We Are Family
By
Debbie Lindsey
Today I was feeling jumpy as a cockroach staring down a can of raid, all the while a rather serious malaise, a lethargy, was settling over me. Anxious, gassy, and just plain moody. I told Boyfriend I just didn't know what was wrong with me. He reminded me: "It's that time of the month darlin". "You know you always get like this the first day of every month -- it's your deadline week".
And he was right. Instead of writing my column at a relaxed pace a little each day, I always tell myself that one week will do it – no sweat, no angst (lots of angst, lots of sweat). I back myself into that deadline corner every time and bingo I hit the block.
Today my blocked brain has me miserably dull witted. So dull witted that I just stepped right into a puddle of piddle. Nothing like warm urine between your toes to remind you that Rosie was not auditioning for Hollywood when she danced in those frantic little circle -- her way to warn me of the impending flood. Sorry Rosie that you had to suffer that indignity but thanks, for sometimes I find my stories in the oddest places -- urine not being the strangest to date.
Those of you who read my column (a select few since I lack the funds to bribe more) have probably more information about my life than even the most self-absorbed FaceBook could provide. Therefore my leap from writer’s block to a tale with a brief touchdown in urine is no surprise, especially if it involves my little loved ones.
Unless you have kids or manage livestock you have no idea what joy (expense, worry and exhaustion) cats and dogs can provide. Having a herd of critters is much like raising a bunch of children. And for me, they are our children. I say this not only as one of those folks that have put all their maternal instincts into the anthropomorphic conversion of animal into human, but because they will drain ya of every bit of energy, money and time you have and then suck the love right out of you.
As of last count there are two dogs, one cat and one kitten. Our kitten should count as more due to his ability to upend the household contents with the force of twenty playful terrors. And I am sure there is another critter with a hard luck story out there circling the house looking for a way inside. Most of you already know Rosie the small reddish brown rump roast with eyes like Audrey Hepburn (through my friend Chris swears she’s a dead-ringer for Joan Rivers).
And there’s Pepper, the black beauty, svelte and mean as snake, striking fear in the hearts of those daring to even look her in the eye. Now age has actually softened her disposition and Zack the new kitten is teaching her to play (a first for her ever). Zack the Whirling Dervish, is another story.
Unlike Pepper, who has always preferred lounging to any form of movement other than attack, Zack is perpetual motion. It’s been almost thirty years since I’ve had a kitten and…wow. Are they all this way? Will he ever stay still long enough for me to pet him? Zack was kinda intended to be my cat but the little guy has a mind of his own (and too much energy to waste on some boring old lady like me). He immediately claimed Sophia as his mom and playmate. Sophia, a black Lab mix, whose head is larger than Zack and in no way resembles a cat, has adopted the kitten or should I say the kitten adopted Sophia. Sophia nurses (at least goes through the motions), grooms, and lends a protective watch over Zack.
Sophia, named by our friend Gloria who said she was as beautiful as Sophia Loren was, came to us as a rescue from the SPCA. Like so many young girls, Sophia fell for some sweet talking player and ended up pregnant and alone on the doorsteps of the SPCA. Her litter was adopted but she seemed doomed to languish a ward of the state. She had so many advocates-- volunteers who took a special interest in her, fostering her, funding her heart worm treatment, but none were able to adopt her. Her hero Galivan, a volunteer, made sure she escaped the Big Sleep by hooking us up with her. He knew we would be a soft touch, as we had a big empty space in our family since Ginger the Lab had passed away. It was love at first sight. Sophia is simply all about the love.
If Sophia is the love machine then Rosie is the love vampire. She’s an independent little lady who has somehow crawled inside my heart – she drains love from me. She’s an aloof Auntie Mame that doesn’t fawn all over you but is a swell drinking buddy. Many a happy hour Rosie would take a seat at the bar -- perched too high to jump she would then succumb to my patting and gaze attentively, yet demurely at her bartender melting his heart and depleting his supply of dog treats. She’s sweet as all get out but her true devotion is to food -- except when it came to Ginger. She loved that dog. Little Rosie would climb up on Ginger’s back just a humpin’ and a ridin’ that pony. Oh folks would tell us it was just a dominance thing but I swear to God Rosie would smile like a drunken sailor.
Here I sit, intending to write about the unintended servitude of motherhood that has been placed upon me – me the never-wanted-children gal who was so relieved when menopause sealed the deal. Never say never; motherhood found me. And, make no mistake; motherhood is not species specific, just look at Sophia wet nursing her kitten. Motherhood is when you love without cause or simply because they need you and I promise you the feeling of need goes both ways. In spite of all the urine samples gathered, the endless litter boxes, pooper scooping, flea baths, pee soaked rugs, endless visits to the vet and endless tears when the prognosis is awful – in spite of all this the sense of duty and love is overriding.
And I will remind myself of this when Boyfriend and I visit Walgreen to replenish the supply of adult-size incontinence pads for my little old lady, Rosie who still prefers my oriental rugs. The cashier just looks at us with a sympathy reserved for old geezers – it will do no good to blame it on the dog.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Tit for Tat in new Orleans
Tit For Tat
By
Debbie Lindsey
Don’t forget to cross your ts and dot your is and then get ready to erase.
It all starts with a letter. The one that gets lost for two weeks in a pile of junk mail and No Payment Due statements. Nothing really catches your eye. The pile grows larger with membership drives, more junk, and the occasional menu flyers. Then when some real bills arrive along with your NetFlix rentals, you find it. It is the letter that changes everything.
Your recent mammogram examination showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation…This is where I switch to first person and begrudgingly. I often write about me, me, me. Well, this time it’s not just an egocentric exercise, it’s an exorcism of sorts. I have always found, for myself, that if I expect the worst it just doesn’t happen. The gods of fate enjoy confusing me. Well, I say let ‘em throw me good results, let ‘em tell me I have worried for naught. Make a liar of me!!
It’s the waiting. When I finally found the letter from the radiology place where I had a date with a machine that felt me up like a high school back seat ooh baby baby baby tiddy twister I almost didn’t open it. I thought it was a bill for additional charges. You see, my people at the womens’ clinic never called. They always say that all is fine if I don’t hear from them, but of course they invite me to call and double check results. Cross your ts and dot the is. I did not take my own advice. Check results yourself. Never assume. Because we all know what happens when you assume: you make an ass of you and a breast-less wonder of me.
Time out! I am running with a ball I was not even passed yet. They said it could be nothing – nothing. But I know what the something is, and I can’t even afford it. It’s a rotten shame when folks (trust me there are too many out there) have to focus not on a life-threatening situation but on how to pay to have a life-threatening situation. Oh, It’s our fault, that’s right. We, the uninsured should have been insured. Not always so easy.
I recently decided to join the ranks of the play-by-the-rules and get myself insured. I set up an appointment with an agent from Cross Your Fingers and it became apparent that most of my medical needs would be considered PRE-EXISTING. We talked and crunched numbers and he was to get back with me as to whether this or that might work for me and my piggy bank. Never heard from him again. I was just too problematic or he simply gave up trying to live here in New Orleans.
Trying to live here is a real, albeit stupid, reason behind so much of my procrastination, forgetfulness and just plain old “I have no damn time to take care of myself”. Stupid, I know. Just because my potential insurance guy dropped me doesn’t mean there are not a gazillion agents ready to write me a policy. The only prob is money. Sure I can insure myself but then how do I pay my rent? I already work seven days a week. I work for myself and I don’t give benefits! Excuses, excuses. I just feel so stupid for having no net to catch me. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. And now if…if this thing is something, it will be considered pre-existing.
