August 23, 1992...
"Shout! Lift your hands up and shout! Kick your heels up and shout!"
Chad groaned, leaned over the wine glasses and crumb-covered plates, and stage-whispered to the girl that had taken an empty seat at the table with him. "Well, it's officially a wedding reception now!" She was gorgeous, and he didn't see a ring. If she understood his joke, she may just be a keeper! He held his breath as she looked at him out of the corner of her champagne-sparkling eyes. She leaned back his way and whispered back with a wink, "Nope...they haven't played 'Celebration' yet."
And that's how Chad and Hope fell in love.
Theirs isn't the first story of romance beginning at a wedding. The stage is set so perfectly. Music, slow dancing, candlelight, flowers to pluck from centerpieces and tuck behind ears...how could anyone not feel the flush?
May 9, 2010...
"Shout! Lift your hands up and shout! Kick your heels up and shout!"
Chad looked to his left at Hope, the candlelight still accenting her exquisite silhouette and doe-soft eyes, just like it did eighteen years before, the night they met. He leaned in, his lips brushing her earlobe, and stage-whispered, "Well, it's officially a wedding reception now." She turned to him and what he saw wasn't the smart-alecky, mischievous grin he'd expected, but a smirk, oozing with disdain. "Nope. They haven't played 'Celebration' yet." Her monotone voice and loathing stare stunned Chad.
Hope took a delicate bite of cake and gently placed her fork on the china plate. "Chad, honey, that joke was funny the first time, but I have to say...it got a little crusty after, oh, I don't know...the seventy-third time. Kind of like everything else about you." She was wringing her hands now, watching them as if she weren't the one moving them. "I'm sorry, sweetie." She stood, rested her hands on the table, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. She turned and walked away. He dropped his head and saw her rings lying on the table where her hands had rested.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Soul Mates
Cracked concrete under my worn-down Converse. Sidewalk chunks pitched up at impossible angles. Corners adorned with delicate blue-and-white Spanish ceramic tiles, spelling out "Rue St. Louis" and "Rue Chartres." Centuries-old bricks, softened around the edges by stormy ladies spinning in from the Gulf. Still they stand, strong and stubborn. Old souls reside in these stones, peer from the windows, and wear their footpaths in the streets still. Lacy wrought-iron adorns and embraces fern-draped galleries, galleries whose slatted floorboards shine stripes of delta sunshine into the walkways below. Motley rows of Creole cottages nestle comfortably next to gracious townhomes, an eclectic mix of strength and elegance.
This is a pocket of mystery, of age. A place where Voodoo priestesses and pirates mingled with politicians and generals. A place that bears the scars of floods and fires, corruption and heartache, but has the wisdom to cradle the scars. Scars are reminders to be careful, to choose wisely, to tape x's on the windows, and to keep your batteries charged. Scars beget strength.
I ponder all this and more as I navigate the grid that lays out these blocks. This city, my New Orleans, is who I want to be when I grow up. I see in her all the aspirations and desires I have for myself. I want to embrace my age with grace and dignity. I want to carry the wisdom gained over the years as my guide. When I do sustain damage to my body or heart, I want to be thankful for the second or third chances at survival, or even prosperity. When my bricks soften around the edges, I'll wear the evidence of age with pride. I never want to look, sound, or feel exactly like my neighbors. We have our own colors, our own inner music, our own vibrancy that is unique to us, and the joie de vivre comes not from matching one another's, but sharing it in a joyful melange. Walking Lady NOLA's streets, absorbing the sensory gumbo that permeates her sticky air, my soul is fulfilled in a way that makes me sigh with relief, because I am her, and she is me.
This is a pocket of mystery, of age. A place where Voodoo priestesses and pirates mingled with politicians and generals. A place that bears the scars of floods and fires, corruption and heartache, but has the wisdom to cradle the scars. Scars are reminders to be careful, to choose wisely, to tape x's on the windows, and to keep your batteries charged. Scars beget strength.
