Sunday Celebration

The breeze brushed the sun-bathed surface of the water just enough to create shimmering diamonds of light as far as the eye could see. I could almost hear the laughter of my grandchildren splashing in the surf. I could almost smell the scent of salt drying on their sun-kissed skin emerging from splashing in the surf. So much to savor and celebrate.

Every day is cause for celebration because it takes a whole lot of celebration to rise above the sorrows of life. And every Deep South celebration has a sensuousness to it: sights and smells, touches and tastes that seems bolder and broader than anywhere else. You can smell the storms before you see them; you can even smell the sunlight as it reaches down to caress your skin. You can taste the tingle of the cool breeze coming off the water as it whispers across your bare skin being baked by the sun. And you shiver, as much from the pure joy of it all as it is from the breeze blowing by.

The beaches of Biloxi are more beautiful now than I ever remembered them being. With the destruction of Hurricane Katrina and the post-Katrina clean-up, many of the old fifties-era kitsch shops are a thing of the past, replaced by new upscale casinos and miles of new virgin white sand. Pristine piers lead out into the water, and brand new benches dot the boardwalks. The trees that were left leafless and without any hope of recovery have been given new life as sculptures with roots by artists with visions of vitality re-imagined.

It was all I could do to keep myself from pressing my flesh into the warm embrace of the sand and attempting to walk the diamond path all the way to the horizon. But Nick was playing another lacrosse game, and I still hadn’t seen Scott’s garden show display. So, I didn’t succumb to the siren song of the sea and sand, but I certainly enjoyed the journey from one destination to the next.

As it turns out, at the garden show, I got to watch Scott putting his best sales mojo onto a prospective pool customer before I took Buffy out to a waterfront restaurant for good salty oysters on the half-shell. After lunch, I got to watch Nick score several goals to lead his team to a win while his sister sat in my lap. Like this wasn’t heavenly enough, my niece Melanie, her husband and two little boys came to join us at the field. This may not have been Super Bowl Sunday, but it certainly was a super Sunday.

Savoring the Soup

How awful it was to have to make soup without Richard! Chuck and Gayle wanted to spend a quiet week-end together, and we know nothing stays quiet long when I'm around. Obviously, Chuck wasn't going to be chopping my veggies for me. Time for a fall-back position.

At first, I called my nephew-in-law James, who cooks for a living, and told him I was bringing the ingredients for him to help me cut. But, since he's Mr. Mom to a two and an under-one-year old while my niece Melanie is in college, that didn't work out. The boys are just too adorable to ignore; besides, Melanie and James don't have a fifty-five gallon drum sized pot for the vat of soup I planned to make.

I began boiling the soup meat and soup bones when I got to Scott and Buffy's house. While they cooled enough to be refrigerated, we went to Miya's "little" birthday party. OMG! It looked like Sandra Lee had set the stage for "Semi Homemade" There was pink and chocolate everywhere. I was almost in a sugar shock coma by the time we left the housefull of squealing nine-year-old princesses. It was so nice to get back to the garlic and beef infused atmosphere I had created at Scott's.

By the time I got up in the morning, Buffy had returned the soup pot to the kitchen from where she refrigerated it overnight. Then the fun began. I defatted and deboned the meat while Buffy chopped carrots. Neither Buffy nor I fine cut anything; home cooking looks homemade when we cook. But I was a bit disappointed for Gayle's family that they wouldn't get a tiny morsel of each ingredient in each spoonful of soup. Oh, well, I guess they'll just have to use bigger spoons.

So Much For Stillness

While Richard is quite content with his hobbies and his house, I’m yearning for action – something to write about. I’ve yet to see the first sign of spring in our neck of the woods; birds at the feeder and snowflakes in the air are all that’s happening around our holler.

Winter is for waiting, but must we be still while we wait? I once tutored a child who could only read while rocking. I understood perfectly, because he reminded me of myself. My mind seems to be focused
only when my body moves, so I’m off to warmer climates where there are lots of things to do.

Scott is participating in the annual Gulf Coast Garden Show with his pool and palm business. I’d love to see his display, and watch him at his work. I may even be able to attend with Gayle who is such an avid gardener that she’s taking a master gardener class. Planning for planting is a great way to beat the winter doldrums. In fact, Mountaintop Mary has already started buying her seeds, even though planting in Coker Creek’s ground is still two months away. I should have such serenity.

