My Cup Is Empty

These cups should be filled with the sweet summer goodness that can only be had in New Orleans.

But they're not. And they never will be again.

I'm not talking about the snowballs. I'm talking about the feeling of love and community that came from the family store that made them, run by three generations of the finest folks I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. These cups were filled with that love. The best snowball money can buy... well, that was merely a garnish.

Ernest Hansen, the pleasant old guy on the cup, helped his wife Mary found the snowball stand back in 1939. He designed, built, and patented the machine that made her treats. And, he stood by her side until she passed on September 8, 2005, just nine days post-Katrina. Last night, a mere seven months later, Ernest passed on. He may very well have died of a broken heart.

He was the one with "the touch." When the machine acted up and nobody could get anything but chunks from its fickle blade, he'd make his way over, holding onto the counter the whole way, and he'd take the handle, and make the finest snow you'd ever seen outside of Colorado.

Ernest was very frail in late years. He would shuffle around the snowball shop (we called it a stand, but it was a whole walk-in building.), making those seemingly gruff comments about his protege's performance at the sno-bliz machine that only a man of his advanced age can make and get away with. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was simply getting a little senile and a lot crotchety. But it was really just his bent-over look that made him appear that way. When you got to talk to him, he'd look up at you through Coke-bottle glasses, start telling stories and just laugh the afternoon away with you.

It used to make me cringe when people would come to him, and speak loudly and as if they were speaking to a child. He seemed to tolerate it well. Especially so, since I have the good fortune to know that behind the failing eyes, and controlling the hands that shook as he reached to steady himself was a mind as sharp as anyone I know. Ernest just never missed a trick.

One summer, as the stand closed for the final time of the season, he was in the middle of telling me a story about a bear he'd seen at a hotel in Alaska. "Twenty feet tall," he'd said, holding his shaky hand high over his head. Now, at that time, I didn't see much of him off-season. So, the next time I saw him was the following May, on opening day. He got a look at me when I walked into the stand, and called me over.

"I know you don't believe me. But, I've got a picture I'll bring. Damn thing was twenty feet tall!" And again with the hand. Nine months, and he just picked it right up.

Like I said. He didn't miss a trick.

I'm not sure what it was about me that appealed to him... I'm not the easiest guy to get along with. Although, as I think of it now, perhaps that was why we got along. Whatever the reason, ever since the first time I came in the shop, he'd call me over and start talking about his travels around the world (which he actually did) or his time in The War (which he did not... at least not in the capacity that he always protrayed). Sometimes he'd show me a poem he'd written for Mary. Sometimes, it was a song. But he always made a point in using the brief time we had to share something of himself with me.

As I sit here typing, I can't help wondering how it is that I am going to enjoy summer afternoons in that sacred place without him. To this, I have no answer. All I know for sure is that I am thankful and honored to have been counted among his friends.

What's in a Name?

"I am from New Orleans."

I've been in New Orleans for about eleven years now, and I always thought that as I stayed in New Orleans longer, I would feel better about saying I was from here. But, it never really happened that way.

This is one of the facets of life in New Orleans that is both endearing and annoying as all hell. The culture of New Orleans is so self-centric and self-aware that there is a birthright in the phrase "I'm from New Orleans," and those born here protect the right to say that phrase with a suprising ferocity. I'm sure a lot of Orleanians are not aware they are doing this, and even fewer are aware that it is anything like combative.

The first thing an Orleanian does when you tell him or her you're from the city is to ask polite but very telling questions like "Where'd ya go to school?" If you're not aware, the proper answer is not where you attended college, but rather what high school you attended. More often than not, it's expected your answer will begin with "Saint," or "Our Lady," Though there are more schools called by just a regular name in the burbs (even though they are spoken often with a silent "Archbishop").

Now, if you answer something they don't know, or just plain wrong, then it's assumed that you're really from elsewhere and that you don't know what it means to be a real New Orleanian. And it doesn't mean that they will be less friendly to you, just that you'll get a polite reminder that you are not from here and you can never be, and your conversation will carry on. The first time this happens to you, it can be a little disconcerting, and even a little hurtful. OK, not just the first time. If you're like me... every time.