I have a friend who found herself with symptoms indicative of Hodgkin’s disease, cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. She had to tough it out for nine months as she waited for her new insurance to kick in because diagnosis prior would have ruled her cancer pre-existing. She was one of the lucky ones. Her guess was right, she did have cancer and she got in just under the wire. Her insurance covered her because she was forced to feign good health until eligibility kicked in. She got treatment in the nick of time. And now, wears her scars with genuine pride.
Scars. They never bother me. I have my physical points of interest, don’t get me wrong, but scars always seemed kinda cool to me. They are like nature’s little tattoos – reminders of some misadventure as a tomboy, that first razor nick when finally old enough to shave my legs, or a kitchen mishap. But I’m not too sure about having my tits sliced up. Hell, if that’s the case, I say just take ‘em. Yep, just remove the whole kit and kaboodle. I want to live a ridiculously long life; not win a beauty pageant.
I speak, write and think with no real medical knowledge. And if very very lucky I will need little knowledge this time around, because within days, perhaps even hours I hope to hear the words: “It was nothing”. But for many women, numbers too large to comprehend, happy words, words of good health are not in the cards for them. And as words of remission become the next best sound to hear -- some never will.
Will I learn from this debacle? Oh yeah. I will never put off those annoying annual check-ups that truly save lives. Never allow myself to be lulled into thinking No news is good news – no news merely means someone dropped the ball or in my case I wasn’t even looking to catch that ball. Follow up! Cross those ts and dot those is. And if my luck goes south then I will use every eraser known to science until my slate is clean.
Promise me, dear reader, that you will never take your life for granted. I never have, and yet I have been careless with the one and only body I have. And I need and depend on it to carry me through what I hope to be a long and interesting life. Feet don’t fail me now!
By
Debbie Lindsey
Don’t forget to cross your ts and dot your is and then get ready to erase.
It all starts with a letter. The one that gets lost for two weeks in a pile of junk mail and No Payment Due statements. Nothing really catches your eye. The pile grows larger with membership drives, more junk, and the occasional menu flyers. Then when some real bills arrive along with your NetFlix rentals, you find it. It is the letter that changes everything.
Your recent mammogram examination showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation…This is where I switch to first person and begrudgingly. I often write about me, me, me. Well, this time it’s not just an egocentric exercise, it’s an exorcism of sorts. I have always found, for myself, that if I expect the worst it just doesn’t happen. The gods of fate enjoy confusing me. Well, I say let ‘em throw me good results, let ‘em tell me I have worried for naught. Make a liar of me!!
It’s the waiting. When I finally found the letter from the radiology place where I had a date with a machine that felt me up like a high school back seat ooh baby baby baby tiddy twister I almost didn’t open it. I thought it was a bill for additional charges. You see, my people at the womens’ clinic never called. They always say that all is fine if I don’t hear from them, but of course they invite me to call and double check results. Cross your ts and dot the is. I did not take my own advice. Check results yourself. Never assume. Because we all know what happens when you assume: you make an ass of you and a breast-less wonder of me.
Time out! I am running with a ball I was not even passed yet. They said it could be nothing – nothing. But I know what the something is, and I can’t even afford it. It’s a rotten shame when folks (trust me there are too many out there) have to focus not on a life-threatening situation but on how to pay to have a life-threatening situation. Oh, It’s our fault, that’s right. We, the uninsured should have been insured. Not always so easy.
I recently decided to join the ranks of the play-by-the-rules and get myself insured. I set up an appointment with an agent from Cross Your Fingers and it became apparent that most of my medical needs would be considered PRE-EXISTING. We talked and crunched numbers and he was to get back with me as to whether this or that might work for me and my piggy bank. Never heard from him again. I was just too problematic or he simply gave up trying to live here in New Orleans.
Trying to live here is a real, albeit stupid, reason behind so much of my procrastination, forgetfulness and just plain old “I have no damn time to take care of myself”. Stupid, I know. Just because my potential insurance guy dropped me doesn’t mean there are not a gazillion agents ready to write me a policy. The only prob is money. Sure I can insure myself but then how do I pay my rent? I already work seven days a week. I work for myself and I don’t give benefits! Excuses, excuses. I just feel so stupid for having no net to catch me. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. And now if…if this thing is something, it will be considered pre-existing.
I have a friend who found herself with symptoms indicative of Hodgkin’s disease, cancer that attacks the lymph nodes. She had to tough it out for nine months as she waited for her new insurance to kick in because diagnosis prior would have ruled her cancer pre-existing. She was one of the lucky ones. Her guess was right, she did have cancer and she got in just under the wire. Her insurance covered her because she was forced to feign good health until eligibility kicked in. She got treatment in the nick of time. And now, wears her scars with genuine pride.
Scars. They never bother me. I have my physical points of interest, don’t get me wrong, but scars always seemed kinda cool to me. They are like nature’s little tattoos – reminders of some misadventure as a tomboy, that first razor nick when finally old enough to shave my legs, or a kitchen mishap. But I’m not too sure about having my tits sliced up. Hell, if that’s the case, I say just take ‘em. Yep, just remove the whole kit and kaboodle. I want to live a ridiculously long life; not win a beauty pageant.
I speak, write and think with no real medical knowledge. And if very very lucky I will need little knowledge this time around, because within days, perhaps even hours I hope to hear the words: “It was nothing”. But for many women, numbers too large to comprehend, happy words, words of good health are not in the cards for them. And as words of remission become the next best sound to hear -- some never will.
Will I learn from this debacle? Oh yeah. I will never put off those annoying annual check-ups that truly save lives. Never allow myself to be lulled into thinking No news is good news – no news merely means someone dropped the ball or in my case I wasn’t even looking to catch that ball. Follow up! Cross those ts and dot those is. And if my luck goes south then I will use every eraser known to science until my slate is clean.
Promise me, dear reader, that you will never take your life for granted. I never have, and yet I have been careless with the one and only body I have. And I need and depend on it to carry me through what I hope to be a long and interesting life. Feet don’t fail me now!
Time in New Orleans
Time
By
Debbie Lindsey
Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it straight in the eye. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe with acute awareness that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Year’s Eve, we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure, but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty, you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Year’s resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange? Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future just might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, reminding me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it straight in the eye. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe with acute awareness that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Year’s Eve, we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure, but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty, you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Year’s resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange? Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future just might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, reminding me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Cycles, Cynicism and Change in New Orleans
Tales From The Quarter
By
Debbie Lindsey
Cycles, Cynicism and Change
Today is August 17th 2006. I have to remind myself of this. And tomorrow I will have to remind myself that it is August 18th 2006. Days run all over each other like new fabric on old-yellowed whites during mishandled laundry. All my new days just seem to fade backwards. One step forward and five steps back – stumbling back at that. The only comfort is in the uncomforting knowledge that we are all in this together. God help us.
Back in September 2005 we, boyfriend and I and our herd of critters, made the conscience decision to return to New Orleans. San Francisco was turning quickly into home but everyday we felt more and more like we were leaving our dying mamma, New Orleans. So we knew we had to return for the healing or pay our respects and bury her. Now, some days it seems like mamma is on crack. Point is: I have lost my place in this story of ours that changes with each chapter.
Just like the laundry that takes on unwanted tints or shrinks, my story, our city’s story is ever changing. Soaking, agitating, spinning…out of control. Some days are good. But then you find one more rip in the fabric of our lives. It can be something as seemingly unimportant as the hotel next door being put up for sale. Except, that it’s my special place.