Gayle has taken herself off wheat, so I want to make her some beef and barley soup. This was a favorite of her family when I used to fill in as adult-in-charge when she and Chuck lived near me. Chuck has taken up cooking, so maybe I can give him a lesson or two. Perhaps, I can entice him to cut up the mountain of vegetables the soup requires. I can compare his prep cook skills to Richard’s, if I can get him to wield the knife. And he and I can experiment with adapting pasta recipes using rice noodles to accommodate to Gayle new dietary desires.

I still owe Miya a chocolate birthday cake; I hope she’ll help me bake it. And Nicholas is playing Lacrosse six times in this one week-end. I hear he’s very good, but have yet to see him perform. This is my chance to cheer him on. I’m also hoping to use some of the time for planning the springtime retreat in Coker Creek that Gayle and I would like to host.

While Coker Creek is hunkered down I’ll be revving up with lots of tales to bring back with me. I’ve already brought back the beads. If Richard throws the party, and the beads, while I’m down south, we’ll just have to have a repeat performance upon my return.

Snow

So silently, so softly it falls to the earth;
So swiftly, it changes my heart.
Where in sunshine I make plans to conquer,
In the winter God whispers, “Wait.”

As He lays this blanket across my breast,
He holds me tight and says,
“Stop! Hear Me! Do not worry.
All that is meant will come to pass.”

As I wait the snow begins to dance,
A Russian ballet in white --
No longer whispering, but flying
Inviting my heart to take flight

Teasing, taunting,
To play or to pray?
Both are avenues
To Peace and Joy.

Heading Home -- Part Two

I had been having a bit of sinus pressure for several days, but who doesn’t have sinus pressure in the winter? It turns out I had a temperature of 102; I was actually sick. This may help explain the coughing that had kept me awake for several nights.

I had already had to see our cardiologist friend Louis to get my blood pressure under control early in my New Orleans stay. I now wasn’t sure I’d be well enough to head home without seeing our friendly pulmonologist friend Elaine. I was scheduled for testing, in Tennessee, on Tuesday to see if the Tennessee cardiologist could pinpoint the reason for my blood pressure spikes. I really had to get home for that. It was time for massive doses of Ibuprophen, Benadryl, and a good night’s sleep.

Sunday, I felt well enough to finish packing the van, making sure the ice chest was accessible. There were still New Orleans groceries to haul home. My stop at Rouse’s Super Market supplied the rest of the ballast needed for good traction on the highway home. Richard had requested muffalettas and king cake to serve our Coker Creek crowd. I knew Adam and Josie would want to accompany their king cake with café au lait, so this required a pound of coffee and chicory.

No trip south is complete without bringing home head-on Gulf shrimp; I bought twenty-five pounds. And I couldn’t resist a few other South Louisiana originals, like Italian olive salad and Creole cream cheese. Fully loaded, I drove until dark; this got me within three hours of Coker Creek. I checked into a motel knowing that I could sleep in and still get home for a late lunch.

I’ve made this trip many times, but I’d forgotten that a rock slide had closed part of my familiar route. Our navigation system was in Richard’s vehicle, so this left me to use my own sense of direction. My father said I was the daughter of an Indian Princess and a drunken Irishman. My sense of direction was definitely not inherited from my Indian princess mother. I think it came from my drunken Irish father. I wasn’t drunk, but I could have been for all the getting lost I did within twenty miles of our holler.

I definitely took the scenic route. I saw waterfalls that I’d never seen before and went off-roading on what had been roads before our winter rains. I eventually slid into home plate before dusk, with my van covered in half the mud between here and Reliance.

All we had time to do was haul in the goodies and groceries before I collapsed on the couch. The next morning, we were off to Maryville for a day at the doctor’s. With a van full of prescription medications for our various old-people ailments, we’re ready to hunker down in our bunker to wait out the winter -- until I head back to New Orleans, that is.

Heading Home -- Part One

Finally, I’m back to the basics of being home in the holler. I began the journey home four days ago, and it has taken this long to get semi-settled. You’d think I was traveling in a covered wagon, but I traveled in my trusty Villager with over two hundred ten thousand miles on the odometer.

The complications to homecoming came about in several ways. First, because I hadn’t anticipated setting up housekeeping in New Orleans, I hadn’t anticipated how long breaking camp would take. Moving all the provisions for a party spanning five days with over fifty attendees can be a challenge even when one has a driveway. It’s particularly problematic when there’s no parking anywhere near your party place.

