Yeah, I know how you feel

I drove home from work last night at8:00 p.m., penance for beingwith Jane for two days, and passed a crime/accident scene that didn't even slow traffic. Three squad cars, lights blaring, man (maybe dead)on the ground, several people hovered over him, guns drawn, etc. I just drove past and thought about the bourbon and coke awaiting me. Got home and didn't even want it. The depression over the mess here just took away my thirst. I'm determined to be more active with the criminal justice group, etc., trying to keep one foot in theenvironmental group, watching and waiting for the next "pop pop pop". General Meyer is a well-known corridor for violence andmayhem. I have to pick and choose my path home at certain times of theday and try to stay in at night(except on my neighborhood streets, where we all walk at night). Caliban is a good "parakeet" when I unlock the front door, day or night, and when I let him on the porch at night before going out. It's just a little too stressing. When I spend time in BR, however, I just can't imagine returning to that environment (sic). What's the answer? We can't expect to recall Nagin. Or Blanco. Or Bush. Or even our D.A.

We make up for it by being especially nice to the people we greet on thesidewalk, in the elevator, etc. I see it in the faces of people who are walking into the building where I work, the waitresses, the bums on the sidewalk. We are holding onto each other because there isn't much else out there to reach for. Well said, Young Mom

If not now, when?

Seems rather disorganized to simply pick up a blog where I left it a few months ago, but what else is there to do? It is appropriate, however, the the last entry was about the unprecedented Saints vs. Falcons game in September and here I am trying to get some work out of the way before today's game. (I've cleaned the kitchen, fed the critters and straightned the living room...this was the best delaying tactic I could come up with before hitting the work project!) I can't say it any better than Chris Rose, who has chronicled their march since that wonderful first game, so check him out if you h aven't kept up.

What a rain the past 24 hours! I sat some of the time on my back porch and tried to reflect on the past 16 months as the deluge washed the leaves from the roof, the doggie poop from sidewalks into the streets and generally accentuated any hint of a leak around the house (there are a couple). As I snuggled back into my damp chair, out of reach of all but the most emphatic sprays blowing through the screen, I felt again the sensation of being totally isolated on my little piece of the Point, tat-a-tat rain drilling the tin roof, and still practically in the lap of everyone in this wonderful city! Have no doubt whatsoever, readers, that the cry of a child, bark of a dog or stumbling of a hung-over passerby would resonate down the block, all of us hunkering down in such close proximity to our neighbors.

In calmer weather the steady, familiar parade of dog-walkers, ferry trippers, corner drinkers and dozens of people seeking the traffic court at the old Courthouse is interspersed with the unexpected, but not suprising, occasional wierdo (if that's ever applicable in New Orleans) in speedo tights at dawn, or Zu-Zu, the praline man on his bicycle, hawking homemade candy and sweet potato pies, or even a few stragglers from a cadre of Naval Reserve recruits half-heartedly keeping up with the sargeant chanting a cadence for a morning run.

This morning, clearing skies have brought out all the regulars: same dogs are exercising their walkers, lots of bicycles head to and from the ferry, the crows compete for the topmost perch on the neighbor's sycamore. Something about the rhythm of life here defies isolation of it's dwellers from passing humanity. I guess that's what keeps some people in this city, on both sides of the river: such interconnectedness contrasts with big-city lifestyles: here, you can stay out of the streets, but you can't keep the streets out of your life. That's where life happens around here - in the streets and in the alleys and on the corners.

Not much meat here: this morning the ship horns, ferry blasts, church bells and background chatter from passersby just prompted me to log in again and register satisfaction with the decision to plop down in a place where (Chris Rose's offering)the city's remaining residents try to "raise up a great city, a great region, from ruin, defy the odds and the naysayers (and the forgetters) and live life to its richest possibilities, which was always the best thing about New Orleans anyway." Hooray for the residents and visitors who, like Tinkerbell, still believe.

Bring on the Panthers!

Come, march with me

I didn’t feel the IV needle when the nurse put it in. The impact of that first jolt, though, was unmistakable: another Saints junkie is born. Here’s how it happened to me.

Graduating LSU, I spent enough time in Tiger Stadium to remember how to walk the walk. Pep rallies, “hold that Tiger,” purple and gold hair paint…those were the crutches that propped up what I now recognize as neophyte, wannabe football mania.

Euphoria? Thought you knew what it meant? Never. Not in a hundred, or a thousand years. If you were in the Dome Monday night, though, you share a euphoric bond with 70,000 people that probably never will be replicated.