I ponder all this and more as I navigate the grid that lays out these blocks. This city, my New Orleans, is who I want to be when I grow up. I see in her all the aspirations and desires I have for myself. I want to embrace my age with grace and dignity. I want to carry the wisdom gained over the years as my guide. When I do sustain damage to my body or heart, I want to be thankful for the second or third chances at survival, or even prosperity. When my bricks soften around the edges, I'll wear the evidence of age with pride. I never want to look, sound, or feel exactly like my neighbors. We have our own colors, our own inner music, our own vibrancy that is unique to us, and the joie de vivre comes not from matching one another's, but sharing it in a joyful melange. Walking Lady NOLA's streets, absorbing the sensory gumbo that permeates her sticky air, my soul is fulfilled in a way that makes me sigh with relief, because I am her, and she is me.
Friday, November 12, 2010
The Quest for Roast Beef Perfection
The roast-beef po-boy. The poster child for NOLA food. An okay one is still good stuff, but to find a truly great one is an experience that makes you believe in a higher power. This summer, I began my quest to find the perfect roast-beef po-boy.
But first...how does one define the ideal po-boy?
The bread. French bread. Crusty, flaky, golden loaves with a chewy and somehow airy inside.
The roast beef. Prime cut. Not too fatty, but a little is fine. Cooked low and slow for hours to tender, juicy perfection. Infused with onion, garlic, and cayenne.
The dressings. Lettuce? Shredded iceberg. Whole leaves are unacceptable. Tomatoes? Creole. Big, fat ones sliced paper thin and piled on. Mayo? Blue Plate. Not too think, though. Just a nice layer to seal up the holes in the bread. Top it all off with a sprinkle of Tabasco, and you're almost done.
The gravy. Lovely, lovely debris gravy. Spicy, garlicky, dark-espresso-brown gravy full of those little not-quite-burnt bits of roast beef that have fallen off. Thickened until it's able to sit on the bread and not turn it into a mushy mess.
But there's more. A meal is defined - judged - by more than its ingredients. It's more than the sum of its parts. A meal is an experience, therefore location and service have to be considered as well. A restaurant without atmosphere is not one worth visiting, and the people there can transform a dining excursion from so-so to sublime.
And so, I present my Top 5...so far.
4th Runner-Up - Mother's on Poydras. Mother's has been around since 1938, and their menu has hardly changed. In this case, a good thing. Often called "the" place to eat a po-boy in the city. I went for lunch with family, and we took the half-hour wait to get in as a good sign. No one's going to waste their lunch break waiting in 100-degree heat for mediocre food. Once inside, we camped at our table and ordered. The interior is almost overwhelming. It would take weeks to read every article and study every picture on the walls. It's a beautiful chaos displayed on the open brick. Every employee, those running and weaving between tables and those taking a breather from the kitchen's heat, seemed happy. They talked to customers, joked with each other, and made it feel more like someone's dining room than a restaurant. Food came out fast, which is always nice. I was so excited to get my sandwich. Mother's po-boys, again, are to be the stuff of legend. However, mine was not. It wasn't "bad," but it was...underwhelming. Gravy was thin and sparse. Toppings the same. The meat was good but could have used more kick. The only two things that got Mother's on this list are atmosphere and the fact that everyone else at the table had excellent food (the catfish po-boy...exquisite). I'm willing to give it another go, though, because everyone does have their off days.
Rating = 2 paper towels.