The meter maids are famous in New Orleans for their prompt attention to all illegally parked vehicles. I suspect that parking tickets are the major income stream into the city coffers, next to hotel taxes. If one wants to unload in a freight zone, one had better have either a commercial name on their delivery vehicle or a look-out to move the van in case of a meter maid sighting.

Setting up my apartment was done in stages, with the assistance of an army of people and vehicles, working in carefully orchestrated sequence. Breaking down was another matter entirely. After the army left with their vehicles, I was faced with the remaining air mattresses, tables, chairs, ice chest, food, linens, and everything else to continue my stay. Moving out had to be as carefully calculated as moving in had been, but with only me and my van to accomplish this. I was confident I could make this kind of move, as I had spent many years loading catering trucks, setting up functions, and breaking them down for transport back to headquarters.

I undertook a study of the parking places in and around my apartment before asking Karen to assist me in retrieving my ride from the suburbs. Upon my return to downtown, I was able to park on the street only five blocks from my temporary home. This is an easy walk, even if one is toting tons of stuff, as New Orleans is as flat as a salad plate.

Next, I devised a plan for using the massive rolling garbage can as a transport trolley. I was kind of enjoying the prospect of all the stares I’d get wheeling my household belongs down Canal Street in a hundred gallon garbage can. All the shopping cart people would have been inspired to new heights in mobile household possibilities.

As it turned out, there are a few hours per day of legal parking right next to my building -- and free legal parking all day on Sundays. In the early hours of Saturday, I was able to park in the freight zone long enough to load the things that were to be returned locally. This didn’t require the rolling mega-can, but the ice chest on wheels came in mighty handy as a transport trolley.

I was feeling pretty good about my progress, so I set out to visit Gayle and Michelle. After several hours with Gayle, I began to feel feverish. I attributed this to our impassioned conversation; we do tend to discuss deeply spiritual matters. When I hadn’t cooled down by the time I got back to New Orleans, I decided it was time to take my temperature. Michelle tucked a blanket around me and popped a thermometer in my mouth.

At The Corner of Canal and the Quarter

We could have had more food and more fun, but I don’t know how we could have fit more into just five days. We definitely could have fit more family and friends into the apartment, if I had only known ahead of time that we’d score this coup.

I was awakened with a call from Roger, our Atlanta attorney friend. Our party is on the front page of the New Orleans Times Picayune. Even in a city with millions of revelers, we somehow managed to stand out. Of course, it’s rather difficult to keep a low profile when you’ve snagged the best corner in the Crescent City -- for Mardi Gras, at that. Now, all our New Orleans family and friends will know that the bawdy broad came back.

This corner is never quite quiet, but it does take a very brief siesta between the hours of four and five a.m. This is when the party people have finally been herded home by the police with bull horns and the street sweepers are still asleep. There is still the occasional sound of a siren, but not as much as when the Charity trauma unit was the emergency clinic of choice for all traffic accidents, broken fists and faces, and other wounds inflicted during inebriation altercations.

Before dawn, the mountains of trash have been bulldozed and swept off the sidewalks and the streets have been washed down. In a city where the success of the season is measured in tons of trash, it is truly amazing to see not a dot of debris once the street cleaners come through. It’s as if a huge zamboni has resurfaced the city for the beginning of a new day.

Everything important in New Orleans comes by the corner of Canal and the Quarter. Everywhere you want to go is accessible with one of the street cars or buses, the St. Charles streetcar for uptown and university sections, and the Canal line for downtown and the quarter. And if your business is in the ‘burbs, cab rides are less than ten miles from the center of the city. The historic Algiers area is a short ferry boat ride away.

It was a joy to have a number of grocery outlets available, with easily obtainable ethnic ingredients. We were so busy cooking and carousing that it left little time for restaurant reviews. All manner of manna is available in New Orleans’ uncountable restaurants, ranging from mom and pop shops to world-famous chef’s tables. One regret about this trip is how little local cuisine we consumed. We’ll correct that next time.

Another thing that we’ll prioritize next trip down is strolling through the many antique stores and art galleries that line the streets of the city. With so much local artwork rolling and strolling by the windows, there was little need to leave the building for more exposure to this wonder of the world called the Crescent City.