I moved from Baton Rouge to Algiers Point last year. My children living in New Orleans have been Saints fans for a few years. I didn’t get it. I recognized some of the players and figured a few more seasons would be good for rebuilding the city. Opening the newspaper after the Browns game I thought: oh, well, lightning strikes. During the Packers game, a friend called to ask what I was doing. Nothing much. So let’s watch a little of the game. My reaction: for a good friend, o.k. Yawn. We tuned in just after halftime and in two or three plays I was transported to a level of frenzy over the Saints as alien to me as a city with street signs. By game’s end I was frantically searching my brain for any long-lost contact I could tap into for tickets (I shook the governor’s hand a time or two).

Same guy calls me at work the next day. “Hey, a good friend is selling a couple of tickets. Whatcha’ think?” Think? No think. Grab ‘em. Not buying any more lottery tickets. Have you ever heard of someone winning twice? (Thanks, Murphy)

Hopping off the ferry (which, I swear, was running off energy from all the who dats heading to the east bank) we melted into the streams of fans flowing toward the Dome, like rivulets running downhill to the headwaters. Every now and then a “Who Dat?” could be heard down the block, picked up by 20 or so folks, fading again after a few rounds. Bought a couple of Saints hats on the street because I had to. Someone was pumping another bolus in that IV still in my arm. Had some ropa vieja at a Mexican/Cuban spot on Iberville off Canal and washed it down with the first of several Crown and Cokes. Perfection!

Monday was my first NFL game, first sports event in the Dome and the first day of the rest of my life! I have pictures of us with costumed crazy people before the game, the countdown board outside Gate C with 2 seconds to go, streamers, confetti, the warmup, the toss, the crowds, my seatmates, the scoreboards, U2, Irma and Allen, Southern U band, a drunk at one of the bars we visited on the way home (gave him a Saints cap). I also have photos of 70 thousand of my new best friends. My city, my team, my friends.

The crazy stuff never stopped: Finding a drink at the street bars. No matter what anybody around me ordered, the price was always “twenty bucks.” Hey, it’s all good.

My friend (recounting trips to the concourse bar) told me of one guy who caught a bottle blow a little earlier and stood in line with blood streaming from his head down the front of his shirt. What can you do? He gave up his commemorative game towel! Later, a couple of who dats gently escorted a Falcon from the men’s room. “Hey, you need to be in the girls bathroom!” Whatever. Sorry ‘bout that. And the streets AFTER the game? In the words of a Joan Baez song “speaking strictly for me, we both could have died then and there.”

I envision a society similar to the last living Confederate War Veterans. Somehow we should have a registry of everyone at the ’06 Saints-Falcons game -- until the last surviving fan draws his last breath, someone will continue to tell the story of September 26, 2006, Superdome, New Orleans, Louisiana: “I WAS THERE and this is how it was.”

Once a mom...

Well, I just read a family post about surgery. Rather like putting on a blindfold and groping about trying to describe the elephant...different perspective and all that. While I never allowed the idea of non-recovery (aka: death) to take hold in my musings over the impending hospital visit I'll admit the wishful thought that it was all over with, and imagining my little-grown-girl sitting on her bed in a pretty gown, the sun shining through the window onto her Anne of Green Gables book open on her lap.

While I envied the other grandparents their Henry duty, I never would have given up my assigned post: retrieval and recuperation. I wonder if any of my girls would relish the picture of themselves that pops into my head whenever I'm nursing them during a bout of flu or after a procedure, such as yesterday's surgery? Superimposed on the reality of new homes, different hairstyles and altered marital status, the long-ago images of holding back precious, sweaty locks during nausea, chipping ice to sooth a raw throat and warming a cup of toddy to just-hot, not steamy are the illustrations that guide my hand as I now pass a cold compress or massage an aching back. At least one of the girls is my height superior, but I will admit to a sneaking satisfaction when she is again reliant upon my medical ministrations and long-distance advice and sympathy. Not an iota of the soft feelings is due to wishing any illness on these former cherubs--quite the contrary. I do remember, however, in the time of their respective childhoods a "settling in" air that took over the sickroom and the general household if one of them was ailing or "under the weather." I attribute some of this to the inevitabilty that mom and dad would undertake any inconvenience, forego any activity and summon any specialist in the campaign to end the suffering or malady that forced one of our children to the sickbed.

So be assured that, on any risky life journey, for an hour, a week or a year, there is someone hovering on the edge of your life who looks past the immediate danger to the happier horizon and will always and willingly be there to take your fevered hand as you climb back from a temporary setback or illness.

