Is it because we've been having such a rough time of it that we are so ready to just celebrate for any silly reason? Or is it that New Orleans is a town that always has and always will celebrate the little things?
This is a true story, I swear it!
I can't put a date on it, but we've been doing this for several years, the wife and me. We've been nice to the garbage men.
It sounds like such a simple thing, and yet, the looks we sometimes get...
Anyway, more than a decade ago when we were still living in our first house, my wife and I got into the habit of giving cold drinks to the garbage men. I mean, it's just a simple act of kindness. An acknowledgment that these men who bust their asses lifting cans and bags of trash and run behind the trucks for who knows how many hours a day in the heat and humidity of New Orleans, that what they do is really really hard work. And I'm pretty sure none of them are getting rich doing this.
Let's just say it's a no-brainer.
We got into the habit that every time we see them coming down the street, we'd run and bring them cokes, water, whatever we had that was cold and packaged to go. I think they liked it. In fact I know they liked it, because one time a few years ago, we weren't outside when they passed, so they came and knocked on the door.
Later, my wife started to just put bottles of water out on the front porch two days a week.
Trash pick-up has not been so good of late. Sure, FEMA's got these contractors all over the city picking up refrigerators, scooping up construction debris, hauling off fallen limbs and trees. But ordinary household trash has gone untouched.
And I know my friends from out of town or of state are saying, “What? They’re still picking up storm debris more than two months later?” YES. Best estimates are that it will be TWO YEARS before we can haul it all away. So perhaps you’ll now understand the current interest is trash pick-up.
Finally, just yesterday, regular trash pick-up service was restarted city-wide. And my wife was home when the big, noisy trash truck came a-rumbling down the block. You would have thought she was a child hearing the ice cream truck the way she responded. Quick as she could, she grabbed a handful of water bottles for perhaps the hardest working, and perhaps for today at least, the most appreciated men in the city.
By the time she made it outside, the trash truck had already gone a few houses down the street. A couple cars were following, having no way to safely pass the truck and the garbage men darting back and forth. My wife ran up to the men, gave them the water and thanked them for their efforts. They thanked her back, of course.
And then, the unexpected happened. Those folks in their cars, witnesses to the gifts my wife gave the workers, rolled down their windows. You might have thought they were upset to be stuck behind a garbage truck. You might expect they would be angry with my wife for further delaying their slow progress. But no, not today.
They rolled down their windows and they cheered.
"Hooray!" they shouted, "Let's hear it for the garbage men! We really appreciate them!"
Is it because we've been having such a rough time of it that we are so ready to just celebrate for any silly reason? Or is it that New Orleans is a town that always has and always will celebrate the little things?
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
Food for Thought
"Everybody is miserable because you can't go anywhere without getting caught in traffic. We went to dinner the other night and it took an hour and a half to get our food." That's the lament of a co-worker of mine.
He's talking about life in Metairie, the bedroom community next to New Orleans. They suffered some flooding and wind damage from the hurricanes, but nothing on a scale to compare with my neighborhood, or the neighborhoods to the East.
As a result, most of the population of Metairie is back, along with a big chunk of New Orleanians in need of places to live, work, eat and shop. The results: gridlock, long lines, loss of civility, indigestion. Oh, the humanity!
This is a curious turn of events, indeed.
You would expect that those of us "struggling to survive" in the decimated city would be much worse off than our counterparts on the other side of the 17th Street Canal.
But listen to this: I can go out to eat at any of several restaurants, and waiting is not a problem. Neither is traffic. Or parking.
A few nights ago, I took the family and a friend out to eat at Mona's Cafe on Carrollton Avenue. We walked right in and had food on the table faster than you can say "Shish ka-Bob's Your Uncle." Excellent service and eats. Lebanese tea, falafel, hummus, authentic background music.
