New Orleans, I still hear you singing:
New Orleans was more than beignets in the shadow of St. Louis Cathedral, more than a ride to Audubon Park on the St. Charles streetcar, more than the juxtaposition of tourist and resident, rich and poor. It was Spain in the Cabildo. It was France in the Vieux Carre. It was the Confederacy in the antebellum mansions lining River Road, with the silent shameful slaves' cabins stringing out behind, standing mutely outrageous among rows of beautiful live oak trees bedecked with Spanish moss.
It was more than its countless above the ground cemeteries ever reminding us of the high water table. It was more than a family outing on the neutral ground of St. Claude Avenue with friends and neighbors making a day of waiting for the first Okeanos parade of another Mardi Gras season. It was more than King Cake parties, and gumbo served with dirty rice and crawfish boils.
It was the New South in legends of jazz and Storyville and the original town that never slept. It was rows of Victorian style shotgun doubles; it was the luxuriance one felt standing over the hallway floor furnace on a cold winter's morn. It was immersing one's self richly, warmly, neck high in an old clawfoot bathtub. It was riding all day for a dime using several transfers on the Barracks, St. Claude to Refinery, Canal Street Cemeteries and Carrollton buslines. It was the old glass beads, the first Rex doubloon; It was the antitypical Southern city with a Brooklyn accent; it stood in a class by itself with cuisine that ranged from blue collar to purple mantle. The standard 9th ward fare being: Red beans and rice on a Monday. Cabbage and corn bread on a Tuesday. Mustard greens and fried pork chops on a Wednesday, and on a Thursday meatballs and spaghetti. Friday, you go with anything seafood. Saturday is potluck. Sunday is gumbo, mirliton, roast beef. It was a city where coffee wasn't the standard national brands; but where French Market, Community, and CDM, reigned supreme. It was coffee that was as black as the creosote on our telephone poles, and strong as John Henry.
It was marching in those parades, the Masqueraders Drum and Bugle Corps, with that motorcycle cop we knew was Chopsley, the Stardusters, the St. Bernard Delta Brass Band. It was theaters like the Pitt, the Famous, the Town, the Nola, and the Arabi; drive-ins like the St. Bernard, Skyvue, and Do. It was the original "House of Shock," later Morgus Presents--and Dr. Morgus, Eric, and Chopsley operating in their hilarious lab atop the "city icehouse."
It was the Frostop and Royal Castle; It was sitting on the front porch swing and talking with neighbors on those sultry summer nights. It was Martin Brother's "Potato" sandwich, and Mother's Roast Beef po-boys. It was Mr. Bingle and Maison Blanche,(with that absurd 7 storey tall Christmas tree), Sears with it's 5 storey Santa, D.H. Holmes and Godchaux's, and McCrory's, F. W. Woolworth, Canal Street's huge Coca Cola sign, the equally large Canadian Club neon greeting, and a soda at Katz and Besthoff. It was the only place that had the color K&B purple.
It was a ride on the top deck of the Canal St. ferry, gazing upon Ol' Man River's embrace of reflected city lights, and miles of wharfs. It was a dance and ride on the steamboat President. It was the oak draped canopy lining the streets of the Irish Channel. It was the ghosts who walked abroad at night in swirls of rain and Mississippi mist. It is the ghosts of the 9th Ward, the old Irish Channel, in the murdered hopes of those who loved her.
Do you know what it means, to miss New Orleans? Just ask any who called it home, and seen it since August 29th!
And yet it is ever my hope that like the bird for which a certain Arizona city is named, this Grand Dame of the Old South will rise from her ashes more glorious and resplendent than ever. She has survived the great fire of 1788, the fire and two hurricanes of 1794; She has survived the invasion of the British in the war of 1812, the Civil War, military occupation, and Reconstruction. She has survived countless bouts with Malaria and Yellow Fever epidemics, "Yellow Jack," and still she stood proudly ensconced in her famous "Crescent" that lends her its name. She has survived numerous catastrophic hurricanes: in 1831 the infamous "Last Isle" hurricane, and a dozen more in the 1800’s; the 1915 disaster, the 1927 hurricane and flood, that of 1947, Hilda in 1964, Betsy, the first "billion dollar" storm in 1965, and she will survive Katrina.
The true New Orleans Spirit isn’t one with hands out; but one with sleeves rolled up. The true New Orleans Spirit doesn’t allow trial to make it bitter; it only steels our resolve to make it better. This Grand Old Lady may, like Scarlett O' Hara, be forced to wear a dress made of curtains amid the ruin of her erstwhile grandeur; but she remains nestled still on the proud Isle of Orleans, the "pearl" of the South, and by no means is she "Gone With the Wind."
My wish to all is a happy, healthy, prosperous and VERY optimistic New Year!
A2K