3rd Runner-Up - Domilise's off Tchopitoulas. Domilise's is another old workhorse in a blue-collar corner of the city. Far off the beaten path, but well worth the drive. The exterior could be described as sketchy at best, with its wonky, hand-painted plywood sign and siding badly in need of a pressure wash. Inside, though, is the type of beautiful that only a native could love. It's dark. It's cramped. The menu boards are a mess. The vinyl stool covers are cracked, foam batting puffing through. The walls are covered in newspapers yellow with age and washed-out photographs, circa 1972. The plastic bathroom utility sink actually resides in the dining room. But. Frosty Barq's. Amazing cooks. Local beer. And the sandwiches. Oh, my. A roast-beef po-boy from Domilise's is a local treasure. Every part of it is culinary joy. Each ingredient on its own is just right, and when joined as a whole, is wonderful. Unwrapping one of these beasts (even the small is quite large) is like Christmas. The textures. Crunchy, chewy, meaty, crisp. The savory, thick gravy. The garden-fresh dressings. The perfectly sliced roast beef (you can take a bite without having to grind your teeth or worry about it squitting out of the other side of the bread!). The only real drawback is the drive to get there. But do it.
Rating = 3.5 paper towels.
2nd Runner-Up - Ignatius on Magazine. Walking into Ignatius can be off-putting for locals because the walls are lined in shelves and rows of Community Coffee, Zatarain's boxes, Barq's bottles, and the like. A tad touristy, but it's kitschy in its own fun way. Our waitress was so attentive and cheerful. She was great about ordering Holland's lunch before mine so she wouldn't be hungry or bored. Along with our carafe of water (genuis!) came a brown paper lunch bag stuffed with crusty french bread and butter. This little goodie could have been the whole meal! The actual meal, though...Holland's red beans and rice were creamy, thick, and in perfect proportion. A few minutes later, I saw the waitress approaching with my po-boy. In a bowl? No paper wrapper? Not on a plate? How odd. Then she set it before me, and when I saw the gravy flowing from the bread, I raised my eyes heavenward and said a little prayer. This was a thing of beauty. It was stuffed. I actually had to use my fork and eat about half of the roast beef to even pick up the sandwich. It wasn't sliced, either. It was cut into thick, tender hunks with just the right amount of char on the edges. Dressings were generous and fresh, and the bread stood its ground with the ladleful of gravy poured atop it.
Rating = 4.5 paper towels.
1st Runner-Up - Danny & Clyde's in Metairie. Yes. A gas station. And home to one of the most generous, juicy, sloppy, wipe your face before, during, and in-between bites sandwiches in creation. A po-boy from Danny & Clyde's is not for the lightweight. One look at the oversized (thoroughly happy!) cooks will tell you most of what you need to know. These sandwiches are huge, huge, huge, and filled to overflowing with some of the tenderest slices of roast beef to be found. The gravy is on the thinner side, but the one-two punch of garlic and onion in it make up for any flaw. Once your newborn-sized, white paper-wrapped meal is handed to you, you could go home, but what fun would that be? Far better to find a spot at one of the orange formica booths and people-watch as you mop your face every 10 seconds. Danny & Clyde's is one of those places where you wouldn't be surprised to see an oil-rig grunt chowing down on a sandwich next to a three-piece-suited corporate attorney from the CBD, both happily stuffing themselves and chatting about the Saints in between bites. Surprisingly amazing food in a surprisingly fun spot are what Danny & Clyde's is all about. No picture of this one because (a) it's been years since I've had one, and (b) cameras don't exactly cross my mind at the gas station.
Rating = 4.5 paper towels.
The Blue-Ribbon Winner - Cafe' Reconcile on Oretha Castle Haley Blvd. Where to begin? The sunny, open-kitchened dining room? The friendliest waitstaff in the city? The incredible food? The restaurant's mission? In order...walking in to this restaurant just puts you in a good mood. Even on the rainy day we went, the dining area was bright and welcoming, with tons of local artists' work adorning the walls. The galley kitchen buzzes with orders flying, food being run, and a dessert display to die for. Not only will your server greet you and treat you like a guest in his or her home, but every other server and manager will, too. They don't care whose table you're occupying. They'll make sure you're content. I wanted to go there for white beans, but they had already run out and it was close to closing time. Instead, I went with the standby and am so glad I did. This po-boy was the best I've ever eaten. Every single piece was divine. I won't list every little bit, but I will say that this overstuffed sandwich was the kickiest one I've had (without having to add anything) and it's cooked to melt-in-your-mouth perfection. The roast beef is cut into hefty slabs, but they were so tender that eating it is effortless. The gravy is something I'd buy by the gallon. Consistency, flavor, everything was just...perfect. And if this food that is proof that a higher power exists isn't reason enough to fall in love with Cafe' Reconcile, their mission is. They employ at-risk teenagers from drug or poverty-ridden neighborhoods, train them in the restaurant business, and "graduate" them into jobs in the city's hotels and other restaurants. In ten years, over 500 people have been placed into careers through the area. How cool is that? No picture for this one, either (WAY too focused on the meal!), but that will be remedied over Christmas!