And just yesterday, we met my parents for lunch at the Freret Street Cafe, a cute little place that is essentially an early 20th century gas station painted yellow. The weather was beautiful, so we sat outside under the canopy painted with palm fronds. They serve a variety of sandwiches and grilled plates, the best of which was the shrimp po-boy that my wife ordered. It was bursting with fried shrimp to rival any I've ever seen in New Orleans.
I guess what I'm saying is, life is good in New Orleans. Uptown is doing just fine, thank you. Even in its current condition, it's a great place to be.
For my Metairie friends, I am reminded of Emma Lazarus' verse, "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Who knows, maybe that yellow paint at the Freret Street Cafe is supposed to be gold.
Restaurants:
Mona’s Cafe, 1120 South Carrollton Ave., 861-8174.
Freret Street Cafe, corner of Freret and Lowerline.
He's talking about life in Metairie, the bedroom community next to New Orleans. They suffered some flooding and wind damage from the hurricanes, but nothing on a scale to compare with my neighborhood, or the neighborhoods to the East.
As a result, most of the population of Metairie is back, along with a big chunk of New Orleanians in need of places to live, work, eat and shop. The results: gridlock, long lines, loss of civility, indigestion. Oh, the humanity!
This is a curious turn of events, indeed.
You would expect that those of us "struggling to survive" in the decimated city would be much worse off than our counterparts on the other side of the 17th Street Canal.
But listen to this: I can go out to eat at any of several restaurants, and waiting is not a problem. Neither is traffic. Or parking.
A few nights ago, I took the family and a friend out to eat at Mona's Cafe on Carrollton Avenue. We walked right in and had food on the table faster than you can say "Shish ka-Bob's Your Uncle." Excellent service and eats. Lebanese tea, falafel, hummus, authentic background music.
And just yesterday, we met my parents for lunch at the Freret Street Cafe, a cute little place that is essentially an early 20th century gas station painted yellow. The weather was beautiful, so we sat outside under the canopy painted with palm fronds. They serve a variety of sandwiches and grilled plates, the best of which was the shrimp po-boy that my wife ordered. It was bursting with fried shrimp to rival any I've ever seen in New Orleans.
I guess what I'm saying is, life is good in New Orleans. Uptown is doing just fine, thank you. Even in its current condition, it's a great place to be.
For my Metairie friends, I am reminded of Emma Lazarus' verse, "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Who knows, maybe that yellow paint at the Freret Street Cafe is supposed to be gold.
Restaurants:
Mona’s Cafe, 1120 South Carrollton Ave., 861-8174.
Freret Street Cafe, corner of Freret and Lowerline.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Staring in the Rear-View Mirror
The military has this saying, that you have to be careful you're not just preparing for the last war. What that means is simply to look forward, not back, when planning for the future.
For the good citizens in uniform, that means don't assume the enemies of the future will use the same weapons and tactics of the past. Technology, politics, economics, even cultures change with time.
Put another way: You'll never get safely to your destination if all you do is stare in the rear-view mirror.
I hope we keep this in mind as we rebuild New Orleans and South Louisiana. Yes, Katrina was a bitch, and Rita was her wicked sister, but they're not the only threats to our homes and neighborhoods.
For the past few weeks, I've been hearing a lot of talk about building higher levees and raising houses. And that's nothing but smart coming out of what we've just been through.
But is that all?
No doubt that if my house had been about 8 feet higher I'd be a much happier man. No doubt that if my neighbors were likewise elevated we'd be waving to each other across the lawns instead of emailing each other from two, three, four states apart.
But if that's all we do, if we just build higher and quit there, I'm afraid we'll be prepared for Hurricane Katrina only. And I think we all know that Katrina will never come again.
Hurricanes bring more than storm surges; they also bring high winds. Katrina knocked out a lot of windows from high rise buildings and tore shingles from rooftops across the city, and she wasn't even all that strong.
If we're going to rebuild smart, it's got to be not just higher, but stronger. We've got to design our homes and businesses to withstand destructive hurricane-force winds.
Right up front, we can look at roofing and see if there's a way to improve the performance of roofs. A quick look down any street in town at all the blue roofs should give us a clue as to how poorly our roofing systems perform even under minor hurricane force winds.
