The Passionate Pulse of New Orleans

I love the passionate pulse of New Orleans where you never know if the person next to you is going to laugh with you, cry with you, hug you, or hit you. Where rituals aren’t only about religion; they’re about belonging to a tribe -- right now, the Who Dat Nation. Where the chant, “Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints “begins at one end of the city and travels as a wave down the length and breadth of the throngs lining the parade route -- miles and miles of chanting believers.

This is a city that embraces God and fears nothing; where people dressed like the pope parade with signs saying, “Bless you boys” about their favorite football heroes. New Orleans believes in the power of group prayer and the power of group play. Hurricanes are coming, gather and pray; Saints are playing, gather and pray; Saints are champions, get your group and make a joyful noise unto the lord.
New Orleanians mock the powers of Zeus and Toth and the other mythical gods in their Mardi Gras. They mock the power of death with their voo-doo and their cemeteries called “cities of the dead.” They know the difference between adoration and admiration; they cheer for their team and bow to their God.

Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras) marks the beginning of Lent, forty days preparing for spiritual rebirth. “Dat Tuesday” (also dubbed Lombardi Gras) marks the end of over forty years preparing for the city’s rebirth.

This is a city that celebrates all of their blessings and graciously accepts their sorrows. It’s loud in its joys, and prayerful in its pains. A common response to tragedy is, “Oh, Dawlin’ What you gonna do? I’ll be praying for you” as friends and families roll up their sleeves and begin doing for one another.

Even everyday meals here are small celebrations. The restaurants are full of locals embracing the gift of great food and the talents of the people who prepare them. It’s quite common to observe everybody at any table eating off of each others plates for the sheer joy of sharing good food with their friends.

We’ve cried for New Orleans for over five years, even as we all rolled up our sleeves to help them keep the faith. Many times it has seemed that we were caught in a rip tide, and the harder we fought the current, the less progress we made. There’s a new energy in New Orleans, a renewal of their basic belief in the power of the positive. There’s a new mayor to lead them; their VA hospital is being rebuilt; their beloved Saints are Super Bowl champions. New Orleans is, once again, smiling from one end to the other.

Let the good times roll.

Now -- On to New Orleans

I'm moving on to New Orleans to cheer the Saints back home. The party hasn't stopped in the French Quarter since the beginning of the week-end; it's sure to continue until Mardi Gras day. I'm planning to "be there in that number when the Saints go marching in" -- back into New Orleans.

I'm hoping to rent an apartment for the duration of the week, so my family can celebrate the Crescent City rebirth in comfort and style. For those who have never experienced New Orleans in parade mode, a bathroom is worth its weight in gold, and a kitchen is simply a dream come true. if you're lucky enough to have a flush toilet on the parade route, you're lucky enough.

What's Natural In New Orleans

Who Dat Family?

I have a son
Who is the most fun
He lives to throw parties.
He has some friends
Who are so close
They’ve combined their names
And are now the Yardies.

When Dave returns
With his new son
And his girls – all three
The family name
Won’t be the same
It will then be become
Family Mayardy.

Dave has always been
With them in spirit
While stationed in Italy
He’ll serve our nation
Where duty sends him
But with the Yardies,
He’d rather be.

Scott and Sam, their kids
And the wives
Buffy and Michelle
Are waiting with breathe
That is baited
To welcome back
Dave and Joelle.

New Orleans has long been called "the city that care forgot." Only people who have never survived in a mosquito infested, hurricane prone swamp,in one hundred percent humidity and one hundred degree temperatures could think that care bypassed New Orleans. It's not that New Orleanians don't have cares; it's that it takes some powerful celebrating to erase the pain of ever-impending catastrophic loss.

New Orleans is a predominantly Roman Catholic town. No matter what religion you start off with, if you live in New Orleans long enough, you become a little bit Catholic. It's in the blood and the water; New Orleanians work hard, pray hard, play hard. Mardi Gras is actually the beginning of Lent, the season of self-denial. Nobody celebrates like Saints fans.