When boyfriend and I were living (exiled) in San Francisco the one place I missed, more than my apartment, missed passionately was the hotel’s bar. Why? Because, I think, when we finally got the hell out of here six days after the city turned into a toilet who’s dry rim was a war zone plagued by smoke and explosions I guess I kinda figured I’d never see my apartment of thirteen years again.
And at the moment we drove our quasi-stolen car filled to the brim with our animals out, passing body bags and fires, it seemed our French Quarter would not survive. All I wanted was for us to get out alive. I said my good-byes to everything I owned and loved. But I must have forgotten to say goodbye to the living-room-like bar that had been a constant respite through the years; because from across the country I would remember every detail of that room yet forget what my apartment looked like. Go figure.
California here we come! We had wanted to relocate there for some time but being forced out of town was not the closure we needed. We just never could wrap our heads around the beautiful bay city. Not when everyday you watched from afar your home, New Orleans, drowning. Just overhearing folks having normal conversations was maddening for the mere normalcy of them. Didn’t they know how god damn minor everything else was! Or so it seemed to me. I think I knew, we knew, that life somewhere other than New Orleans would seem so ridiculously trivial. When the music’s over turn out the lights…turn out the lights.
So, as the soak cycle ended and the days gave way to drip dry we realized it was no good. We could not live in the real world just yet. Another day, another world, but for then our hearts were in New Orleans, hell our lungs were there and just breathing in the cool, clean air of San Francisco was labored. It was time for the unrelenting humidity (mold, filth and stench) of home.
Back home we were in clothesline mode – no spin cycle was available to wring out the flood damage, nothing so quick. In fact a year later it truly feels like we have been hung out to dry. But back then in October ’05 we were so full of piss and vinegar, optimism and the old ‘we’re/all in this together/welcome home/welcome back/how’d ya make out?/yes we are so blessed/it’s all just stuff/we’re lucky to be alive/we will come back better even if smaller’…and it now feels like bullshit. Is it? NO WAY. But there were those early days of our return that I miss so dearly, like riding my bike down Dauphine Street and saying hello to everyone and loving every single person I saw. It was a miracle and we all felt the euphoria of having survived and being part of the greatest come back in our country’s recent history.
Now I ride down Dauphine and see too many hookers and pimps; dealers and buyers. I see a black line from our parish to Jefferson parish and it is unrelenting. Should the line be washed away? No. Should there be something else to stare at like homes and businesses and schools filled with folks whose hearts are healing? Yes.
They say the anniversary will bring back memories, I guess they are right. I am as weepy as I was in San Francisco so long, long ago last year when separated from my New Orleans and my favorite little haunt, the sweet bar next door where the hotel would turn a blind eye and let our dogs join us for cocktails and good cheer. There are two anniversaries – one of a drowning and one of an October that promised so much and has been drowning in apathy, bureaucracy, not enough spin. It is time for the spin cycle and then hopefully some starching and pressing and then maybe we can, I can, neatly fold and put away the memories. And wear them only on anniversaries…not everyday. Till then I plan to make the most of my little haven around the corner and hope it will not be thrown out with the bath water.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Cycles, Cynicism and Change
Today is August 17th 2006. I have to remind myself of this. And tomorrow I will have to remind myself that it is August 18th 2006. Days run all over each other like new fabric on old-yellowed whites during mishandled laundry. All my new days just seem to fade backwards. One step forward and five steps back – stumbling back at that. The only comfort is in the uncomforting knowledge that we are all in this together. God help us.
Back in September 2005 we, boyfriend and I and our herd of critters, made the conscience decision to return to New Orleans. San Francisco was turning quickly into home but everyday we felt more and more like we were leaving our dying mamma, New Orleans. So we knew we had to return for the healing or pay our respects and bury her. Now, some days it seems like mamma is on crack. Point is: I have lost my place in this story of ours that changes with each chapter.
Just like the laundry that takes on unwanted tints or shrinks, my story, our city’s story is ever changing. Soaking, agitating, spinning…out of control. Some days are good. But then you find one more rip in the fabric of our lives. It can be something as seemingly unimportant as the hotel next door being put up for sale. Except, that it’s my special place.
When boyfriend and I were living (exiled) in San Francisco the one place I missed, more than my apartment, missed passionately was the hotel’s bar. Why? Because, I think, when we finally got the hell out of here six days after the city turned into a toilet who’s dry rim was a war zone plagued by smoke and explosions I guess I kinda figured I’d never see my apartment of thirteen years again.
And at the moment we drove our quasi-stolen car filled to the brim with our animals out, passing body bags and fires, it seemed our French Quarter would not survive. All I wanted was for us to get out alive. I said my good-byes to everything I owned and loved. But I must have forgotten to say goodbye to the living-room-like bar that had been a constant respite through the years; because from across the country I would remember every detail of that room yet forget what my apartment looked like. Go figure.
California here we come! We had wanted to relocate there for some time but being forced out of town was not the closure we needed. We just never could wrap our heads around the beautiful bay city. Not when everyday you watched from afar your home, New Orleans, drowning. Just overhearing folks having normal conversations was maddening for the mere normalcy of them. Didn’t they know how god damn minor everything else was! Or so it seemed to me. I think I knew, we knew, that life somewhere other than New Orleans would seem so ridiculously trivial. When the music’s over turn out the lights…turn out the lights.
So, as the soak cycle ended and the days gave way to drip dry we realized it was no good. We could not live in the real world just yet. Another day, another world, but for then our hearts were in New Orleans, hell our lungs were there and just breathing in the cool, clean air of San Francisco was labored. It was time for the unrelenting humidity (mold, filth and stench) of home.
Back home we were in clothesline mode – no spin cycle was available to wring out the flood damage, nothing so quick. In fact a year later it truly feels like we have been hung out to dry. But back then in October ’05 we were so full of piss and vinegar, optimism and the old ‘we’re/all in this together/welcome home/welcome back/how’d ya make out?/yes we are so blessed/it’s all just stuff/we’re lucky to be alive/we will come back better even if smaller’…and it now feels like bullshit. Is it? NO WAY. But there were those early days of our return that I miss so dearly, like riding my bike down Dauphine Street and saying hello to everyone and loving every single person I saw. It was a miracle and we all felt the euphoria of having survived and being part of the greatest come back in our country’s recent history.
Now I ride down Dauphine and see too many hookers and pimps; dealers and buyers. I see a black line from our parish to Jefferson parish and it is unrelenting. Should the line be washed away? No. Should there be something else to stare at like homes and businesses and schools filled with folks whose hearts are healing? Yes.
They say the anniversary will bring back memories, I guess they are right. I am as weepy as I was in San Francisco so long, long ago last year when separated from my New Orleans and my favorite little haunt, the sweet bar next door where the hotel would turn a blind eye and let our dogs join us for cocktails and good cheer. There are two anniversaries – one of a drowning and one of an October that promised so much and has been drowning in apathy, bureaucracy, not enough spin. It is time for the spin cycle and then hopefully some starching and pressing and then maybe we can, I can, neatly fold and put away the memories. And wear them only on anniversaries…not everyday. Till then I plan to make the most of my little haven around the corner and hope it will not be thrown out with the bath water.
Tales From the Quarter
Happy Birthday
By
Debbie Lindsey
Not once did my dad get to open the mailbox on his birthday and find a card to celebrate his birthday. I am not sure if this ever bothered him but I always thought it rotten luck – his being born on a legal holiday. But lucky for me, the procrastinator, he never had to know that my cards were doomed to arrive a bit late regardless.