And what about shutters? They've become a joke in all the newer neighborhoods. Most of them are just color-coordinated vinyl bolted to the brick. Again, recent hurricanes like Cindy and Katrina really didn't blow too hard on our town, but one day a 160 mph monster will come through, and we'd better be ready. We should have actual, functioning shutters on every new home, and we should encourage same on all existing homes when they renovate.
These are just a couple suggestions to consider as we rebuild our city. Everyone's talking about rebuilding smarter and better. I just hope we're smart enough to not just protect ourselves from the last hurricane.
For the good citizens in uniform, that means don't assume the enemies of the future will use the same weapons and tactics of the past. Technology, politics, economics, even cultures change with time.
Put another way: You'll never get safely to your destination if all you do is stare in the rear-view mirror.
I hope we keep this in mind as we rebuild New Orleans and South Louisiana. Yes, Katrina was a bitch, and Rita was her wicked sister, but they're not the only threats to our homes and neighborhoods.
For the past few weeks, I've been hearing a lot of talk about building higher levees and raising houses. And that's nothing but smart coming out of what we've just been through.
But is that all?
No doubt that if my house had been about 8 feet higher I'd be a much happier man. No doubt that if my neighbors were likewise elevated we'd be waving to each other across the lawns instead of emailing each other from two, three, four states apart.
But if that's all we do, if we just build higher and quit there, I'm afraid we'll be prepared for Hurricane Katrina only. And I think we all know that Katrina will never come again.
Hurricanes bring more than storm surges; they also bring high winds. Katrina knocked out a lot of windows from high rise buildings and tore shingles from rooftops across the city, and she wasn't even all that strong.
If we're going to rebuild smart, it's got to be not just higher, but stronger. We've got to design our homes and businesses to withstand destructive hurricane-force winds.
Right up front, we can look at roofing and see if there's a way to improve the performance of roofs. A quick look down any street in town at all the blue roofs should give us a clue as to how poorly our roofing systems perform even under minor hurricane force winds.
And what about shutters? They've become a joke in all the newer neighborhoods. Most of them are just color-coordinated vinyl bolted to the brick. Again, recent hurricanes like Cindy and Katrina really didn't blow too hard on our town, but one day a 160 mph monster will come through, and we'd better be ready. We should have actual, functioning shutters on every new home, and we should encourage same on all existing homes when they renovate.
These are just a couple suggestions to consider as we rebuild our city. Everyone's talking about rebuilding smarter and better. I just hope we're smart enough to not just protect ourselves from the last hurricane.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
A proud accomplishment
I have done it. Not too many people can say that. And I'm thinking it deserves a place on my resume, somewhere between my Bachelor's Degree and completion of Army Basic Training.
Most people, faced with the same problem, punted. They turned away and refused to face it. But not me, I set my mind to the task and I did it.
I cleaned a refrigerator.
I will pause momentarily to bask in your admiration.
Thank you. Thank you.
Post Katrina, a plague of epic proportions infested our refrigerators. Food left for days and weeks took on new life and new civilizations, moldily growing where no food in our homes has ever grown before.
The more common cure: duct tape and dump it. Get it outta here and mark it as hazardous waste! Although many wags labelled their boxes as containing Saints Owner Tom Benson or former FEMA leader Mike Brown, the true contents are far more disgusting.
People have asked me, how and why?
The how was not so bad as you would imagine. My secret, if you will, was simply to fill two trash cans with the contents of the ice box while thinking as little as possible about what it was I was removing. I did not stop to ponder, for instance, that this brownish bag of goo was at one time tomatoes, or veal, or rice. Just toss it and forget it.
And the bugs, well, best not to think too long about them, either. Sure, there were a lot of those guys in both the fridge and freezer compartments, and no doubt they had a knock-down-drag-out party in our absence. But how did they get in there? My advice: don't ask, don't tell.