Rating = 5 paper towels.
But first...how does one define the ideal po-boy?
The bread. French bread. Crusty, flaky, golden loaves with a chewy and somehow airy inside.
The roast beef. Prime cut. Not too fatty, but a little is fine. Cooked low and slow for hours to tender, juicy perfection. Infused with onion, garlic, and cayenne.
The dressings. Lettuce? Shredded iceberg. Whole leaves are unacceptable. Tomatoes? Creole. Big, fat ones sliced paper thin and piled on. Mayo? Blue Plate. Not too think, though. Just a nice layer to seal up the holes in the bread. Top it all off with a sprinkle of Tabasco, and you're almost done.
The gravy. Lovely, lovely debris gravy. Spicy, garlicky, dark-espresso-brown gravy full of those little not-quite-burnt bits of roast beef that have fallen off. Thickened until it's able to sit on the bread and not turn it into a mushy mess.
But there's more. A meal is defined - judged - by more than its ingredients. It's more than the sum of its parts. A meal is an experience, therefore location and service have to be considered as well. A restaurant without atmosphere is not one worth visiting, and the people there can transform a dining excursion from so-so to sublime.
And so, I present my Top 5...so far.
4th Runner-Up - Mother's on Poydras. Mother's has been around since 1938, and their menu has hardly changed. In this case, a good thing. Often called "the" place to eat a po-boy in the city. I went for lunch with family, and we took the half-hour wait to get in as a good sign. No one's going to waste their lunch break waiting in 100-degree heat for mediocre food. Once inside, we camped at our table and ordered. The interior is almost overwhelming. It would take weeks to read every article and study every picture on the walls. It's a beautiful chaos displayed on the open brick. Every employee, those running and weaving between tables and those taking a breather from the kitchen's heat, seemed happy. They talked to customers, joked with each other, and made it feel more like someone's dining room than a restaurant. Food came out fast, which is always nice. I was so excited to get my sandwich. Mother's po-boys, again, are to be the stuff of legend. However, mine was not. It wasn't "bad," but it was...underwhelming. Gravy was thin and sparse. Toppings the same. The meat was good but could have used more kick. The only two things that got Mother's on this list are atmosphere and the fact that everyone else at the table had excellent food (the catfish po-boy...exquisite). I'm willing to give it another go, though, because everyone does have their off days. Rating = 2 paper towels.
3rd Runner-Up - Domilise's off Tchopitoulas. Domilise's is another old workhorse in a blue-collar corner of the city. Far off the beaten path, but well worth the drive. The exterior could be described as sketchy at best, with its wonky, hand-painted plywood sign and siding badly in need of a pressure wash. Inside, though, is the type of beautiful that only a native could love. It's dark. It's cramped. The menu boards are a mess. The vinyl stool covers are cracked, foam batting puffing through. The walls are covered in newspapers yellow with age and washed-out photographs, circa 1972. The plastic bathroom utility sink actually resides in the dining room. But. Frosty Barq's. Amazing cooks. Local beer. And the sandwiches. Oh, my. A roast-beef po-boy from Domilise's is a local treasure. Every part of it is culinary joy. Each ingredient on its own is just right, and when joined as a whole, is wonderful. Unwrapping one of these beasts (even the small is quite large) is like Christmas. The textures. Crunchy, chewy, meaty, crisp. The savory, thick gravy. The garden-fresh dressings. The perfectly sliced roast beef (you can take a bite without having to grind your teeth or worry about it squitting out of the other side of the bread!). The only real drawback is the drive to get there. But do it. Rating = 3.5 paper towels.