As a kid I thought all the hoopla of Veterans Day -- red, white, and blue decorations, speeches, tributes, the fireworks -- was all about my dad, seeing how November 11th was his birthday. And it never really made sense to me since he was not even a Vet. And again, what about that no birthday card mail? Give me a break--I was five when I attempted to put this two and two thing together. So… by the time I was say, thirty, I figured it out…go ahead, laugh you idiot, I was hip to the difference by high school.
Any hoot, Phil Lindsey Day may not appear on your calendar but I can assure you it is a day worth celebrating. He is worth celebrating. Phil was my dad, my mentor, my best friend. Oh, he had a rotten temper at times, voted Republican and smoked cigarettes but he was sensitive, believed in women’s rights and wanted to quit smoking. He loved musicals, swimming, newspapers, and sweets.
He, and my mom, believed there was no distance too far to drive for a good meal. This drive to dine introduced me at an early age to New Orleans. I suspect that Mom and Dad happily haunt Galatoire’s to this day. He believed in eating out as a treat, a respite from the kitchen for Mom, and simply as an exercise in civility.
When I was eight Dad lost his lumber business and my folks had to do the bankruptcy thing and start over again. But dining out remained a priority even if Morrison’s Cafeteria was the extent of our culinary escapades. I guess my folks taught me that one could be poor and pragmatic within those constraints and still pass a good time. As finances improved through the years so did the restaurants. And of course vacations resumed as the family dollars stabilized -- but always for Dad it was the planning of the trip, extravagant or modest, which meant the most.
Dad may have been a registered Republican yet he was idealistic and progressive. He cared little for sports, would rather read or listen to his music. When he retired he joined the YMCA and swam daily, dove into volunteer work, and did not believe in boredom.
Last year, for my November column I was planning to honor Dad but he got bumped by a beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon was about to be removed from our draft selection at work and well, I had to take issue with this. So, as a bartender I felt duty bound to write a farewell to my favorite pour. And I think Dad would have approved. He certainly appreciated a cold beer and a sense of humor – and both would serve him well with me for a daughter.
He and Mom became my best friends as I emerged from my hideous teenage years and misguided early twenties. They were Phil and Veronica to my friends – never Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey, as that would be too formal. They were always invited to parties that my friends and I threw or those big dinners out when a dozen or so of the gang would crowd into our favorite restaurant that was congenial to our boisterous crowd.
For a Christmas present, Mom often renewed the pool membership for the family at the Grand Hotel in Point Clear, a resort on Mobile Bay that also accommodated locals. But this gift really was given to Dad because he loved nothing more than driving across the bay to spend the day swimming and napping in the sun with the Mobile Press Register draped across his face as a sun block. He never could get the poolside look quite right. He would emerge from the cabana dressing room in his swim trunks, still sporting his Florsheims and dark dress socks. I have this great photo of him lazing in a chase lounge on the beach in a suit. My sister and mom finally got him into white socks and Topsiders and finally sandals. Eventually Bermuda shorts made they’re way into the wardrobe.
Sometimes for a spilt second I forget and think, "I’ll ask Dad". It would be so good to pick up the phone and ask him just what it was like during that Hurricane of 1915 or did aunt what’s-her-name really sleep with her sister's husband? But sadly I can not gossip or share news with Dad. He died 15 years ago. He may have been 85 but his death came too soon. He had so many places still to visit, newspapers to read, laps to swim, music to enjoy and most important -- too much love still left to give to my mom. And I still had so much to learn from my dearest friend, Dad.
To Dad, and to all that knew him, I apologize for such a lame and rather contrived tribute. I have written better words to honor him in previous columns. But, just like for so many folks along our gulf coast it has been a long three years and I am tired. And now is when I think of him as November approaches. Now is when I could use a long chat with him and a drive across the causeway to our memories by the bay.
**********************************
Phil Lindsey, by way of his ashes, now resides in the bay off the pier of the Grand Hotel. He might have preferred the swimming pool but hotel management would have frowned upon that idea – and at that time his membership had lapsed.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Not once did my dad get to open the mailbox on his birthday and find a card to celebrate his birthday. I am not sure if this ever bothered him but I always thought it rotten luck – his being born on a legal holiday. But lucky for me, the procrastinator, he never had to know that my cards were doomed to arrive a bit late regardless.
As a kid I thought all the hoopla of Veterans Day -- red, white, and blue decorations, speeches, tributes, the fireworks -- was all about my dad, seeing how November 11th was his birthday. And it never really made sense to me since he was not even a Vet. And again, what about that no birthday card mail? Give me a break--I was five when I attempted to put this two and two thing together. So… by the time I was say, thirty, I figured it out…go ahead, laugh you idiot, I was hip to the difference by high school.
Any hoot, Phil Lindsey Day may not appear on your calendar but I can assure you it is a day worth celebrating. He is worth celebrating. Phil was my dad, my mentor, my best friend. Oh, he had a rotten temper at times, voted Republican and smoked cigarettes but he was sensitive, believed in women’s rights and wanted to quit smoking. He loved musicals, swimming, newspapers, and sweets.
He, and my mom, believed there was no distance too far to drive for a good meal. This drive to dine introduced me at an early age to New Orleans. I suspect that Mom and Dad happily haunt Galatoire’s to this day. He believed in eating out as a treat, a respite from the kitchen for Mom, and simply as an exercise in civility.
When I was eight Dad lost his lumber business and my folks had to do the bankruptcy thing and start over again. But dining out remained a priority even if Morrison’s Cafeteria was the extent of our culinary escapades. I guess my folks taught me that one could be poor and pragmatic within those constraints and still pass a good time. As finances improved through the years so did the restaurants. And of course vacations resumed as the family dollars stabilized -- but always for Dad it was the planning of the trip, extravagant or modest, which meant the most.
Dad may have been a registered Republican yet he was idealistic and progressive. He cared little for sports, would rather read or listen to his music. When he retired he joined the YMCA and swam daily, dove into volunteer work, and did not believe in boredom.
Last year, for my November column I was planning to honor Dad but he got bumped by a beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon was about to be removed from our draft selection at work and well, I had to take issue with this. So, as a bartender I felt duty bound to write a farewell to my favorite pour. And I think Dad would have approved. He certainly appreciated a cold beer and a sense of humor – and both would serve him well with me for a daughter.
He and Mom became my best friends as I emerged from my hideous teenage years and misguided early twenties. They were Phil and Veronica to my friends – never Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey, as that would be too formal. They were always invited to parties that my friends and I threw or those big dinners out when a dozen or so of the gang would crowd into our favorite restaurant that was congenial to our boisterous crowd.
For a Christmas present, Mom often renewed the pool membership for the family at the Grand Hotel in Point Clear, a resort on Mobile Bay that also accommodated locals. But this gift really was given to Dad because he loved nothing more than driving across the bay to spend the day swimming and napping in the sun with the Mobile Press Register draped across his face as a sun block. He never could get the poolside look quite right. He would emerge from the cabana dressing room in his swim trunks, still sporting his Florsheims and dark dress socks. I have this great photo of him lazing in a chase lounge on the beach in a suit. My sister and mom finally got him into white socks and Topsiders and finally sandals. Eventually Bermuda shorts made they’re way into the wardrobe.
Sometimes for a spilt second I forget and think, "I’ll ask Dad". It would be so good to pick up the phone and ask him just what it was like during that Hurricane of 1915 or did aunt what’s-her-name really sleep with her sister's husband? But sadly I can not gossip or share news with Dad. He died 15 years ago. He may have been 85 but his death came too soon. He had so many places still to visit, newspapers to read, laps to swim, music to enjoy and most important -- too much love still left to give to my mom. And I still had so much to learn from my dearest friend, Dad.