After that it was not so bad. A lot of 409 and bleach and baking soda.
And why? Well, when I first came back to town I was staying at a friend's house who was not planning to return for many more weeks. I guess I wanted to do him a favor, and I guess, too, that I wanted to be able to have a place for the beer.
Yes, that is my story. If I still had an Army uniform, I'd sew a REFRIGERATOR badge on my shoulder, like the RANGER and AIRBORNE tabs some soldiers wear.
I have done it.
And now, I will enjoy a cold beer and apply ointment to this unusual rash I have developed.
Most people, faced with the same problem, punted. They turned away and refused to face it. But not me, I set my mind to the task and I did it.
I cleaned a refrigerator.
I will pause momentarily to bask in your admiration.
Thank you. Thank you.
Post Katrina, a plague of epic proportions infested our refrigerators. Food left for days and weeks took on new life and new civilizations, moldily growing where no food in our homes has ever grown before.
The more common cure: duct tape and dump it. Get it outta here and mark it as hazardous waste! Although many wags labelled their boxes as containing Saints Owner Tom Benson or former FEMA leader Mike Brown, the true contents are far more disgusting.
People have asked me, how and why?
The how was not so bad as you would imagine. My secret, if you will, was simply to fill two trash cans with the contents of the ice box while thinking as little as possible about what it was I was removing. I did not stop to ponder, for instance, that this brownish bag of goo was at one time tomatoes, or veal, or rice. Just toss it and forget it.
And the bugs, well, best not to think too long about them, either. Sure, there were a lot of those guys in both the fridge and freezer compartments, and no doubt they had a knock-down-drag-out party in our absence. But how did they get in there? My advice: don't ask, don't tell.
After that it was not so bad. A lot of 409 and bleach and baking soda.
And why? Well, when I first came back to town I was staying at a friend's house who was not planning to return for many more weeks. I guess I wanted to do him a favor, and I guess, too, that I wanted to be able to have a place for the beer.
Yes, that is my story. If I still had an Army uniform, I'd sew a REFRIGERATOR badge on my shoulder, like the RANGER and AIRBORNE tabs some soldiers wear.
I have done it.
And now, I will enjoy a cold beer and apply ointment to this unusual rash I have developed.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
It's my job
For the last three years, my morning commute has taken me up Carrollton Avenue to the river. Those of you with a hobby of collecting hangovers will know that's where the bar and grill called Cooter Brown's is located.
For the last three years, almost every morning, I have seen a lone worker, cleaning up the mess that the all-night partiers invariably left behind.
And last week, after an absense of about two months brought no doubt by the intrusion of Katrina in our lives, he was back.
Wearing a black apron and white shrimping boots, the tall thin man uses a hose, a broom and a shovel to wash and sweep and scrape Cooter's back into shape. Regardless of the weather or holidays, he's been there every morning that I've been by there.
Can I tell you how excited I was to see him there? It sounds crazy, but it was like seeing the first flowers after a long hard winter. It was like seeing a ship emerge safely from the fog. I wanted him to know how happy it made me just to see him sweeping and hosing. I wanted to share this feeling with him.
So I pulled over and hopped out to meet this man.
Perhaps frightened, and certainly surprised, he shyly told me his name was Robert. I told him how glad I was to see him, a person I'd never met, a man I only knew as a touchstone of normalcy in these crazy times.
He smiled, showing a gold tooth. He said he'd been cleaning up Cooter Brown's for 16 years. I told him he was doing a great job, and thanked him for coming back to our wrecked town.
"It's my job," he said.
I wanted to ask him a dozen more questions, but he didn't seem comfortable talking to me. Perhaps Robert is naturally shy, a person who would prefer not being noticed and talked to. That might be why he took the late-night cleaning job in the first place, and why he did it so well.
Or, perhaps he just thought I was insane, stopping to shake the hand of a janitor in the early morning light.
So I didn't keep him. I wished him well, got back in my car and continued on my way.
And Robert went back to cleaning, just like he's always done.
