkness. Of course, Rosie the food whore likes the other aspect of her new training – extra treats. I am sure she’s already planned to fake fall down the steps every time unless incentive treats are provided, like forever. She’s got me trained.
While awaiting the results, my hometown friend, Mike, just happened to be in town and dropped by to visit. I gave him a hug that I hoped would let him know our much I have needed his friendship of forty years -- and today I really needed it and held on to him a bit longer. Sometimes ya just gotta feel the love.
There are famines throughout this world but the hunger of the soul, of one’s spirit is one famine that is all prevailing. It can affect even the otherwise well fed. You never know when someone is at their wits end, just trying to stay ahead of the mortgage or holding on to a job that may vanish tomorrow. How many do we know that have struggled for the past four years to rebuild only to discover they have to walk away from their home due to Chinese drywall – with only the cold comfort of a lingering class action suit.
A kind word, smile or touch will not restore one’s life, but it might give meaning to it. A little compassion might make the struggles worthwhile. People do die from skin hunger; their spirit can just wither and give up. And we all have the ability offer a little sustenance – a little reprieve from the darkness.
BIRTHDAY IN NEW ORLEANS
Hope for the Best and Blow Out the Candles
By
Debbie Lindsey
Burdened with fear and trepidation, I approach my next birthday. It’s a big one. No, not forty, I saw that harbinger of sagging buttocks a while back. And I’m not talking about the Big Five O that made my drooping backside seem trifling. Nor fifty-five, when arthritis seemed to be making its way right into my fingernails and eyelashes. My milestone is FIFTY-SIX -- this is the number that stymies me.
Go check out the greeting card department; there are no special ones for 56. It would seem that by the time we reach this number we are supposed to have acclimated ourselves to the whole “fifty something” thing. But, make no mistake we will be reminded again of our mortality and freakish age spots at sixty as there are plenty of “Happy Birthday Geezer” cards for that decade.
When did this dance (attended by stiff joints and sensible shoes) with mortality begin? When and why did my body go south? After the ten thousandth back-breaking food tray was hoisted above my head while covering twenty miles of restaurant floor tiles per day? Is it the arthritis that runs in my family? Menopause? Yes to all the above, but actually it began the day I was born. You know, the first day of the rest of your life, which simply means that downward spiral towards the last day of your life. Menopause is actually the real icing on the fallen cake. Don’t get me wrong, I now enjoy winter with zest. Empowered by hot flashes, I take to my porch in the dead of winter, barefoot, cloaked only in my nightgown and sweat buckets with abandon. The down side being summer: there is no air conditioner on the face of the Earth designed to comfort us women of a certain age during August. (At work, Dawn, my co-working friend of compatible age, and I take turns surreptitiously lowering the thermostat until it attempts to cool us at a near comfortable 49 degrees.)
Recently a young friend complained about a particularly rotten time-of-the-month she was suffering through. Wise sage that I am (not to mention rather mean-spirited and jealous) I told her it could be worse and to appreciate her monthly confrontation with her uterus as one day her estrogen will pack its bags and take leave. She seemed comforted by the prospect until I told her that then her bones would become brittle, her skin would thin and resemble a cheap veneer of leather, all her hair, everywhere, would gray, and of course her vagina would dry up.
Scaring the bejesus out of younger friends is a fun filled perk, but choose your moments judiciously, portraying yourself as an older sister with instructive advice -- and try not to laugh. Remember! You will need these younger friends for their brut strength – twist top wine bottles are hell on arthritic hands.
I use most of my body’s traitorous antics as fonder to amuse my customers as I channel a Joan Rivers without the face-lift. I can flap my outstretched winged arms and croon “Fly Me to the Moon” to my captive audience or belt out “ We’re Havin’ a Heat Wave” and every woman over forty in the restaurant will fan themselves and perspire in sync. We of a certain age bond with every drop of sweat. We are a sisterhood of ever expanding waistlines.
But aging is not all fun and games. At fifty your doctor wants you to enjoy the expense and humiliation of a colonoscopy (albeit a potentially lifesaving experience), bone scans, an EKG (this one is truly important as heart disease has surpassed breast cancer as the leading cause of death among women), and before long they’ll be asking you what year is it and who is the current president.
But seriously, if you take these tests and pass, you will feel younger – no amount of Botox can equal the euphoria of a clean bill of health. Ignorance is not bliss – sometimes merely changing one’s life style can reverse a poor test result.