In their wake...

Guess one either is a leader or a follower. Truth is, it usually occurs to me to check for others' blogs before I am moved to post. The unfortunate result of this sequence is my attempt to chronicle without duplication; to create without plagiarism. These girls of mine have active, fast-changing agendas. I feel positively (or negatively) sluggish alongside their busy diaries.

On the other hand, I discover I'm secretly happy to pass on the busy days of guardianship of two (apparently) quite precious and precocious children, the tutelage of one (definitely) extremely precious and precocious grandson, as well as the constant flipping and flopping of legal folders containing the future of well-paying clients. And the very thought of BEING the photographer for someone's wedding...well that's scary.

How about a discharge of (unmentionable) onto your clothing (or worse) from a male doggie derierre? A slight bloody shower? Not to worry...pop into the lab/pharmacy for a tiny hit of alban or worming paste? There...feel better?

At the beach, as I contemplated the challenge of helping document and facilitate the progress of our own Algiers Towne Plan, under the aegis of the City Planning Commission, Auburn university mentors, with the help of a Rockefeller grant of $250 million, I came upon a copy of a 'planning' publication, which the son-in-law planner/landscaper had carried with him. I was struck by the inter-connectedness of Americans, North Americans, Continental Americans, ad nauseum.

Which brings me to the part that is difficult to relate while avoiding duplication. Sometimes I drive to work or walk on the levee and the 180 degree view prompts feelings of wanting to be among the first to cut and run, thereby capitalizing on the willingness of the 'believers' to buy into this miasma of uncollected garbage, bullet-drilled ghosts of cars and boarded up dreams. What the hell? I could do a little fixing up, hit the bull housing market and make out like a Katrina bandit. Not unlike the FEMA frauds and shining corporate citizens who have collectively robbed the city of needed funds in a rush to line their platinum pockets with silver sorely missed by the unhoused, unfed and under-insured.

As the country song goes: "On the Other Hand" there are the reasons (mostly in the form of people I've met) I won't turn tail and head for higher ground just yet. Last week a moving van nestled in the huge potholes that are helping shake apart the foundations of my and my neighbors' houses. The large, purple camel-back across the street finally sold. As luck would have it, they are a lovely family. The old abode, on Sycamore, can't be rehabbed, so they pulled up stakes, forsook the little park down the block and the neighbors who nearly took out a restraining order to prevent their emmigration, and plopped down in Algiers Point.

The really wonderful nature of the people who inhabit this city was exemplified in my improptu conversation with the mother-in-law who moved into this interesting purple house with her daugher (university psychologist), son-in-law (don't remember) and Alzheimer's-afflicted brother, who was at day care when she and I met. In the little landscaped patch across the street from me, where I follow the doggie periodically throughout the day for a bit of 'green', we discussed our children, respective ages versus gardening enthusiasm, dog breeds, previous marital status, current grandchild count, ad infinitum. The topics and depth of discovery is limited only by the necessity of pressing appointments or inability to withstand another 15 minutes of New Orleans summer heat. What is it about this city and it's environs that strips away pretension and the desire for anonymity? I don't suggest it can't be found. Au contraire! Last night, before a meeting of the committee studying the Algiers Towne Plan, etc., a woman of questionable self-esteem 'presented herself' in our office. "Well, let's get hopping...here I am" she seemed to say. The boss was familiar with this individual, from a previous encounter, and explained to her that she was quite early for the meeting, which would begin 30 minutes hence. This painted lady huffed and puffed and paraded, all the while denigrating those in charge whose names she could recall. Seems she isn't listed on the email for the committee, so missed the corrected meeting agenda notice (not an oversight...she isn't ON the committee). Finally, having elicited no excitement or remorse from those (two) of us who were setting up the room for the meeting, she strode from the room and out the door, with a comment that "this isn't worth it." If she only could perceive how similar our sentiments were at that moment! Turns out she's a trophy wife (attorney - no reflection)of some rich dude from a gated community and she turned up at the previous meeting dressed as the Harper Vally PTA candidate (look it up, youngsters)and proceeded to dominate each and every topic opened by the 20+ committee members for a full two hours!!

We managed to open and close the meeting without her and she wasn't missed. So there are those who are not 'on board.' They aren't in much evidence, however. The buzz-words seem to be "inclusion", "equitable", "everybody", "hang together," "what can we do for you?"