There's a huge system of archdiocesan parochial schools. It's an accepted part of the cost of living that middle class families send their children to Catholic schools. The archdiocese cancelled school for the day after the Superbowl,and cancelled evening church services on Superbowl Sunday so that the fans could properly celebrate the Saints. The priests were also given permission to wear Saints jerseys over their ritual vestments.
There was even a rumor going around that the pope flew the New Orleans Saints flag in place of the pope's coat of arms in Vatican City.

There is no way I'd have ever forgiven myself if I hadn't been here for this moment in history. Richard and I spent three years after Hurricane Katrina helping our Louisiana and Mississippi friends lick their wounds and crawl back to having a sense of home. I just had to be here for their victory party. It almost erases the pain of having lost our homes.

We've been criticized for leaving, but someone needed a serene place to process the pain that we all felt. We lost our stuff, our neighbors, our jobs; but we still had our family -- and they were not whole. Now they feel whole.

I knew we were going to win the Superbowl. God promised he wasn't ever going to flood the world again. He flooded our world over four years ago, and this was His way of making it up to us. Anyway, that's my take on our win.

Who Dat say they gonna beat them Saints?

Gone Pecan

Richard created a sensational salad,
And a marvelous malted milk cake.
I went to collect Jack’s stories,
In which we all have a stake.

Mountaintop Mary made pizza dough,
While Richard and Don stoked the fire.
We had hours of laughter and fun --
My need to celebrate was dire.

Richard’s got his dog tag on;
Charlie and Deborah checked in.
The snow flurries are beginning;
Time for good-byes to begin.

I’ve got all my ducks in a row,
With Adam and Josie on call.
It’s was time to head down south
For a Saint-sational “Who Dat” ball.

I’m gone pecan;
See you later alligator.
Take care of each other;
Dinner’s in the ‘frigerator.

Flip Flopping

Richard got his dog tag, and I got the okay to travel. Now, I have to start making decisions about my itinerary. The deceased policeman’s mother and widow plan to be at the conference in Sandestin, so I need to coordinate with them before creating my calendar. Miss Miya won’t be with her dad on her birthday, but she will be in Louisiana for Mardi Gras with her Atlanta cousins.

I could probably survive another winter week in Coker Creek while I get my project plans perfected. Then my trip down south will be carefree and kid friendly until I get o the conference. But that would preclude me seeing so many other people I want to see.

When I went to Wally World, I bought myself some Saints plates and napkins, so I could have my own Superbowl party with Richard. Our friend Chuck in Mississippi will be glued to his mega screen TV watching without a party of people. I could call him every time the Saints score, and pretend we’re watching together.

Mountaintop Mary is making pizza and has promised to show us how she does it. She’s also offered to make extra for Richard to eat while I’m away. We’ll be cooking as we scan Jack’s work into Mary’s computer. I’m thrilled that Mary has chosen to work with me to make sure that Jack’s work is secure.

Officer Adam has promised to check on Richard as long as promise to make him some more artichoke rice and banana muffins when I return. He’s anxious to have a place to put his banana torpedoes other than his own freezer, as it can be pretty painful when they fly out onto your feet. I told him that he could use bad banana storage as an excuse to come keep Richard company, as long as he stores his torpedoes in our outside freezer. I want Richard to continue being able to walk.

The other consideration is that our air ambulance company has us store our medical information in the kitchen freezer. How ironic would it be to have the EMT become the patient because a banana broke his or her toe?

As soon as Richard wakes, I’ll get my suitcase packed; then I’ll be ready whenever I decide to head south. And maybe I’ll put my suitcase in the car before we go to Mary’s, just in case I want to head out from there. I’d hate to get trapped until the spring thaw…

Satan, My Son, and the Superbowl

What a dilemma! I’m chomping at the bit to head to New Orleans. I’m dying to see the Saints in the Superbowl with fellow “Who Dats?” My blood pressure is in normal range, and more winter weather is predicted for the next week.