To Dad, and to all that knew him, I apologize for such a lame and rather contrived tribute. I have written better words to honor him in previous columns. But, just like for so many folks along our gulf coast it has been a long three years and I am tired. And now is when I think of him as November approaches. Now is when I could use a long chat with him and a drive across the causeway to our memories by the bay.
**********************************
Phil Lindsey, by way of his ashes, now resides in the bay off the pier of the Grand Hotel. He might have preferred the swimming pool but hotel management would have frowned upon that idea – and at that time his membership had lapsed.
Spirits in New Orleans
Sometimes, for a split second I think something like: ‘I’ll ask Dad whatever happened with that affair Aunt Jessie had with Aunt Millie’s husband’. My reflex to pick up the phone and dial 205-342-5314 and get a refresher on family secrets ends as abruptly as if awaking from a dream. Realization hits hard but the sensation of sharing a moment with Dad lingers. Sometimes I simply entertain the fun of, the memory of, calling him to say, “Oklahoma is on AMC tonight. Go turn it on”.
Mom enters my thoughts in a less spontaneous manner. For instance, filling out medical history forms has me wishing I had been privy to her family history. She was adopted and back then there were no records and a degree of irrational shame often was passed unto the adopted child. We never spoke of it. Wish we had. Wish I had held her more during that last year; instead I seemed to just fuss at her for not eating or being able to walk. Sure would feel good to hold her now.
Memories, regrets and wishes attach themselves to my parents in different ways. Dad is remembered in dreams and thoughts much as he looked in his later years. And with his premature gray hair I never knew him to look any younger other than Jimmy Stewart circa Vertigo. But Mom is a different story, different dreams.
When Mom visits my dreams she is always younger. She is Mom the brunet, Mom the frosted blonde, she is Mom who is healthy. Mom fought two battles simultaneously: Parkinson’s and osteoporosis. She lost both. It doesn’t take shrink to tell me that it is so much more fun to dream of her as vital and cognicient. Yet in my waking hours every befuddled and stooped lady I meet brings me to tears. But hey, in dreams she never budges past middle age.
They died within two months of each other. The dreams were more frequent then. From the first time I dreamed of them I knew they would always be there for me. Kinda like old home movies. For me dreaming is a part of my life and in those moments they come alive and I have them back again. And only once in a while do we have fussing and fighting, but then that was and is a real family thing.
With Valentines Day looming over our city – a city still raw with regrets and losses, it seems like a good time shed some tears. The best tears are the ones that honor those loved ones lost not only to Katrina, loved ones like my parents. I can not always rely on pleasant dreams to keep my memories alive. Therefore when something triggers the ole tear ducks and I find myself weepin’ and a wailin’ for Mom and Dad I like to think they somehow know – know that I get it, that I appreciate the profundity of death the importance of life, their lives.
If my reserviour of tears were ever to dry up it would somehow mean that they had died again and were truly gone for good.
Dreams and tears are not for every occasion. I also like to talk to dead folks. Oh, I have no gift for the supernatural, wish I did. But I do like to believe that maybe they hear.
Once I got a little carried away chatting up Dad from the pier of the Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama where his ashes were tossed some years earlier. My accompanying friend, Paul, had to remind me “Debbie, your father is dead, not deaf!” Mom had a similar moment as I visited her grave site and commenced to regale her with all the latest gossip only to find to the chagrin of some onlookers that I was sitting on the wrong tomb stone. There I was sitting on top of their great grandmother with a cold beer in hand telling Mom some off color joke. Ya can’t take me anywhere.
This is not just a Mom and Dad mish mush Hallmark moment. Since Katrina everyone here has been touched by death in some form. The beloved dog swept from loving arms during the flood; the husband who stayed behind making room for the elderly neighbor to evacuate with his family – he drowned in his Lazy Boy recliner; the suicide, heart attack, gun shot, dogs and cats left for ‘just gonna be gone three days’ victims.
We all know and know of too many. I have one that I talk to. There is a restaurant I pass on my walk home. It is closed, suspended in time, nothing has been touched since September 05. In those days after the storm the owner, who stayed to be with animals, died in there of a heart attack. It utterly breaks my heart. I feel certain he is there and no one seems to notice, know, or care. So I will care and I will give him the acknowledgment he deserves. I speak to him and tell him I am so very sorry. I try to keep him alive. No one should die twice. Ones memory should be honored.
So for Valentines Day I will pour a little of my drink to the ground one for the brothers. I will leave flowers on the door step of a certain restaurant. I talk very loud and very silly and happy to my Mom and Dad. And cry tears to honor all the loved ones taken by the storm, the war, and our government.
Mom enters my thoughts in a less spontaneous manner. For instance, filling out medical history forms has me wishing I had been privy to her family history. She was adopted and back then there were no records and a degree of irrational shame often was passed unto the adopted child. We never spoke of it. Wish we had. Wish I had held her more during that last year; instead I seemed to just fuss at her for not eating or being able to walk. Sure would feel good to hold her now.
Memories, regrets and wishes attach themselves to my parents in different ways. Dad is remembered in dreams and thoughts much as he looked in his later years. And with his premature gray hair I never knew him to look any younger other than Jimmy Stewart circa Vertigo. But Mom is a different story, different dreams.
When Mom visits my dreams she is always younger. She is Mom the brunet, Mom the frosted blonde, she is Mom who is healthy. Mom fought two battles simultaneously: Parkinson’s and osteoporosis. She lost both. It doesn’t take shrink to tell me that it is so much more fun to dream of her as vital and cognicient. Yet in my waking hours every befuddled and stooped lady I meet brings me to tears. But hey, in dreams she never budges past middle age.
They died within two months of each other. The dreams were more frequent then. From the first time I dreamed of them I knew they would always be there for me. Kinda like old home movies. For me dreaming is a part of my life and in those moments they come alive and I have them back again. And only once in a while do we have fussing and fighting, but then that was and is a real family thing.
With Valentines Day looming over our city – a city still raw with regrets and losses, it seems like a good time shed some tears. The best tears are the ones that honor those loved ones lost not only to Katrina, loved ones like my parents. I can not always rely on pleasant dreams to keep my memories alive. Therefore when something triggers the ole tear ducks and I find myself weepin’ and a wailin’ for Mom and Dad I like to think they somehow know – know that I get it, that I appreciate the profundity of death the importance of life, their lives.
If my reserviour of tears were ever to dry up it would somehow mean that they had died again and were truly gone for good.
Dreams and tears are not for every occasion. I also like to talk to dead folks. Oh, I have no gift for the supernatural, wish I did. But I do like to believe that maybe they hear.
Once I got a little carried away chatting up Dad from the pier of the Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama where his ashes were tossed some years earlier. My accompanying friend, Paul, had to remind me “Debbie, your father is dead, not deaf!” Mom had a similar moment as I visited her grave site and commenced to regale her with all the latest gossip only to find to the chagrin of some onlookers that I was sitting on the wrong tomb stone. There I was sitting on top of their great grandmother with a cold beer in hand telling Mom some off color joke. Ya can’t take me anywhere.
This is not just a Mom and Dad mish mush Hallmark moment. Since Katrina everyone here has been touched by death in some form. The beloved dog swept from loving arms during the flood; the husband who stayed behind making room for the elderly neighbor to evacuate with his family – he drowned in his Lazy Boy recliner; the suicide, heart attack, gun shot, dogs and cats left for ‘just gonna be gone three days’ victims.