Welcome back, Robert. Thanks again.
For the last three years, almost every morning, I have seen a lone worker, cleaning up the mess that the all-night partiers invariably left behind.
And last week, after an absense of about two months brought no doubt by the intrusion of Katrina in our lives, he was back.
Wearing a black apron and white shrimping boots, the tall thin man uses a hose, a broom and a shovel to wash and sweep and scrape Cooter's back into shape. Regardless of the weather or holidays, he's been there every morning that I've been by there.
Can I tell you how excited I was to see him there? It sounds crazy, but it was like seeing the first flowers after a long hard winter. It was like seeing a ship emerge safely from the fog. I wanted him to know how happy it made me just to see him sweeping and hosing. I wanted to share this feeling with him.
So I pulled over and hopped out to meet this man.
Perhaps frightened, and certainly surprised, he shyly told me his name was Robert. I told him how glad I was to see him, a person I'd never met, a man I only knew as a touchstone of normalcy in these crazy times.
He smiled, showing a gold tooth. He said he'd been cleaning up Cooter Brown's for 16 years. I told him he was doing a great job, and thanked him for coming back to our wrecked town.
"It's my job," he said.
I wanted to ask him a dozen more questions, but he didn't seem comfortable talking to me. Perhaps Robert is naturally shy, a person who would prefer not being noticed and talked to. That might be why he took the late-night cleaning job in the first place, and why he did it so well.
Or, perhaps he just thought I was insane, stopping to shake the hand of a janitor in the early morning light.
So I didn't keep him. I wished him well, got back in my car and continued on my way.
And Robert went back to cleaning, just like he's always done.
Welcome back, Robert. Thanks again.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Rebuilding
People keep asking me, "Are you planning to rebuild on your property?"
The answer is, "No way! I'm not going to rebuild ON the property, I'm going to rebuild about 10 feet ABOVE my property."
The answer is, "No way! I'm not going to rebuild ON the property, I'm going to rebuild about 10 feet ABOVE my property."
Monday, October 31, 2005
Semper Fidelis
The water that washed into New Orleans also washed away a lot of the city. One of my neighbors, a Marine and his family, can be counted among the casualties of Katrina's flood.
Although originally from North Carolina, my Marine neighbor took a liking to our quirky town. His tour of duty here with the Leathernecks had ended, but his kids were in good schools and the wife liked the neighborhood. So they stayed.
When Katrina came to town, my Marine neighbor had rejoined and was serving in Iraq. His family reluctantly fled to the familiar hills of North Carolina as the flood water rose on our street.
So now resettled, and with nothing to come back to in New Orleans except years of rebuilding and dust and sweaty work, my Marine neighbor informed me that they are not coming back to New Orleans.
I totally understand. Their children are now settled in to their new schools. The oldest will graduate from high school this spring, and the youngest is just starting. The wife has a new job. The Marines have sent my friend back stateside, and he's spending most of his time at Camp LeJeune.
My Marine neighbor came back to get some things from their mud and mold coverned house last week. He spent two days digging and found some important papers and a few unspoiled items to take back with him, back to North Carolina.
But before he left, he put up his flag. We both flew the stars and stripes on the front of our houses before the hurricane came to town.
I was at my house the other day, and there it was, waving free and showing its bright colors to the sepia-toned houses and shrubbery all along our street. There it was, swaying gently in the breeze, as if my Marine friend had just left for work and would be coming home soon like he did so many days before.
I felt a great deal of appreciation for him at that moment. A good neighbor, a fine father, and a Marine of exemplary stature, how fortunate I was to have lived across the street from him for these six some years.
That simple gesture of raising the colors before he left, what did that say about him, about our neighborhood, about New Orleans?
They could say, "These Colors Don't Run," or, "Don't Tread on Me," statements of defiance against Katrina and her destructive force.
But what I think it says is, "Semper Fidelis," the Marine's motto, "Always Faithful." Because even if circumstances and family responsibilities have carried his family away, I think my Marine neighbor knows that friendships will endure, and New Orleans will not be washed away.