So, eleven years after the first time I mistakenly informed someone I was from New Orleans, y friends say I have developed an Orleanian personality so true that it surprises people when I tell them I was born elsewhere. But, it doesn't surprise them enough to keep them from reminding me, "oh, I thought you was from here, baby." I'm not from here. I just live here. End of story.

Or, so it would seem. Enter Katrina.

My friends lost everything. Some of them lost everything in the sense that I talked about before... nothing but pilings or a slab. I saved everything... just in time to be forced to leave my home. My job is 1200 miles away. My remaining friends are scattered to the winds. My city looks like a bomb went off everywhere. Some of my favorite music, food, and places are never going to be seen again in the city. Businesses are leaving in droves. People are leaving faster.

And yet, I return to New Orleans. I return out of a sheer love for the city. Of the hundreds of things in my life that I could have or should have committed to, this city is the one that remains true. The life that people lead here is right for me. The people that live here are the people for me. The music that lives here is the music I love. The food here is my food. I have made an effort to immerse myself in her, and to know the city. My heart lives here. Belongs here.

That's something a lot of "real" New Orleanians can't say.

I was standing at Johnny White's on Mardi Gras day. (I know. It's redundant. Move on.) I was talking to a fellow who works at Ingalls Shipyards in Mississippi. We're talking because we work for the same Large Defense Contractor. He's from New Orleans. He's half drunk and asks me where I'm from. Oh, hell.

I say, "right here."

And it starts. "Really? Where'dja gotah school, pahdnuh?" So I tell him that I didn't go to school here, and when he presses further, I tell him that I came here eleven years ago.

"Aw hell, man, I thought you said you was from here! I'm talkin' generations, man!"

So I thought about it for a minute, and I told him he was full of shit.

"I am awful tired of that shit, man! Just 'cause you had the good fortune to have been born here doesn't make you any more from here than me!" I went on, making sure he understood that I was the one that kept his home in New Orleans. I am the one bringing his job back to the city. No matter how crappy life has gotten in the City on a day to day basis, I am coming back for good. I, and thousands more like me, are going to bring the city back to life.

I told him that gives me the right to say it. He didn't say much after that.

But, in retrospect, I think I was wrong. That simply makes it true.

I am from New Orleans.

Not All it Seems

This is not funny.

(It's someone's pride and joy, a quarter mile from where she was moored)




This is not a bathtub ring.

(It's a home, bearing the sludge left from two solid weeks of slow, painful flood drainage.)




This is not a guardhouse at a prison camp.

(It's the once lush greenspace at West End, where families walked and played with their pets and children)




This is not a terrorist bomb site.

(This is a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood street in Lakeview.)


This is not the New Orleans I know.

Standing at the Ready

Standing at the ready.

This may not make a lot of sense to you who aren't from New Orleans, but this little soldier, standing proud in new bright yellow recyclable plastic, may be the single greatest acquisition in my Carnival history...

You see, as the song says... "There ain't no place to pee on Mardi Gras Day." And that goes for just about any other day during the glorious Carnival season. For years I lived about four blocks uptown of this very location. But when you've gotta go, and there's yet more floats to see and more bands to hear, that four block walk just won't do. And, let's face it, taking a leak behind a car or bush in someone's side yard is really the domain of tourists, and is likely to get your butt kicked, even if you were drunk enough to overlook that little tidbit. So, about six years ago, my girlfriend half-jokingly suggested that it might be cool to get a portolet and have it nearby for the parades. I laughed a little bit, but thought about it a bit longer, and did her one better. I had Pot O' Gold ("Pahtagold," if you're a Yat) deliver a potty and I cable-locked the thing to a tree right on the neutral ground (the median, for out-of-towners) near where I was going to be for Carnival parade-watching.

And then the Parades began.

You should have seen the people crawl out of the woodwork. Sure, City of New Orleans puts up their own portolets some hundred yards away, but the lines are horrendous, and after one day, they are generally overflowing, and render odors that no human should be exposed to. So, I couldn't step out after doing my thing without four or five people acosting me to use the restroom. Finally, I got around to saying "you donate a buck to the portolet fee and you get to go." I paid the portolet rental in the first three days.