I am blessed with an inner-child whose age ranges between eight and twelve. This part of me that is still a kid is my fountain of youth -- and we all have this bit of our former self inside us. Some refuse to listen to the “come out and play” voice that is pleading for us to embrace life. In my opinion, the state of boredom is the leading cause of old age and is self-induced. There is no excuse not to participate in life -- short of being in a coma.
A friend recently told me he’d forgotten it was his birthday until he looked at the expiration date on some tired looking chicken parts in his refrigerator. He and the chicken shared a common date – and on the occasion of his birthday his cellophane wrapped poultry hit the garbage pail. Next year I will make sure that he is reminded with birthday cards instead of a chicken’s obit.
Humor is my best defense against aging (although some might suggest a face-lift) but there are rules and good form to follow, for aging is a very personal and heartfelt experience.
Age-ism is one of the worst of the “isms”. The word “old” can turn on a dime and from the wrong lips, do great harm. A person’s worth is diminished every time someone younger uses the “O” word as a descriptor. I overheard a young waitress once reference a customer’s request with: “That old man over there needs a refill of ice tea”. Apparently she saw no other way to point out the tall ice tea sipping guy in a bright yellow shirt with a straw pork-pie hat seated at table 12 with his birthday cake blazing before him and his friends loudly singing “Happy Birthday Harry”. I guess she just didn’t notice his handle-bar moustache.
You might think I am overly sensitive. But, can one ever be too sensitive to another’s feelings? Remember, you too will enter Geezer Land soon enough.
Oh yeah, I can say words like geezer and old fart but don’t you dare let me hear you call that sweet lady walking cautiously slow down the steps any such word. You have to own it to use it and even then there are hidden risks involved in the self-effacing use of negative words. There is a thin line between the humor in which I wrap certain words and the insidious wearing down of self-esteem that those very words have upon me. If I say “God I’m getting old!” enough times, I will surely come to feel that way.
So maybe I have just talked myself into a celebration this November on the occasion of my fifty-sixth birthday. And I will invite my foolhardy alter ego, the kid that still rides her bike with her arms in the air and swings at the playground to the amazement of little kids who think they see only a middle-aged lady with gray hair and laughter flying in the breeze.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Burdened with fear and trepidation, I approach my next birthday. It’s a big one. No, not forty, I saw that harbinger of sagging buttocks a while back. And I’m not talking about the Big Five O that made my drooping backside seem trifling. Nor fifty-five, when arthritis seemed to be making its way right into my fingernails and eyelashes. My milestone is FIFTY-SIX -- this is the number that stymies me.
Go check out the greeting card department; there are no special ones for 56. It would seem that by the time we reach this number we are supposed to have acclimated ourselves to the whole “fifty something” thing. But, make no mistake we will be reminded again of our mortality and freakish age spots at sixty as there are plenty of “Happy Birthday Geezer” cards for that decade.
When did this dance (attended by stiff joints and sensible shoes) with mortality begin? When and why did my body go south? After the ten thousandth back-breaking food tray was hoisted above my head while covering twenty miles of restaurant floor tiles per day? Is it the arthritis that runs in my family? Menopause? Yes to all the above, but actually it began the day I was born. You know, the first day of the rest of your life, which simply means that downward spiral towards the last day of your life. Menopause is actually the real icing on the fallen cake. Don’t get me wrong, I now enjoy winter with zest. Empowered by hot flashes, I take to my porch in the dead of winter, barefoot, cloaked only in my nightgown and sweat buckets with abandon. The down side being summer: there is no air conditioner on the face of the Earth designed to comfort us women of a certain age during August. (At work, Dawn, my co-working friend of compatible age, and I take turns surreptitiously lowering the thermostat until it attempts to cool us at a near comfortable 49 degrees.)
Recently a young friend complained about a particularly rotten time-of-the-month she was suffering through. Wise sage that I am (not to mention rather mean-spirited and jealous) I told her it could be worse and to appreciate her monthly confrontation with her uterus as one day her estrogen will pack its bags and take leave. She seemed comforted by the prospect until I told her that then her bones would become brittle, her skin would thin and resemble a cheap veneer of leather, all her hair, everywhere, would gray, and of course her vagina would dry up.