Although originally from North Carolina, my Marine neighbor took a liking to our quirky town. His tour of duty here with the Leathernecks had ended, but his kids were in good schools and the wife liked the neighborhood. So they stayed.
When Katrina came to town, my Marine neighbor had rejoined and was serving in Iraq. His family reluctantly fled to the familiar hills of North Carolina as the flood water rose on our street.
So now resettled, and with nothing to come back to in New Orleans except years of rebuilding and dust and sweaty work, my Marine neighbor informed me that they are not coming back to New Orleans.
I totally understand. Their children are now settled in to their new schools. The oldest will graduate from high school this spring, and the youngest is just starting. The wife has a new job. The Marines have sent my friend back stateside, and he's spending most of his time at Camp LeJeune.
My Marine neighbor came back to get some things from their mud and mold coverned house last week. He spent two days digging and found some important papers and a few unspoiled items to take back with him, back to North Carolina.
But before he left, he put up his flag. We both flew the stars and stripes on the front of our houses before the hurricane came to town.
I was at my house the other day, and there it was, waving free and showing its bright colors to the sepia-toned houses and shrubbery all along our street. There it was, swaying gently in the breeze, as if my Marine friend had just left for work and would be coming home soon like he did so many days before.
I felt a great deal of appreciation for him at that moment. A good neighbor, a fine father, and a Marine of exemplary stature, how fortunate I was to have lived across the street from him for these six some years.
That simple gesture of raising the colors before he left, what did that say about him, about our neighborhood, about New Orleans?
They could say, "These Colors Don't Run," or, "Don't Tread on Me," statements of defiance against Katrina and her destructive force.
But what I think it says is, "Semper Fidelis," the Marine's motto, "Always Faithful." Because even if circumstances and family responsibilities have carried his family away, I think my Marine neighbor knows that friendships will endure, and New Orleans will not be washed away.
The 60-Second Interview with John Blancher
So if you're from around here, you know who I'm talking about. Likes to dance on the bar. Dresses up like Elvis at every legitimate opportunity. Runs a place called Mid City Rock'n'Bowl.
I was headed up Carrollton Avenue toward my still soggy, mold infested house in Vista Park yesterday to do some treasure hunting, as such. As is my custom, I'm scanning left and right and taking notes about what businesses are open or looking like they want to open. I was cruising past the faded painting of the world famous bowling pin logo of Rock'n'Bowl and I saw two people standing out front. Recognizing Blancher, even without the jumpsuit and sideburns, I pulled a quick louie.
I drove up next to him and rolled down the window.
Me: "Hey, John! Good to see you!"
Him: "Hey, how ya doing buddy!"
Me: "You getting ready to open this place?"
Him: "Man, I wanted to open this week--I'm ready right now. But I can't until they get the grocery cleaned out."
It turns out that what is keeping both the rockin' and the bowling at bay is the Union Grocery Store, or what is left of it. For whatever reason, no one has cleaned out the grocery since it flooded more than two months ago. It sits right below the Rock'n'Bowl, so the rotting and smelling and you-don't-want-to-think-too-long-about-it remains of that place are making Blancher's place uninhabitable, even by FEMA standards.
He explained that there's some sort of rift with the landlord so that for the foreseeable future, the alleys and the amps will be silent. I really didn't catch it all, only I understood that when he said, "no telling when," he probably means, "no time soon."
I wished him well, and I told him, as the unofficial spokesperson for the music-loving population of New Orleans and surrounding environs, that we missed the place dearly. He thanked me as a glint of sunlight reflected from the corner of his eyes.
I continued up Carrollton to the remains of my house. But I found no treasure that day to compare with John Blancher and his Rock'n'Bowl.