You know, a portolet is pretty disgusting, and I and others generally steer clear, until you keep it clean, add a light inside, and provide paper towels, good tissue, lysol and hand sanitizer. I even buy a new throwaway carpet mat every year, so it doesn't get all grimy from the feet coming and going off the grass (or the mud, depending on the whims of Mother Nature). If you do that kind of thing, it's downright cozy, as bathrooms go.

Some three years ago, a lady was arrested for charging $5 to pee. So, I stopped letting strangers use the potty, and kept it to the folks from the neighborhood. And it has become something of a focal point during the parade season. All of the neighborhood finds me by looking for that bright yellow john attached to a tree.

And, as you are no doubt aware, every family or neighborhood group has some ladders and at least one cooler. Well, that thing is the perfect size to store six ladders and two coolers. So, my group just brings down supplies (ladders, drinks, snacks, ice, coolers and all) before all the parades start, and they live there in that little portolet until Ash Wednesday, when I sadly show up to clear it out, and put it all away for next year. No muss. No Fuss. Plenty more time to get out to the route and get to what you're there for... To have a good time.

And now, all of my friends, both in and out of town ask me the same thing when they see me. "Say, man, you gonna get that pahtagold again this year?"

Like I said, it sounds kinda strange, but you just gotta come try it.

Losing Everything

Pilings of what used to be homes and camps in Slidell, Louisiana

This photo is a shot across the pilings on the eastern shore of Lake Pontchartrain, known as the Northshore, where there used to be homes and fish camps, and probably illustrates total loss better than any other I took. The whole of this side of the lake looks like this. There is quite literally nothing left here except the pilings, and the odd remnant of a home, apparently left in place by fate just to mark the previous life of all of this wood.

There is a phrase running around the country, uttered by New Orleanians these days... "I lost everything." I'm not really sure that folks in other areas of the country fully appreciate the seriousness when someone says this. (Of course, this is not strictly true... there are residents of other areas affected by natural disasters that necessarily do understand, and many that even are the victims of hurricanes, themselves. But, for most of the country, there is simply no understanding. )

So, as I was coming back into New Orleans last week from Slidell, I spent a couple of hours taking photographs of the "lost everything" that the people in Slidell know. It is staggering, to be sure. But, there are trailers popping up here and there, and this is a sign that people are here, and refuse to let this area go. It's nothing short of inspiring to see a family come home to this kind of nothing and make a go of it.

More later... I promise.

It's Not About the Cash

I was just reading an article on how the financial aspect of Mardi Gras was a failure.

I know it's true that this Carnival season just didn't cut it as far as an economic injection... The article is right about that little bit. But, this year, it's just not about that.

Saturday, I boarded my float with Krewe of Tucks members that I haven't seen since last Carnival. They all want to know the same thing. "How ya makin' out, Mark?" I stood on the lead platform of my float and threw my heart out to the screaming faces of locals, natives, habitual visitors, and the bewildered first timers. I looked out over that sea of people and I saw smiles. I saw laughter. I saw people who, for the several hours that my parade rolled, simply forgot. Forgot that just blocks off the parade route, most homes are still not livable. Forgot the gut wrenching sadness they all experienced as they sorted through the soaked and molding photos and letters and wedding dresses to decide which of their memories to commit to the garbage. Forgot what it means to look at a home that is just... gone.

As I was walking to my first parade, I stopped and spoke to people whose names I don't know... I ONLY know them from Carnival. "How ya makin' out, Cap?" They don't know my name either, as it turns out. But, these people have been coming to this place to watch parades and socialize with friends, family and strangers for as long as I can remember, and they make me feel welcome and comfortable.

I stood in uptown at that same spot on Sunday night amongst friends I haven't seen in months. I was doing that same thing that I have always done... watch the kids grow up and my friends grow old. "How ya makin' out, Mark?" came from every direction. And for the first time since The Storm, I found I was truly happy.

These people are the people that make New Orleans what she is. Carnival is really just a big excuse for them to get together and just be New Orleanians. And Carnival this year taught me that, despite my having been born in another place, a New Orleanian is what I have become, and a New Orleanian I will always be.

It's Ash Wednesday and I'm home. I'm makin' out just fine, thanks.