The only danger of the New Orleans progressive movement is death by meeting. It's rather nice to retreat behind the red door, draw the curtains and settle in with the dog and cat: not a quorum!!

beach, sand, beach, margueritas, beach, fish, beach, gourmet, beach, games, beach

Well, with that title, no need for a post. But blogs aren't about what we need, are they? They are about who we are. And throughout the questions and resolutions about this family beach vacation, I've been barely able to contain my pride in who my family is. And what they are. Thoughtful, protective, emotional, reasonable...growing.

So, as we hold our collective breath in anticipation of another memorable sandy, tipsy, gourmet bonding vacation, we should keep our priorities in order: people, food, alcohol, games, one-upmanship, sunblock. Well, maybe people, sunblock, games, alcohol, one-upmanship. Or, people, fishing, alcohol, ...oh, never mind. Make your own priorities, as long as people are first.

Love all of you so much.

Calling All Cats....

There's the sweetest calico kitty who doesn't whine or call, but who shows up on the neighbor's porch from time to time, trying to eke out an existence eating fallen pidgeon eggs and droppings from the eaves. I've fed her for a few weeks, and she's impossible to approach. I discovered her in the back yard once, when Cal leaped from the top step onto the weeds, having seen her before I did. Of course, he wasn't aggressive, but enjoyed the brief moment it took for her to scamper under the house, out of reach.

These feral cats, almost every one, seem too frail and thin to have a family. I usually don't notice a pregnant kitty, just one who appears to be nursing. Each time I see one of them I'm sad about the fate of these street-dwellers if they should bear kittens. Of course it's overdramatization, but I tear up thinking of little mamas not able to provide enough for the babes.

Last Sunday I had a wonderful opportunity to do something about the state of hopeless fertility among the 'ghost cats' in the area. Some of the biggest hearts around prompt people to go to the trouble of obtaining a trap from local groups, trapping one or more cats from a feral colony (one couple from Lafayette carried over a dozen, all in clean traps, with drapes, and waterproof tarps separating the 'stories' of crates and traps in the rear of their van) and transporting them to a spay/neuter program, this time sponsored by Ally Cat Allies at the local SPCA facility in Algiers. The kitties are carefuly transferred from the vehicle in their traps (covered all the while by a drape, to minimize stress) to an air-conditioned room while volunteers or staff do careful paperwork to identify the animals and trapper/caretaker. Next the kitty (still in its trap) is carried to a mobile surgery unit where it is anesthesized, carefully shaved, prepped and neutered/spayed. If any injuries are apparent, appropriate treatment is given at that time.

The trap is passed back outside for washing, disinfection, if needed, and fresh paper and drape. The trap goes back inside, kitty is replaced in its trap, and is watched carefully for 5-20 minutes until it is 'awake' or beginning to come out of anesthesia. From that point, traps and cats are carried back into the air-conditioned room, placed on the recovery side and monitored throughout the day until evening, when trappers return to pick up the kitties, complete more paperwork, and load them up for an overnight stay in the trap before being released into the colony.

During the time I was in and out of the room, bringing them back and forth, checking on their post-surgery condition, I came to identify 'crazy cat' an orange, tattered tom who hissed and menaced anyone who harbored a thought of touching (or looking too long) at him or the trap; little, grey whiney -- a grey seal point? kitten who cried whenever I came into the room, so much so that I took him back to be rechecked. He was fine (except for having his balls cut off) and if you stopped talking to him and messing with him, he howled an angry cry as you walked away. He was one of the kittens who was 'transferred', meaning he was later driven to an adoption center in the east where he was certain to be adopted. Then there was the family of momma and four kittens. She was past nursing, but one of those dopes kept burrowing into her and she accommodatingly rolled over, probably savoring the remnants of motherhood. I can relate. Calicoes, tuxedos, tabbies, greys, seal points, orange toms...each had impressed us with his own personality by day's end.

More than 50 kitties were 'fixed' on Sunday, with the help of two volunteer vets from Houma, two area techs, a staffer from Ally Cats, another volunteer from New York and myself. All free.

These old bones needed a talking to going into the late afternoon, since lifting and moving and bending over numerous traps containing, sometimes, heavy toms extracted a toll on hips, knees, etc. I felt a tired determination to finish the job, and when I finally collapsed in the car to drive home, sweaty and hungry, elation set in. It was that old-fashioned feeling of having made a difference.

So this isn't a session about 'gee, mom did good.' It's just an attempt to keep the volunteer fires burning under my kids and people I love. Way too seldom do I carve out the hours to participate in 'spare time' good deeds. It's times like this weekend that reinforce the knowledge that, really, I do it for me.