Scaring the bejesus out of younger friends is a fun filled perk, but choose your moments judiciously, portraying yourself as an older sister with instructive advice -- and try not to laugh. Remember! You will need these younger friends for their brut strength – twist top wine bottles are hell on arthritic hands.
I use most of my body’s traitorous antics as fonder to amuse my customers as I channel a Joan Rivers without the face-lift. I can flap my outstretched winged arms and croon “Fly Me to the Moon” to my captive audience or belt out “ We’re Havin’ a Heat Wave” and every woman over forty in the restaurant will fan themselves and perspire in sync. We of a certain age bond with every drop of sweat. We are a sisterhood of ever expanding waistlines.
But aging is not all fun and games. At fifty your doctor wants you to enjoy the expense and humiliation of a colonoscopy (albeit a potentially lifesaving experience), bone scans, an EKG (this one is truly important as heart disease has surpassed breast cancer as the leading cause of death among women), and before long they’ll be asking you what year is it and who is the current president.
But seriously, if you take these tests and pass, you will feel younger – no amount of Botox can equal the euphoria of a clean bill of health. Ignorance is not bliss – sometimes merely changing one’s life style can reverse a poor test result.
I am blessed with an inner-child whose age ranges between eight and twelve. This part of me that is still a kid is my fountain of youth -- and we all have this bit of our former self inside us. Some refuse to listen to the “come out and play” voice that is pleading for us to embrace life. In my opinion, the state of boredom is the leading cause of old age and is self-induced. There is no excuse not to participate in life -- short of being in a coma.
A friend recently told me he’d forgotten it was his birthday until he looked at the expiration date on some tired looking chicken parts in his refrigerator. He and the chicken shared a common date – and on the occasion of his birthday his cellophane wrapped poultry hit the garbage pail. Next year I will make sure that he is reminded with birthday cards instead of a chicken’s obit.
Humor is my best defense against aging (although some might suggest a face-lift) but there are rules and good form to follow, for aging is a very personal and heartfelt experience.
Age-ism is one of the worst of the “isms”. The word “old” can turn on a dime and from the wrong lips, do great harm. A person’s worth is diminished every time someone younger uses the “O” word as a descriptor. I overheard a young waitress once reference a customer’s request with: “That old man over there needs a refill of ice tea”. Apparently she saw no other way to point out the tall ice tea sipping guy in a bright yellow shirt with a straw pork-pie hat seated at table 12 with his birthday cake blazing before him and his friends loudly singing “Happy Birthday Harry”. I guess she just didn’t notice his handle-bar moustache.
You might think I am overly sensitive. But, can one ever be too sensitive to another’s feelings? Remember, you too will enter Geezer Land soon enough.
Oh yeah, I can say words like geezer and old fart but don’t you dare let me hear you call that sweet lady walking cautiously slow down the steps any such word. You have to own it to use it and even then there are hidden risks involved in the self-effacing use of negative words. There is a thin line between the humor in which I wrap certain words and the insidious wearing down of self-esteem that those very words have upon me. If I say “God I’m getting old!” enough times, I will surely come to feel that way.
So maybe I have just talked myself into a celebration this November on the occasion of my fifty-sixth birthday. And I will invite my foolhardy alter ego, the kid that still rides her bike with her arms in the air and swings at the playground to the amazement of little kids who think they see only a middle-aged lady with gray hair and laughter flying in the breeze.
SEASON OF THE WITCH IN NEW ORLEANS
The Season of the Witch
By
Debbie Lindsey
On August 29th 2005 the manner in which we gauge time changed – maybe forever. We all switched 05 to 06 and then again to 07 when dating logging and documenting time. But I suspect on some level, August 28th will forever be our apocalyptic New Years Eve and the 29th our forever altered New Years Day. Our fiscal calendars seem to revolve more around August now. Even the written-in-stone tax day of April 15th was changed briefly for us. Our sense of seasons has perhaps changed too? For me there are two seasons: the six months of Hurricane season and the six months leading up to it.
Was it like this for New Yorkers? Will September 11th always mark the emotional calendar for that city? Do survivors of the Tsunami now tell time from clocks manufactured in the Twilight Zone? And let us never forget the near total obliteration of town after town after town of our Mississippi coast. Whole swaths of human occupation gone forever – nothing to gut, raise, or restore. Gone. We here are not alone in our experience of post-war-like survival. For many folks and many reasons conventional timetables have become trivial. Life is a montage of before and after.