2nd Runner-Up - Ignatius on Magazine. Walking into Ignatius can be off-putting for locals because the walls are lined in shelves and rows of Community Coffee, Zatarain's boxes, Barq's bottles, and the like. A tad touristy, but it's kitschy in its own fun way. Our waitress was so attentive and cheerful. She was great about ordering Holland's lunch before mine so she wouldn't be hungry or bored. Along with our carafe of water (genuis!) came a brown paper lunch bag stuffed with crusty french bread and butter. This little goodie could have been the whole meal! The actual meal, though...Holland's red beans and rice were creamy, thick, and in perfect proportion. A few minutes later, I saw the waitress approaching with my po-boy. In a bowl? No paper wrapper? Not on a plate? How odd. Then she set it before me, and when I saw the gravy flowing from the bread, I raised my eyes heavenward and said a little prayer. This was a thing of beauty. It was stuffed. I actually had to use my fork and eat about half of the roast beef to even pick up the sandwich. It wasn't sliced, either. It was cut into thick, tender hunks with just the right amount of char on the edges. Dressings were generous and fresh, and the bread stood its ground with the ladleful of gravy poured atop it. Rating = 4.5 paper towels.
1st Runner-Up - Danny & Clyde's in Metairie. Yes. A gas station. And home to one of the most generous, juicy, sloppy, wipe your face before, during, and in-between bites sandwiches in creation. A po-boy from Danny & Clyde's is not for the lightweight. One look at the oversized (thoroughly happy!) cooks will tell you most of what you need to know. These sandwiches are huge, huge, huge, and filled to overflowing with some of the tenderest slices of roast beef to be found. The gravy is on the thinner side, but the one-two punch of garlic and onion in it make up for any flaw. Once your newborn-sized, white paper-wrapped meal is handed to you, you could go home, but what fun would that be? Far better to find a spot at one of the orange formica booths and people-watch as you mop your face every 10 seconds. Danny & Clyde's is one of those places where you wouldn't be surprised to see an oil-rig grunt chowing down on a sandwich next to a three-piece-suited corporate attorney from the CBD, both happily stuffing themselves and chatting about the Saints in between bites. Surprisingly amazing food in a surprisingly fun spot are what Danny & Clyde's is all about. No picture of this one because (a) it's been years since I've had one, and (b) cameras don't exactly cross my mind at the gas station.
Rating = 4.5 paper towels.
The Blue-Ribbon Winner - Cafe' Reconcile on Oretha Castle Haley Blvd. Where to begin? The sunny, open-kitchened dining room? The friendliest waitstaff in the city? The incredible food? The restaurant's mission? In order...walking in to this restaurant just puts you in a good mood. Even on the rainy day we went, the dining area was bright and welcoming, with tons of local artists' work adorning the walls. The galley kitchen buzzes with orders flying, food being run, and a dessert display to die for. Not only will your server greet you and treat you like a guest in his or her home, but every other server and manager will, too. They don't care whose table you're occupying. They'll make sure you're content. I wanted to go there for white beans, but they had already run out and it was close to closing time. Instead, I went with the standby and am so glad I did. This po-boy was the best I've ever eaten. Every single piece was divine. I won't list every little bit, but I will say that this overstuffed sandwich was the kickiest one I've had (without having to add anything) and it's cooked to melt-in-your-mouth perfection. The roast beef is cut into hefty slabs, but they were so tender that eating it is effortless. The gravy is something I'd buy by the gallon. Consistency, flavor, everything was just...perfect. And if this food that is proof that a higher power exists isn't reason enough to fall in love with Cafe' Reconcile, their mission is. They employ at-risk teenagers from drug or poverty-ridden neighborhoods, train them in the restaurant business, and "graduate" them into jobs in the city's hotels and other restaurants. In ten years, over 500 people have been placed into careers through the area. How cool is that? No picture for this one, either (WAY too focused on the meal!), but that will be remedied over Christmas!