We all know and know of too many. I have one that I talk to. There is a restaurant I pass on my walk home. It is closed, suspended in time, nothing has been touched since September 05. In those days after the storm the owner, who stayed to be with animals, died in there of a heart attack. It utterly breaks my heart. I feel certain he is there and no one seems to notice, know, or care. So I will care and I will give him the acknowledgment he deserves. I speak to him and tell him I am so very sorry. I try to keep him alive. No one should die twice. Ones memory should be honored.
So for Valentines Day I will pour a little of my drink to the ground one for the brothers. I will leave flowers on the door step of a certain restaurant. I talk very loud and very silly and happy to my Mom and Dad. And cry tears to honor all the loved ones taken by the storm, the war, and our government.
Tale of two New Orleans
This is a tale of two cities, two worlds, two attitudes and too many emotions. I sit here trying to write a column that will not go to press for over a month. A lot can happen in a month… or not.
Currently 85 million gallons of drinking water a day is lost due to our ruptured infrastructure beneath our feet. Add this to 5,000 miles of leaking sewerage pipes within New Orleans and well, yes, a lot can happen in a day. We are in the worst drought in 111 years. A city of extremes.
Extremes of good occur daily here and that is confounding since it is so difficult to shift gears from anger to happiness. Just now a customer popped in my shop and I stopped typing to chat. She told me how wonderful our city is and how nice it was to see people helping each other. I looked at her like she was crazy. Why? Because it had just been one of those days, in fact one of those weeks. But her observation is the hope that we need and her compliments are the rewards for those who put on such a positive face for her, our guest, our visitor.
In a world of wars and people preying upon others I was profoundly shocked with those who came to us after Katrina.
They just keep coming… and along with them my shame and my profound gratitude. They are the guardian angels who sweep in to watch over our fallen homes; they are the good Samaritans who perform in the triage of our needs, and maybe, with their help, our recovery. They are the thousands of volunteers who have taken vacation time to come and gut it out with the mold. Or they are part of the thousands of young students giving up spring and summer breaks who risk their youthful good health to clean, clear, and cobble something from the debris that somehow represents a former home.
I am not given to saying anything that sounds remotely patriotic. You never hear me referring to “my fellow Americans” or using the word American to describe myself but I am so very proud of my fellow Americans for the deep concern they have lavished upon us. And not just kind words but kind actions. I have literally met hundreds of folks from all over this country that have come to help us, to roll up their sleeves, armed with tetanus shots and respirator masks, and sweat so that we might resume life in our beloved city.
These volunteers have restored my faith in humanity; given me a fresh view of faith-based actions; reminded me of the idealism and earnest qualities that youth can and do possess; and the strength that is often overlooked in our senior citizens.
Shame is something I mentioned feeling. Shame is not to be confused with humble. I am happy to be humbled by those who are helping. But am ashamed when tourists, here to spend well deserved leisure time and their hard earned, volunteer to clean up our litter. We may not all be capable of gutting, hauling, building but we all can pick up a broom and show some pride in what has been spared.
I just about tripped over my juxtaposition of shame and pride earlier today. Far too often my fellow Quarterites step blindly or indifferently over litter – litter that may seem innocuous in view of the horrific damage and debris we now face. But the way I see it: if we can’t even pick up (something as small as a go cup) after ourselves then how the hell can we expect the rest of the country to care. We can’t.
But back to the pride part.
There throughout the Quarter were hotel managers and staff getting down and dirty with their brooms. They were tackling everything from beer bottles to dirty diapers to condoms – they were tackling our indifference. And there ya have it – the confusion of our contradictions. Too many not being involved and others coming to the rescue. The love/hate, pride/shame thing is s such a constant I should just learn to ride this pot-holed, water leaking road of an adventure and get over it. But there is too much work to do and complacency won’t rebuild this city. Let’s hope the local hotels’ efforts this morning have sparked some motivation – they certainly had me rushing for my broom. I sweep away a lot of shame.
A tale of two cities. Did you ever think a name as pretty as Gentilly could give you goose bumps or remember men in fatigues toting big guns as a thing of beauty? Yet the hits and near misses we have endured have given new meaning and appreciation to men dancing in feathers or giant hot dogs rolling down the street. Our music never sounded better, our food never tasted quite so good. I never thought I would miss the pluralization of shrimp or actually enjoy a Mardi Gras for the first time. I got weepy just seeing all those beautiful port-o-lets lined up at the Jazz Fest.
So, there ya have it. A day never goes by without thinking this, the returning to New Orleans, was a mistake followed by pride in my water line and a thank you for being allowed to be here. As boyfriend succinctly sums it up: “We are living in the most amazing times, history is being made and some will learn from it and some will not”. It is a helluva road we are traveling
Currently 85 million gallons of drinking water a day is lost due to our ruptured infrastructure beneath our feet. Add this to 5,000 miles of leaking sewerage pipes within New Orleans and well, yes, a lot can happen in a day. We are in the worst drought in 111 years. A city of extremes.
Extremes of good occur daily here and that is confounding since it is so difficult to shift gears from anger to happiness. Just now a customer popped in my shop and I stopped typing to chat. She told me how wonderful our city is and how nice it was to see people helping each other. I looked at her like she was crazy. Why? Because it had just been one of those days, in fact one of those weeks. But her observation is the hope that we need and her compliments are the rewards for those who put on such a positive face for her, our guest, our visitor.
In a world of wars and people preying upon others I was profoundly shocked with those who came to us after Katrina.
They just keep coming… and along with them my shame and my profound gratitude. They are the guardian angels who sweep in to watch over our fallen homes; they are the good Samaritans who perform in the triage of our needs, and maybe, with their help, our recovery. They are the thousands of volunteers who have taken vacation time to come and gut it out with the mold. Or they are part of the thousands of young students giving up spring and summer breaks who risk their youthful good health to clean, clear, and cobble something from the debris that somehow represents a former home.
I am not given to saying anything that sounds remotely patriotic. You never hear me referring to “my fellow Americans” or using the word American to describe myself but I am so very proud of my fellow Americans for the deep concern they have lavished upon us. And not just kind words but kind actions. I have literally met hundreds of folks from all over this country that have come to help us, to roll up their sleeves, armed with tetanus shots and respirator masks, and sweat so that we might resume life in our beloved city.
These volunteers have restored my faith in humanity; given me a fresh view of faith-based actions; reminded me of the idealism and earnest qualities that youth can and do possess; and the strength that is often overlooked in our senior citizens.
Shame is something I mentioned feeling. Shame is not to be confused with humble. I am happy to be humbled by those who are helping. But am ashamed when tourists, here to spend well deserved leisure time and their hard earned, volunteer to clean up our litter. We may not all be capable of gutting, hauling, building but we all can pick up a broom and show some pride in what has been spared.
I just about tripped over my juxtaposition of shame and pride earlier today. Far too often my fellow Quarterites step blindly or indifferently over litter – litter that may seem innocuous in view of the horrific damage and debris we now face. But the way I see it: if we can’t even pick up (something as small as a go cup) after ourselves then how the hell can we expect the rest of the country to care. We can’t.
But back to the pride part.
There throughout the Quarter were hotel managers and staff getting down and dirty with their brooms. They were tackling everything from beer bottles to dirty diapers to condoms – they were tackling our indifference. And there ya have it – the confusion of our contradictions. Too many not being involved and others coming to the rescue. The love/hate, pride/shame thing is s such a constant I should just learn to ride this pot-holed, water leaking road of an adventure and get over it. But there is too much work to do and complacency won’t rebuild this city. Let’s hope the local hotels’ efforts this morning have sparked some motivation – they certainly had me rushing for my broom. I sweep away a lot of shame.