Web site: http://www.rockandbowl.com/index.htm
I was headed up Carrollton Avenue toward my still soggy, mold infested house in Vista Park yesterday to do some treasure hunting, as such. As is my custom, I'm scanning left and right and taking notes about what businesses are open or looking like they want to open. I was cruising past the faded painting of the world famous bowling pin logo of Rock'n'Bowl and I saw two people standing out front. Recognizing Blancher, even without the jumpsuit and sideburns, I pulled a quick louie.
I drove up next to him and rolled down the window.
Me: "Hey, John! Good to see you!"
Him: "Hey, how ya doing buddy!"
Me: "You getting ready to open this place?"
Him: "Man, I wanted to open this week--I'm ready right now. But I can't until they get the grocery cleaned out."
It turns out that what is keeping both the rockin' and the bowling at bay is the Union Grocery Store, or what is left of it. For whatever reason, no one has cleaned out the grocery since it flooded more than two months ago. It sits right below the Rock'n'Bowl, so the rotting and smelling and you-don't-want-to-think-too-long-about-it remains of that place are making Blancher's place uninhabitable, even by FEMA standards.
He explained that there's some sort of rift with the landlord so that for the foreseeable future, the alleys and the amps will be silent. I really didn't catch it all, only I understood that when he said, "no telling when," he probably means, "no time soon."
I wished him well, and I told him, as the unofficial spokesperson for the music-loving population of New Orleans and surrounding environs, that we missed the place dearly. He thanked me as a glint of sunlight reflected from the corner of his eyes.
I continued up Carrollton to the remains of my house. But I found no treasure that day to compare with John Blancher and his Rock'n'Bowl.
Web site: http://www.rockandbowl.com/index.htm
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Musical Interlude
A little coffee shop on Oak Street. An old, out-of-tune piano. A little girl who loves music.
Yesterday my wife and my daughter went for a walk and ended up at the coffee shop on the corner. We just moved to this neighborhood, having been forced out of our Vista Park home by Katrina. They were exploring the area when they stopped for a spell.
It was pretty busy, and like so many New Orleans spots, it was populated with a UN-worthy assortment of locals and internationals, preppies and punks, freaks and geeks. A man was playing on an old piano set in the corner, and as they do in so many clubs and coffee shops, no was paying any attention. The man finished his playing, then quietly left the building.
Our daughter, who has been taking piano lessons for a few years, was intrigued. She thought he was pretty good.
Curious, my wife asked the coffee chefs, who was that guy. Did he play here often? Not really, they said. Just a customer who sometimes gets in a little ivory action with his coffee. Would you mind if my daughter played some? No, go ahead.
So my 9-year-old went up to the piano, and without the benefit of her sheet music, she played some of the tunes she's been practicing all these many months. The way my wife tells it, everyone stopped to listen. All conversations in that little coffee shop ended abruptly, and fingers, toes and heads kept time with the music from the out-of-tune piano courtesy of a little girl. Hispanic workers, taking a break from their clean-up work, were nodding in time. Still wearing their day-glo vests and the dirt of the disaster, they sat and smiled.
When she had played enough, she got up to return to the table and her mother. That's when the whole coffee shop gave her a hearty round of applause.
Later, my wife insists, as the Hispanic workers returned to their back-breaking work, they whistled some of the tunes my girl had played as they went out the door. Other patrons stopped by their table to compliment her playing.
All of New Orleans was contained in that coffee shop that day. Ethnicly, economically, educationally diverse, but all gathered in community thanks to the music.
Web site: http://www.oakstreetcafe.com/
Yesterday my wife and my daughter went for a walk and ended up at the coffee shop on the corner. We just moved to this neighborhood, having been forced out of our Vista Park home by Katrina. They were exploring the area when they stopped for a spell.
It was pretty busy, and like so many New Orleans spots, it was populated with a UN-worthy assortment of locals and internationals, preppies and punks, freaks and geeks. A man was playing on an old piano set in the corner, and as they do in so many clubs and coffee shops, no was paying any attention. The man finished his playing, then quietly left the building.
Our daughter, who has been taking piano lessons for a few years, was intrigued. She thought he was pretty good.