Rating = 5 paper towels.
The Other Side of Retail
Working in retail sounds like, and sometimes is, a drudge. Day shifts at the mall drag like molasses, with only the occasional mall walker or equally bored soccer mom to break up your day. Canned 80s music on the speakers, the smell of Taco Bell wafting through the air ducts.
Unless, of course, you're employed by the infamous Frederick's of Hollywood. The daily clientele there was a parade of hazy-eyed dancers from the strip clubs in the Quarter, adding to their garter and costume collections. One day, mid-winter, in walked a tall, delicate, cafe' au lait-skinned gentleman in spandex, carrying a supercute purse...
"Hi there! Welcome to Frederick's...what can I help you find?"
"Hey, boo. I needs somethin lacy an...ummmm...paynk."
"Okay...is this a gift?" (Please say yes. Please say yes. PLEASE.)
A bubbly giggle. "Yea, boo! A gif' fo' me!"
(Of course.) "Alllllright. Well. The corsets back on the left wall here are lacy, and we have a few pink lace teddies over here. Are you thinking a hot pink? Or something softer?" (Am I really having this conversation?)
"Whutchoo thaynk would be purttier wit' mah skiyun?"
"Get crazy. Go bright." (What the hell. I'll play along!)
* Insert 45 minutes of hooking and lacing (and UNhooking and UNlacing) corsets, searching for the perfect stockings ("Not dem thaa-haas, tho!"), considering styles of wigs and high heels with each, and whether babydolls are flattering on a man. *
"That'll be $139.78. Have a great day!"
"Oh, boo...I'm havin' a great night!"
Unless, of course, you're employed by the infamous Frederick's of Hollywood. The daily clientele there was a parade of hazy-eyed dancers from the strip clubs in the Quarter, adding to their garter and costume collections. One day, mid-winter, in walked a tall, delicate, cafe' au lait-skinned gentleman in spandex, carrying a supercute purse...
"Hi there! Welcome to Frederick's...what can I help you find?"
"Hey, boo. I needs somethin lacy an...ummmm...paynk."
"Okay...is this a gift?" (Please say yes. Please say yes. PLEASE.)
A bubbly giggle. "Yea, boo! A gif' fo' me!"
(Of course.) "Alllllright. Well. The corsets back on the left wall here are lacy, and we have a few pink lace teddies over here. Are you thinking a hot pink? Or something softer?" (Am I really having this conversation?)
"Whutchoo thaynk would be purttier wit' mah skiyun?"
"Get crazy. Go bright." (What the hell. I'll play along!)
* Insert 45 minutes of hooking and lacing (and UNhooking and UNlacing) corsets, searching for the perfect stockings ("Not dem thaa-haas, tho!"), considering styles of wigs and high heels with each, and whether babydolls are flattering on a man. *
"That'll be $139.78. Have a great day!"
"Oh, boo...I'm havin' a great night!"