A tale of two cities. Did you ever think a name as pretty as Gentilly could give you goose bumps or remember men in fatigues toting big guns as a thing of beauty? Yet the hits and near misses we have endured have given new meaning and appreciation to men dancing in feathers or giant hot dogs rolling down the street. Our music never sounded better, our food never tasted quite so good. I never thought I would miss the pluralization of shrimp or actually enjoy a Mardi Gras for the first time. I got weepy just seeing all those beautiful port-o-lets lined up at the Jazz Fest.
So, there ya have it. A day never goes by without thinking this, the returning to New Orleans, was a mistake followed by pride in my water line and a thank you for being allowed to be here. As boyfriend succinctly sums it up: “We are living in the most amazing times, history is being made and some will learn from it and some will not”. It is a helluva road we are traveling
Monday, March 1, 2010
Time in New Orleans
Time
By
Debbie Lindsey
Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it dead in the face. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe the passing of time with acute awareness during that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Years Eve we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Years’ resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange. Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, regaling me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.
By
Debbie Lindsey
Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I am sitting here a year earlier -- not a full twelve months, but nevertheless living within the year previous to the day you might read this. Writing and supposing what the year two thousand ten will bring, I am able to imagine myself suspended briefly in time -- and staring it dead in the face. All the while I keep hearing the Chambers Brothers emphatically harmonize to me that time waits for no one.
So what’s in a number? When I go to sleep on December thirty-first to the sounds of fireworks and mischief and awake the next morning mere hours will have passed, not a year, not a lifetime, just some hours. And yet things will have changed – our expectations will have changed.
In every corner of the world people will observe the passing of time with acute awareness during that moment when Father Time passes the torch to another year, another configuration of numbers. Just symbols. But as the hours give way on New Years Eve we are given a chance to realize how precious time is and how much we want and how much we need to occur during the next twelve months of moments.
In some of those corners folks will resolve to end a war, others will await a new life to be born pinning all their hopes and dreams upon that child, and some will search in their mirrors looking for a glimpse of their lost youth. Expectations vary for sure but everyone will have them. And the making of resolutions for the new year often brings those expectations to fruition.
Anticipation…oh now I’ve done it; now there’s a battle of the bands between Carly Simon and the Chambers to dominate my personal soundtrack during this column. But anticipation does go hand in hand with time. We all think, sing, compose, or pray for some control over time or at least some optimism to see it along. We anticipate time and feel the pulse of the word, the power it invokes. Even the fear.
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today
As I grow older I cherish each minute. Yet those minutes are so fleeting. Swear to god there are less of those precious minutes in each of those hours than there used to be. At thirty you (yes, you the young readers of this magazine) will note that time just seems to fly and that maybe sixty seconds no longer fill a minute. And at forty you will swear too that I was right – the birthdays just seem to speed by and your children are so grown up – like over night. Then when fifty hits, you will not be joking at all when you say to younger friends that there truly are just thirty second to a minute, and wasn’t it just yesterday that such and such happened and where did all the time go and youth is wasted on the young and don’t wish your life away…
There’s no place to run
I might get burned up by the sun
But I had my fun
I’ve been loved and put aside
I’ve been crushed by tumbling tide
I hear the songs. I remember the age-old adages that caution against squandering one’s life. I don’t wish my life away. Not anymore. But that’s what I was doing all those years when I’d look at the clock at work and will it to speed towards quittin’ time. Well, I don’t wanna quit -- I want to stay in this game as long as possible. Still, I diminish the moment as I freeze up against time. Instead of fighting time’s undertow, I should flow with it and let it bring me back to shore – perhaps a bit further down the beach, but it’s another place to see, another place to be.
And what of those New Years’ resolutions and expectations? Why not look forward in time, not discarding the present, just realizing that some things need to change or rearrange. Surely our own mayoral election ahead of us can only bring improvements. And we will not reminisce over the economy. The future might bring cures and catharses, redemption and atonement. A Saints’ Super Bowl, more Abita seasonals.
Our world has not done so great with the years already given. And we need only look in our own backyards to see the piles of promises broken and abandoned. So what’s in a number? Hope, change, reparations, answers? The clock’s hand has moved on since I sat at this desk and soon I will enter the new year, same as the one you, my reader, already know. The Chambers are still trapped in time, in vinyl, regaling me that now the time has come. I will take the advice, hit save, print and see you in two thousand ten with lots of high hopes.
Riding the Sexy Beast in New Orleans
The Night I Rode the Sexy Beast
By
Debbie Lindsey
It began like any unpredictable New Orleans evening. The range of our random stardom led us out of our more familiar environs. Boyfriend and I were to read, sign and sip wine at Octavia Books as part of the statewide book signing of Louisiana In Words. Never having been published in
a format requiring a purchase we were feeling kinda hot, kinda literary. Okay sure, there were 110 other writers published in this $19.95 paperback, but hey, the book was getting lots of local press and our fearless leader and editor, Josh Clark, could really work a crowd.
Near the end of our soirée I was pretty pleased with myself – the reading I had dreaded with wallflower reticence went smoothly with no embarrassing faux pas like passing gas or biting my tongue and bleeding out. Boyfriend, on the other hand, rarely suffers a “case of the nerves” and therefore read beautifully without incident. With the wine running dangerously low and our reputations still intact it was time to beg a ride back to the Quarters.
We volunteered our editor extraordinaire to be our chauffeur. He said sure but we’d have to climb in through the windows. That didn’t sound odd to me -- having once been pushed home in a grocery cart -- so, into the night we went.
Following Boyfriend and Josh backwards, so I could ramble aloud to no one interested about how much I wanted “that little cottage with the funky awning” we just passed, had me a bit distracted. So when I turned to them, after a near plunge into a pothole, my distraction changed to…whoa! There before us was the Sexy Beast. I had never seen it outside the Quarter; yet how could something so obviously meant to roam be corralled? How could one confine such a spirit?
Face to face with it I realized the Beast was no kid – it was an ’86 Chevy Monte Carlo Super Sport. And just like some tough guy rendered toothless from one brawl too many, the Beast had two gaping spaces on either side of its T-top. In a junkyard somewhere the missing panels were laid to rest like the tusks of fallen elephants -- except this Beast was far from fallen – you could sense this. The Chevy’s body was gussied-up (albeit rather ominously) with enameled flames and its name, Sexy Beast, painted bold and large for all the world to see.
Where was the driver, the owner, the trainer of this Beast?
For years I had seen the Beast and wondered who belonged to it. Some twenty-something drenched in tattoos and flesh pierced with more metal than the Beast? Perhaps an ex-con scarred from too many years in the Big House whose trust would never go beyond his car. Or, maybe some 21st century cowboy – I could just picture Hank Williams serenading from the radio as man and beast cruised the lonely flatlands of the city, an unfiltered smoke dangling from the cowboy’s lips and time on his hands.
“What are you two doing?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Boyfriend was disappearing into the Beast and Josh was already swallowed and in the driver’s seat. Well, hot damn! The master of the beast had been there all along. This was bigger than discovering the guy behind Spider Man, the man inside the Santa suit, the Rove behind the Bush. Our mild mannered editor was behind the wheel of the Sexy Beast!
So, after much flailing, twisting and twirling I climbed inside the beast via the hole in the roof. As we took off we were warned that we may run out of gas (the gas gauge is broken) but not to worry -- a gas can is ever present and sometimes filled. He asked if we were going too fast for our taste because he could slow down – the speedometer no longer works but rest assured, the brakes do.
Yes, the seatbelts were operable, but we were encouraged to please help with hand gestures, full-throated honks, and eagle eye glances out the passenger windows (“careful, the seats are loose”). Apparently the turn signals, rear view mirror, and horn were all retired -- along with the glove compartment latch (it really did not hurt so much when it flipped open on my kneecaps).