For me, the before of that August and the subsequent after with its altering of land and lives, has been nothing if not an education and experience into the environs of my city I had previously overlooked. My eighteen years in New Orleans had not prepared me for the lessons learned since the water came. Nor, would I have imagined the changes to come, as I stood there on Canal Street that Tuesday of that August as water and civil unrest began to flow.
Not everyone is able to make lemonade when bombarded with lemons. Sometimes the fruit is rotten, the water tainted, the pitcher cracked. But some folks were able to grab onto a twist of fate and survive, even flourish.
Amy.
Amy Cyrex Sins was just 29 when her brain child, Ruby Slippers Cookbook – Life, Culture, Family & Food After Katrina received the 2006 Gourmand Award; sold its way into a third edition; and contributed its first contribution of $10,000 to the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana. This would be a hard act to follow on a good day, but Amy’s home was ten houses from the 17th Street Canal breach and we all know what that means. I can merely remember what a loser I must have been at 29. I am not sure I could’ve produced a decent glass of lemon aid under the best of circumstances then much less one as tasty as Amy’s.
Ruby Slippers is neither saccharine nor sour. It simply shows how life limps on amid the new landscape and the small joys that are ever present. Amy is quick to remind us of just how many people assisted in this creation and I can only guess that they too exacted something more than muck and mold to hold onto in this new world, new time.
Time is measured differently now and moves hatefully slow for many. Waiting, waiting constantly for help to come from the powers-that-be as they plan plans and study studies. For many, time moved forward with unnatural speed. Death came unscheduled to many.
But not to Bob.
Bob came to us six months before time went askew. He was homeless and smelled of death. One veterinarian put him at about 12 to 14 years old. We believed Bob was dead but that no one had had the heart to tell him yet. During those crazy hazy days of summer while we waited for a way out of what was left of town, Bob was beginning to starve and dehydrate. This had less to do with our being stranded as with our personal shut down. Poor Bob was already suffering from a lack of competent vet care and diagnosis and now he was at the mercy of our preoccupation with stuff we’d never encountered before.
Then I kinda snapped out of my stuff and realized he was going down. He seemed to have forgotten how to eat or swallow. We began to hand feed and water him. He held his own from then on throughout our eventual evacuation and hiatus from drama. As soon as we returned to New Orleans he was upgraded from the “you, Mr. Stray Cat, are lucky to be off the streets, here’s minimum care till we find you a home” to….a really good vet.
August 29th is not an anniversary of a disaster for Bob, but rather the slow but steady immersion into our family. And he grew younger! Bob’s new vet announced him to be no older than nine and quickly treated an ailment that had most likely plagued him for years. Bob now enjoys a new career as host at our book shop and holds the enviable title of Employee of the Month – every month.
There were others not so lucky as Bob to benefit from the storm . But thanks to one woman, many were saved and some feral cats even got a leg up for the first time in their homeless lives. This person, Celeste Gilbert, a local veterinarian, gave me the privilege of riding shotgun with her. It was our job to feed and water the animals left behind. Our forays into utterly deserted, still wet, dying neighborhoods were an education of the senses.
I would stand in the middle of a street totally deserted with not a sound of man or machine and watch sunset give way to utter darkness and hear only the sound of mosquitoes or a dog baying. I peered inside a home at the remnants of a last meal; watched helpless as a building burned because the cell phone lines were jammed; learned to step over a decomposing dog and not vomit; and stood in the center of a once notorious housing project and felt oddly safe.
Celeste showed me courage and trust (both traits needed to hand feed a stray pit bull). And our renegade rides showed me this city’s vastness, beauty, poison, pain and allure.
Are we destined to relive that August and the mutated months that followed forever? But, to move on, to let it go, would also mean forgetting the once in a lifetime acts of heroics, kindnesses, and sheer mind blowing experiences. This was a gift given to me by a storm and flood, in the season of the witch.
By
Debbie Lindsey
On August 29th 2005 the manner in which we gauge time changed – maybe forever. We all switched 05 to 06 and then again to 07 when dating logging and documenting time. But I suspect on some level, August 28th will forever be our apocalyptic New Years Eve and the 29th our forever altered New Years Day. Our fiscal calendars seem to revolve more around August now. Even the written-in-stone tax day of April 15th was changed briefly for us. Our sense of seasons has perhaps changed too? For me there are two seasons: the six months of Hurricane season and the six months leading up to it.