Thursday, April 22, 2010
This Morning I Met Myself
A boy
Frayed plaid trousers
Hair a mess
Rough around the edges
Eyes eons deep
He had suffered, lived, survived
I yearned to kiss him
Breathe in his stories
He grasped me with his gaze
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
A lady
Wrinkled hands
Mint-green polyester robe
Frail, withered, stunted with age
Ancient eyes, robust
She had brought life and held its dying hand
My arms wrapped around her
Absorbing her wisdom
She tipped my chin up, held my eyes
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
A notebook
Black and white marble
Spine worn thin
Cover fuzzed from carry and wear
Pages hold a universe
Battered exterior sheltering treasures within
My eyes devour the words
Ingesting their messages
Hieroglyphs, syllables, phrases draw me in
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
Frayed plaid trousers
Hair a mess
Rough around the edges
Eyes eons deep
He had suffered, lived, survived
I yearned to kiss him
Breathe in his stories
He grasped me with his gaze
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
A lady
Wrinkled hands
Mint-green polyester robe
Frail, withered, stunted with age
Ancient eyes, robust
She had brought life and held its dying hand
My arms wrapped around her
Absorbing her wisdom
She tipped my chin up, held my eyes
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
A notebook
Black and white marble
Spine worn thin
Cover fuzzed from carry and wear
Pages hold a universe
Battered exterior sheltering treasures within
My eyes devour the words
Ingesting their messages
Hieroglyphs, syllables, phrases draw me in
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Reflections
A teenage girl looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes reflecting horror and hope
Nazi troops in the village
American troops on the way
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And walks to the window, waiting
A young woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes twinkling with promise and excitement
A tall, dashing Merchant Marine
A first date to the circus
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And whispers to her sisters with anticipation
A bride-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes meet her mother’s, an identical pair
Antique ivory lace dress
Vows on the tip of her tongue
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And prepares to walk down the aisle
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes moist with tears, patting her belly
Kicks and flutters from her unborn son
Saying “hello” from within
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And returns the greeting to her firstborn
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes calm with experience
The seventh of her brood
Reveling in the blessings of her family
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And smiles at her six little ones
An aging woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes acknowledging that life is full of surprises
Her oldest daughter
Becoming a young mother
She runs the pewter brush through her graying hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And approaches her daughter with an embrace
A new grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes glistening with pride and affection
Her first grandchild
A delicate red-haired girl
She runs the pewter brush through her gray hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And offers a silent prayer to the future
A grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes aglow with wit and humor
Over eighty summers and eighty winters
Surrounded with the legacy of a loving family
She runs the pewter brush through her silver hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And gathers the three pieces for her great-granddaughter
Blue eyes reflecting horror and hope
Nazi troops in the village
American troops on the way
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And walks to the window, waiting
A young woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes twinkling with promise and excitement
A tall, dashing Merchant Marine
A first date to the circus
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And whispers to her sisters with anticipation
A bride-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes meet her mother’s, an identical pair
Antique ivory lace dress
Vows on the tip of her tongue
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And prepares to walk down the aisle
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes moist with tears, patting her belly
Kicks and flutters from her unborn son
Saying “hello” from within
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And returns the greeting to her firstborn
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes calm with experience
The seventh of her brood
Reveling in the blessings of her family
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And smiles at her six little ones
An aging woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes acknowledging that life is full of surprises
Her oldest daughter
Becoming a young mother
She runs the pewter brush through her graying hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And approaches her daughter with an embrace
A new grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes glistening with pride and affection
Her first grandchild
A delicate red-haired girl
She runs the pewter brush through her gray hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And offers a silent prayer to the future
A grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes aglow with wit and humor
Over eighty summers and eighty winters
Surrounded with the legacy of a loving family
She runs the pewter brush through her silver hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And gathers the three pieces for her great-granddaughter
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Johnny White's
"Open" blinked the green neon sign, barely visible through the hellacious rain. Everything was a haze as we stumbled across the cobbled street to Johnny White's. Just as we crossed the threshold into the dingy bar, a crack of lightning split the sky along with a symphony of bone-jarring thunder. The blinking neon sign flickered out, along with the rest of the streetlamps along the sidewalk and the dim bulbs in the barroom. Although it was crowded, wall-to-wall with people seeking shelter, there was a moment of almost religious silence while we absorbed the viciousness of Mother Nature's attack.
The owner went upstairs to his office and brought down a battery-powered radio. It was one of those standard items that everyone in this area owned. He twisted the crusty, dusty knob until he found WWL - the only station coming in halfway clearly.