Curious, my wife asked the coffee chefs, who was that guy. Did he play here often? Not really, they said. Just a customer who sometimes gets in a little ivory action with his coffee. Would you mind if my daughter played some? No, go ahead.
So my 9-year-old went up to the piano, and without the benefit of her sheet music, she played some of the tunes she's been practicing all these many months. The way my wife tells it, everyone stopped to listen. All conversations in that little coffee shop ended abruptly, and fingers, toes and heads kept time with the music from the out-of-tune piano courtesy of a little girl. Hispanic workers, taking a break from their clean-up work, were nodding in time. Still wearing their day-glo vests and the dirt of the disaster, they sat and smiled.
When she had played enough, she got up to return to the table and her mother. That's when the whole coffee shop gave her a hearty round of applause.
Later, my wife insists, as the Hispanic workers returned to their back-breaking work, they whistled some of the tunes my girl had played as they went out the door. Other patrons stopped by their table to compliment her playing.
All of New Orleans was contained in that coffee shop that day. Ethnicly, economically, educationally diverse, but all gathered in community thanks to the music.
Web site: http://www.oakstreetcafe.com/
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Back together
The family is reunited: my wife and daughter returned to New Orleans this week and we all three have moved into a comfortable if a tad overpriced apartment in the Riverbend neighborhood. I've met a few neighbors and it seems like we're all displaced homeowners.
There's good and bad in that realization. First, it shows the resolve of homeowners like us, who lost it all in the flood, to stick to it and to make this old gal we call New Orleans pretty again. But it also begs the question, where are all the people who used to rent these apartments?
The two women who vacated the place I now call home left town and do not plan to return. They went to New York, where they have found jobs and new opportunity. Even though they're paying three times the rent for half the space, they don't think they'll come back for many years, if at all.
So therein is the problem. It's going to take more than love to nurse New Orleans back to health. It's going to take jobs, schools and housing. And that, I am certain, is going to take years.
The great philosophers Lennon and McCartney said, "All you need is love." On one level, they were right. I don't really need all the stuff that got destroyed in my flooded home. All I really need is my family.
But on another level, they are totally wrong. Love alone will not restore New Orleans. Love will not bring back her freaky, creepy, wonderfully irreverant diaspora. Love will not bring back the houses and the gardens and the families. Those things will happen only with much blood, toil, tears and sweat.
If I sound pessimistic, do not worry. Lennon and McCartney also advised us that, "In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."
We're here, and we're ready. We love this city, and we are not giving up on her. We're flipping the finger at Katrina, Rita and all her kin. We're swinging hammers like there's no tomorrow. We have bumperstickers that say, "Make Levees, Not War."
Yeah you rite.
There's good and bad in that realization. First, it shows the resolve of homeowners like us, who lost it all in the flood, to stick to it and to make this old gal we call New Orleans pretty again. But it also begs the question, where are all the people who used to rent these apartments?
The two women who vacated the place I now call home left town and do not plan to return. They went to New York, where they have found jobs and new opportunity. Even though they're paying three times the rent for half the space, they don't think they'll come back for many years, if at all.
So therein is the problem. It's going to take more than love to nurse New Orleans back to health. It's going to take jobs, schools and housing. And that, I am certain, is going to take years.
The great philosophers Lennon and McCartney said, "All you need is love." On one level, they were right. I don't really need all the stuff that got destroyed in my flooded home. All I really need is my family.
But on another level, they are totally wrong. Love alone will not restore New Orleans. Love will not bring back her freaky, creepy, wonderfully irreverant diaspora. Love will not bring back the houses and the gardens and the families. Those things will happen only with much blood, toil, tears and sweat.
If I sound pessimistic, do not worry. Lennon and McCartney also advised us that, "In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."
We're here, and we're ready. We love this city, and we are not giving up on her. We're flipping the finger at Katrina, Rita and all her kin. We're swinging hammers like there's no tomorrow. We have bumperstickers that say, "Make Levees, Not War."
Yeah you rite.
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