Was it like this for New Yorkers? Will September 11th always mark the emotional calendar for that city? Do survivors of the Tsunami now tell time from clocks manufactured in the Twilight Zone? And let us never forget the near total obliteration of town after town after town of our Mississippi coast. Whole swaths of human occupation gone forever – nothing to gut, raise, or restore. Gone. We here are not alone in our experience of post-war-like survival. For many folks and many reasons conventional timetables have become trivial. Life is a montage of before and after.
For me, the before of that August and the subsequent after with its altering of land and lives, has been nothing if not an education and experience into the environs of my city I had previously overlooked. My eighteen years in New Orleans had not prepared me for the lessons learned since the water came. Nor, would I have imagined the changes to come, as I stood there on Canal Street that Tuesday of that August as water and civil unrest began to flow.
Not everyone is able to make lemonade when bombarded with lemons. Sometimes the fruit is rotten, the water tainted, the pitcher cracked. But some folks were able to grab onto a twist of fate and survive, even flourish.
Amy.
Amy Cyrex Sins was just 29 when her brain child, Ruby Slippers Cookbook – Life, Culture, Family & Food After Katrina received the 2006 Gourmand Award; sold its way into a third edition; and contributed its first contribution of $10,000 to the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana. This would be a hard act to follow on a good day, but Amy’s home was ten houses from the 17th Street Canal breach and we all know what that means. I can merely remember what a loser I must have been at 29. I am not sure I could’ve produced a decent glass of lemon aid under the best of circumstances then much less one as tasty as Amy’s.
Ruby Slippers is neither saccharine nor sour. It simply shows how life limps on amid the new landscape and the small joys that are ever present. Amy is quick to remind us of just how many people assisted in this creation and I can only guess that they too exacted something more than muck and mold to hold onto in this new world, new time.
Time is measured differently now and moves hatefully slow for many. Waiting, waiting constantly for help to come from the powers-that-be as they plan plans and study studies. For many, time moved forward with unnatural speed. Death came unscheduled to many.
But not to Bob.
Bob came to us six months before time went askew. He was homeless and smelled of death. One veterinarian put him at about 12 to 14 years old. We believed Bob was dead but that no one had had the heart to tell him yet. During those crazy hazy days of summer while we waited for a way out of what was left of town, Bob was beginning to starve and dehydrate. This had less to do with our being stranded as with our personal shut down. Poor Bob was already suffering from a lack of competent vet care and diagnosis and now he was at the mercy of our preoccupation with stuff we’d never encountered before.
Then I kinda snapped out of my stuff and realized he was going down. He seemed to have forgotten how to eat or swallow. We began to hand feed and water him. He held his own from then on throughout our eventual evacuation and hiatus from drama. As soon as we returned to New Orleans he was upgraded from the “you, Mr. Stray Cat, are lucky to be off the streets, here’s minimum care till we find you a home” to….a really good vet.
August 29th is not an anniversary of a disaster for Bob, but rather the slow but steady immersion into our family. And he grew younger! Bob’s new vet announced him to be no older than nine and quickly treated an ailment that had most likely plagued him for years. Bob now enjoys a new career as host at our book shop and holds the enviable title of Employee of the Month – every month.
There were others not so lucky as Bob to benefit from the storm . But thanks to one woman, many were saved and some feral cats even got a leg up for the first time in their homeless lives. This person, Celeste Gilbert, a local veterinarian, gave me the privilege of riding shotgun with her. It was our job to feed and water the animals left behind. Our forays into utterly deserted, still wet, dying neighborhoods were an education of the senses.
I would stand in the middle of a street totally deserted with not a sound of man or machine and watch sunset give way to utter darkness and hear only the sound of mosquitoes or a dog baying. I peered inside a home at the remnants of a last meal; watched helpless as a building burned because the cell phone lines were jammed; learned to step over a decomposing dog and not vomit; and stood in the center of a once notorious housing project and felt oddly safe.
Celeste showed me courage and trust (both traits needed to hand feed a stray pit bull). And our renegade rides showed me this city’s vastness, beauty, poison, pain and allure.
Are we destined to relive that August and the mutated months that followed forever? But, to move on, to let it go, would also mean forgetting the once in a lifetime acts of heroics, kindnesses, and sheer mind blowing experiences. This was a gift given to me by a storm and flood, in the season of the witch.
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