The only sounds in Johnny White's were the idiot crackle of radio static, the roaring wind and rain, quiet worried whispers floating through the humid air, and the occasional clear phrase from the radio. "...Category 5...25 foot storm surge...pressure still dropping..." Each phrase struck us dumb. There was no way that this could be happening.
Johnny was quick, though. He glanced around at the faces crowding his bar, grabbed a few able-bodied folks, and they got to work. Together, they pried the huge, antique Jax and Dixie beer signs from the walls where they had hung as decorations for years and squeezed them into the window openings in case the glass broke. The bartender filled up every sink, pitcher, and empty bottle with fresh drinking water. Other people pitched in by rounding up all the lighters and matches they could find and lighting the candles in the wrought-iron wall sconces.
People from all corners of the area were here together. The older couple who owned the art gallery around the corner, Dave and Roger. Bianca, fresh from her shift at Rick's. Simon, caught on his way to Central Grocery for some last-minute shopping. People who would probably never cross paths in their everyday routines who, by virtue of the gathering storm, ended up together in this little dark bar.
The radio crackled some more, this time with more dire news. "...worst-case scenario...eight feet below sea level...possible levee breach..." Bob Breck's voice had gotten them through countless storms before, his predictions more reliable than those from God himself. They heard the tension in his voice for the first time ever, and the sound galvanized the people in Johnny's. They all read the same sentiment in one another's eyes as they glanced around the candlelit room.
With nothing but the flashes of lightning coming in through the cracks and the dim flicker of candles, Johnny reached up to the top shelf where he kept the good stuff. He produced a bottle of Single Barrel Jack Daniels, coated with a thin layer of dust. A few quick flicks of his trained wrist lined up a row of shot glasses along the brass-lined bar. He splashed a shot into each glass, one for everybody in the room, and the small glasses were sent around. Johnny lifted his glass and everyone followed suit. "Here's to you, Katrina. Come and get us...we're ready."
The owner went upstairs to his office and brought down a battery-powered radio. It was one of those standard items that everyone in this area owned. He twisted the crusty, dusty knob until he found WWL - the only station coming in halfway clearly.
The only sounds in Johnny White's were the idiot crackle of radio static, the roaring wind and rain, quiet worried whispers floating through the humid air, and the occasional clear phrase from the radio. "...Category 5...25 foot storm surge...pressure still dropping..." Each phrase struck us dumb. There was no way that this could be happening.
Johnny was quick, though. He glanced around at the faces crowding his bar, grabbed a few able-bodied folks, and they got to work. Together, they pried the huge, antique Jax and Dixie beer signs from the walls where they had hung as decorations for years and squeezed them into the window openings in case the glass broke. The bartender filled up every sink, pitcher, and empty bottle with fresh drinking water. Other people pitched in by rounding up all the lighters and matches they could find and lighting the candles in the wrought-iron wall sconces.
People from all corners of the area were here together. The older couple who owned the art gallery around the corner, Dave and Roger. Bianca, fresh from her shift at Rick's. Simon, caught on his way to Central Grocery for some last-minute shopping. People who would probably never cross paths in their everyday routines who, by virtue of the gathering storm, ended up together in this little dark bar.
The radio crackled some more, this time with more dire news. "...worst-case scenario...eight feet below sea level...possible levee breach..." Bob Breck's voice had gotten them through countless storms before, his predictions more reliable than those from God himself. They heard the tension in his voice for the first time ever, and the sound galvanized the people in Johnny's. They all read the same sentiment in one another's eyes as they glanced around the candlelit room.
With nothing but the flashes of lightning coming in through the cracks and the dim flicker of candles, Johnny reached up to the top shelf where he kept the good stuff. He produced a bottle of Single Barrel Jack Daniels, coated with a thin layer of dust. A few quick flicks of his trained wrist lined up a row of shot glasses along the brass-lined bar. He splashed a shot into each glass, one for everybody in the room, and the small glasses were sent around. Johnny lifted his glass and everyone followed suit. "Here's to you, Katrina. Come and get us...we're ready."
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