Remember those desperate over-sexed dates in high school and the get-to-first-base maneuvers? You know, the classic “Oh gosh, we are out of gas here in the middle of nowhere, don’t be scared come a little closer”. Well, I’d always hoped for that date but my sweet nerds always picked me up in a just-washed-and-waxed car with a full tank of gas. Try as I may to surreptitiously siphon the gasoline from Dependable Date’s car as he waited patiently for my return from the powder room, I never got to succumb to that scenario.
So, as forewarned by our Josh/editor/driver, we ran out of gas. Had poor Josh waited for this moment to happen with a willing damsel in tow? If so, all he got were two middle-aged goons, a romantic view of the nursing home at Jefferson and Magazine and the only thing getting “ a little bit” was a determined mosquito.
The emergency gas can yielded enough fuel to transport us to the Exxon at Lee Circle. As we pulled into the station I felt certain the cops would surely swarm us. They must have seen us flying through the night. But Josh had learned long ago how to rein in the Beast with or without a speedometer. As he climbed out and began feeding the Beast at the pump, a quite inebriated crackhead, short in statue and short on teeth, came over and stood next to my car door.
Maybe it was the booze or the rock; perhaps the moonlight or the glow of neon; or…maybe he too fell under the spell of the Sexy Beast. Regardless, the ever-swaying little man began to profess his adoration for me and my hair (that I must admit really looks good in fluorescent lighting). He even went so far as to tell Josh and Boyfriend, “Man she’s beauuuuutifuuuul”. This went on for several minutes. I knew it was true infatuation -- he never once asked for money or a cigarette. As we drove away he was still declaring his devotions. And they say a good man is hard to find.
The road trip home may have lasted only twenty minutes but I will always remember it as the night I rode the Sexy Beast. Those Uptown miles flowed into Lower Garden streets, turned and straightened onto St. Charles and with every inch of asphalt I felt dizzy with the sense of trespassing. The Beast made you feel like an outlaw and every mile an adventure. I felt certain that if there were a rearview mirror it would reflect a young girl – giddy and brazen.
By
Debbie Lindsey
It began like any unpredictable New Orleans evening. The range of our random stardom led us out of our more familiar environs. Boyfriend and I were to read, sign and sip wine at Octavia Books as part of the statewide book signing of Louisiana In Words. Never having been published in
a format requiring a purchase we were feeling kinda hot, kinda literary. Okay sure, there were 110 other writers published in this $19.95 paperback, but hey, the book was getting lots of local press and our fearless leader and editor, Josh Clark, could really work a crowd.
Near the end of our soirée I was pretty pleased with myself – the reading I had dreaded with wallflower reticence went smoothly with no embarrassing faux pas like passing gas or biting my tongue and bleeding out. Boyfriend, on the other hand, rarely suffers a “case of the nerves” and therefore read beautifully without incident. With the wine running dangerously low and our reputations still intact it was time to beg a ride back to the Quarters.
We volunteered our editor extraordinaire to be our chauffeur. He said sure but we’d have to climb in through the windows. That didn’t sound odd to me -- having once been pushed home in a grocery cart -- so, into the night we went.
Following Boyfriend and Josh backwards, so I could ramble aloud to no one interested about how much I wanted “that little cottage with the funky awning” we just passed, had me a bit distracted. So when I turned to them, after a near plunge into a pothole, my distraction changed to…whoa! There before us was the Sexy Beast. I had never seen it outside the Quarter; yet how could something so obviously meant to roam be corralled? How could one confine such a spirit?
Face to face with it I realized the Beast was no kid – it was an ’86 Chevy Monte Carlo Super Sport. And just like some tough guy rendered toothless from one brawl too many, the Beast had two gaping spaces on either side of its T-top. In a junkyard somewhere the missing panels were laid to rest like the tusks of fallen elephants -- except this Beast was far from fallen – you could sense this. The Chevy’s body was gussied-up (albeit rather ominously) with enameled flames and its name, Sexy Beast, painted bold and large for all the world to see.
Where was the driver, the owner, the trainer of this Beast?
For years I had seen the Beast and wondered who belonged to it. Some twenty-something drenched in tattoos and flesh pierced with more metal than the Beast? Perhaps an ex-con scarred from too many years in the Big House whose trust would never go beyond his car. Or, maybe some 21st century cowboy – I could just picture Hank Williams serenading from the radio as man and beast cruised the lonely flatlands of the city, an unfiltered smoke dangling from the cowboy’s lips and time on his hands.
“What are you two doing?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Boyfriend was disappearing into the Beast and Josh was already swallowed and in the driver’s seat. Well, hot damn! The master of the beast had been there all along. This was bigger than discovering the guy behind Spider Man, the man inside the Santa suit, the Rove behind the Bush. Our mild mannered editor was behind the wheel of the Sexy Beast!
So, after much flailing, twisting and twirling I climbed inside the beast via the hole in the roof. As we took off we were warned that we may run out of gas (the gas gauge is broken) but not to worry -- a gas can is ever present and sometimes filled. He asked if we were going too fast for our taste because he could slow down – the speedometer no longer works but rest assured, the brakes do.
Yes, the seatbelts were operable, but we were encouraged to please help with hand gestures, full-throated honks, and eagle eye glances out the passenger windows (“careful, the seats are loose”). Apparently the turn signals, rear view mirror, and horn were all retired -- along with the glove compartment latch (it really did not hurt so much when it flipped open on my kneecaps).
Remember those desperate over-sexed dates in high school and the get-to-first-base maneuvers? You know, the classic “Oh gosh, we are out of gas here in the middle of nowhere, don’t be scared come a little closer”. Well, I’d always hoped for that date but my sweet nerds always picked me up in a just-washed-and-waxed car with a full tank of gas. Try as I may to surreptitiously siphon the gasoline from Dependable Date’s car as he waited patiently for my return from the powder room, I never got to succumb to that scenario.
So, as forewarned by our Josh/editor/driver, we ran out of gas. Had poor Josh waited for this moment to happen with a willing damsel in tow? If so, all he got were two middle-aged goons, a romantic view of the nursing home at Jefferson and Magazine and the only thing getting “ a little bit” was a determined mosquito.
The emergency gas can yielded enough fuel to transport us to the Exxon at Lee Circle. As we pulled into the station I felt certain the cops would surely swarm us. They must have seen us flying through the night. But Josh had learned long ago how to rein in the Beast with or without a speedometer. As he climbed out and began feeding the Beast at the pump, a quite inebriated crackhead, short in statue and short on teeth, came over and stood next to my car door.
Maybe it was the booze or the rock; perhaps the moonlight or the glow of neon; or…maybe he too fell under the spell of the Sexy Beast. Regardless, the ever-swaying little man began to profess his adoration for me and my hair (that I must admit really looks good in fluorescent lighting). He even went so far as to tell Josh and Boyfriend, “Man she’s beauuuuutifuuuul”. This went on for several minutes. I knew it was true infatuation -- he never once asked for money or a cigarette. As we drove away he was still declaring his devotions. And they say a good man is hard to find.
The road trip home may have lasted only twenty minutes but I will always remember it as the night I rode the Sexy Beast. Those Uptown miles flowed into Lower Garden streets, turned and straightened onto St. Charles and with every inch of asphalt I felt dizzy with the sense of trespassing. The Beast made you feel like an outlaw and every mile an adventure. I felt certain that if there were a rearview mirror it would reflect a young girl – giddy and brazen.
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