Add to this that I found out the annual conference of police officers that I need to interview for a book project is scheduled for Mardi Gras week in Sandestin; and my granddaughter Miya in Mississippi will be turning nine at the end of that week. Like that’s not enough temptation to head south to avoid two weeks of winter, my daughter’s family will be in Louisiana for Mardi Gras.

Get thee behind me, Satan. Richard still doesn’t have his medical dog tag, and I swore I wouldn’t leave him in the holler without it.

My son just built a new party hut in his back yard – with a wide screen TV and everything needed for a proper Superbowl party. He’s called twice to see what time I’m arriving. If I did go, I could videotape the proper way to party, and use it to help Scott sell his backyard designs. He is, after all, in the pool, deck, and palm tree business.

Unfortunately, for me – not her—Elaine (our pulmonologist friend who introduced me to Richard) is attending the actual Superbowl, so she won’t be at Scott’s to administer emergency care should my brain start to explode at Scott’s. I could just double up on my blood pressure pills as an appetizer before the game.

I can’t find folks here who even know what a “Who Dat?” is. “Who Dat say they gonna beat them Saints; Who Dat? Who Dat?” How can I possibly miss celebrating the biggest event in New Orleans history with other New Orleans fans? If the Saints win the Superbowl, we’ll forgive God for Hurricane Katrina – at least, I will – almost…

Maybe my problem will be solved when I see the nurse practitioner. Maybe she’ll tell me that I’m not stable enough to travel – physically, not mentally – we all know I’m never mentally stable. Maybe she’ll tell me that I can’t even watch the Superbowl without being in a hospital, in case I stroke out from the excitement.

I know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Domestic Duties

I was so darned domestic I can hardly stand it. Richard has a favorite winter jacket that he wears every day that’s even moderately cool. It’s black and reversible, so he can wear it a long time before I insist on throwing it into the washer.

On his recent trip to the emergency room, he wore that jacket with the quilted side, what I consider the work side, of the jacket on the outside. As I sat with him, I noticed that there was a rip in a pocket seam. I didn’t want the staff to think we were vagrants who would stiff them for the bill, so I turned the jacket to the smooth, dressier side. To my horror, three of the seams of that side were in shreds. I turned it back to the “better” side, and decided that that jacket was getting downgraded to painting wear as soon as we got home. I had bought the jacket at a thrift store, so it’s not like it was a huge investment.

Well, Richard really gets attached to his beloved things. His twenty-year-old Bronco II is testament to that. I’m not complaining; it’s to my advantage that he doesn’t like to part with his old raggedy things. I’m not getting any younger or less raggedy. He implored me to fix his favorite outerwear. I couldn’t refuse him; he had already suffered the loss, in Hurricane Katrina, of his favorite down vest, given to him by our friend who introduced us. Besides, how many of my disasters does he rescue?

I set to work sewing, but you know how difficult remodeling can be. Before I could repair the seams, I had to rip more of them. And because the jacket is reversible, all the sewing had to be done by hand. What would have taken thirty minutes on a sewing machine became a two-hour project.

In the infinite regression of steps, I was searching my fabric stash for fusible webbing to back a rip, when I came upon a pair of Richard’s shoes that he’d asked me to save months ago. This pair of shoes he’d worn while roofing the root cellar. As he pointed out, the shoes were still good; he only broken the stitching on one shoe as he dragged his feet across the shingles. He really believes in “Waste not; want not.”

I figured, “What the heck. While I’m being domestic, I just as well go full bore into good wife mode.” Upon Richard’s return from his errands, I had managed to repair his jacket and his shoe. His real reward isn’t the repaired items of clothing; it’s a much calmer wife. I found the sitting and sewing very relaxing, and with my recent bout of pressure cooker blood pressure that has to be a good thing.