I have previously noted (in my February 23, 2009 posting "The Toe Headed Boy") that we lived in a house, owned by Gentleman Jim Reeves. In that posting I mentioned that I started first grade in late summer 1957. The picture on the left is a monument in front of what used to be Bethany Elementary School. That brick fence used to appear so tall. I road a school bus driven by a man named W.S. McDaniels. He was named Ward Six because that is where he was born. Ward Six, New Orleans, Orleans Parish, Louisiana. Most people called him Ward. His wife was named Honere (pronounced Honor Ray) but everyone called her Tee or Miss Tee. She was my mother's best friend. Outside of my mother's family, Miss Tee was the only person I ever heard call my mother "Dessy". From the time I was still in diapers, Miss Tee would come by once a week and iron shirts for my dad and help my mother clean our house. Though my mother and dad paid her, she came and visited socially as well. My first sips of coffee came as a courtesy of Miss Tee. From the time I was around two years of age until I was seven, Miss Tee was a large influence (almost a "second mother") to both me and my brother. She taught us a song called Iko Iko We used to sing it for years. As the years have come and went the words of that songs has left my memory. I remember wanting to change my name to "Jack". It could have been because of the lyrics of the song perhaps. I told Miss Tee and she said I could not since she "already had a son named "Jack". My mother used to tell me that Tee actually "nursed" me when I was an infant. I am not sure if that is true. At the end of my second year of school, the McDaniels moved back to the Big Easy. We would leave East Texas as well and travel to Houma, Louisiana to spend the summer with my Dad.
By the time I made it to Baton Rouge to attend college, my "step" cousin Donny had already graduated
LSU Law School specializing in Navigation and Maritime Law. Donny and his family had moved from Baton Rouge to a house on
Prytania located in the Garden District. He had become a partner in an old
established New Orleans law firm. His wife was attending medical school. His firm owned a two bedroom "flat" on Pirate Alley in the
Vieux Carre or
Quarter as the locals call it. It was a second floor flat and overlooked the side of Saint Louis Cathedral. It was nothing fancy but it was nice. It had a refrigerator, a bathtub ,two beds (one was a fold out couch) air conditioning and a small balcony. He allowed us to stay in the flat as long as we did not "trash" it out; leave in better condition than what we found it; and as long as his clients was not using it. From the fall of 1969 and going through to the spring of 1971 I visited the
Big Easy many times. I witnessed many
Mardi Gras parades during those years. I even spotted a few Indians. Most of those times found me at Donny's flat. I learned a great deal of the "real New
Awlins".
New Orleans, Louisiana is by far, the most diverse city in the United States. Although it is located in South Louisiana, it actually is a
world of it's own. It has a rich history. Of course it has French and Spanish influences but also Caribbean/African, German, Irish, Italian, English, Chinese and even Swiss. It is the only city in the deep South to have had a battle of the War of 1812. It was occupied by the Union forces during the American Civil War and to this day the people of the city still drink coffee with chicory as a remembrance of that time. It is one of the largest ports in the world. The music stirs your soul and the food nourishes you in so many wonderful ways. It is a city with a "multitude" of cultures and cuisines. It is sometimes referred to as the
City that Care Forgot. The air is thick with humidity, smells and history. The locals call the town
Nu awe Lens or
Nawlins yet when referring to the name of the parish it is is pronounced
Are Leans. Only tourists pronounce the city's name as
New Are Lee Anns. If I had to summarize the social economic diversity of the city I would say the typical resident is a very poor black person or a very rich white person. Like Mexico, there really is not a middle class in Orleans Parish. The middle class all live in
Covington,
Mandaville,
Slidell,
Meterie Kenner and the West Bank. The city is divided in to multiple neighborhoods which themselves are divided as well. Corruption is a way of life in the Crescent City. I will not go into much detail but I can assure you that the Katrina disaster was caused not by George Bush, but rather the politicians who had earlier lined their pockets with money that should have been spent to on flood control and levee repair. Then again, political graft is an accepted principle.The New Orleans Police Department is considered just another street gang to some people. Remember the
U Tube videos of the
NOPD at a
Wal-Mart post Katrina? Tourism is a huge part of the city's economic lifeline. Most people know of the
French Quarter. Tourist seem to simply refer to it as
Bourbon Street. Since Hurricane Katrina, some people may be familiar with the
Lower Ninth Ward. I suppose the
Garden District or the "Isle of Denial " is pretty well known as well. The Archdiocese of New Orleans is one of the oldest Catholic diocese in America. In it's entire history, no Bishop has ever been appointed to head the Archdiocese who was an actual native of New
Orlea
ns. That is until last year when the Bishop of the Diocese of Austin Texas was moved and appointed. Archbishop Gregory
Aymond was born and raised in the
Gentilly neighborhood. The buskers playing for change around Jackson Square are probably some of the most accomplished musicians you will ever hear, but a visit to Frenchman Street,
The Warehouse District or
The Quarter will be rewarded with sounds y
ou can not hear anywhere else on the planet. A trip to
Mother's for a
Ferdy,
Rocky and Carlos' for a oyster
poboy and a cold
Barq's ,
Central Grocery for a
Muffeleta or a plate of red beans and rice at
The Napoleon House is a absolute must. Or there was
Kolb's which offered amazing German food.Then you also have to visit
Felix's Oyster House (where my father purchased my first 'dozen" when I was only 10). There are so many that I can not list all of them and do them justice.
Beginning in the Summer of 1959, my father would take my mother, brother, and I to visit
Nawlin sev
eral times. We would drive up US Highway 90 from
Houma and cross the H.P Long Bridge into the
Crescent City. The day would always start with a trip to the farmers market and fish market followed by cafe
au lait and
biegnets at
Cafe De Monde. We would all then walk across Decatur and stand around on the black and white checkerboard floor at the bar at
Tujagues while my dad downed a cold beer. We would walk the streets of the
Vieux Carre and visit several museums and shops. Most of our trips included a sit down lunch or dinner at some of
NOLA's wonderful eateries and we would visit Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral, and The
Cabildo. As we strolled passed the Jackson Brewery and strolled into the Quarter. We would watch as delivery trucks made their Saturday deliveries to the many nightlife spots. We would purchase
Mardi Gras masks at the many gift stores and of course would would visit, Preservation Hall,
Lafite's Blacksmith Shop, and Pat
O'Brien's. We would travel all the way past Rampart and visit the St Louis Cemeteries and Congo Park. We usually visited my former school bus driver and his wife
Tee at their home in the
Fauberg (French for Suburb)
Tremé . My mother used to tell us that was where Jazz was originated. I really did not know what jazz was. It was
there I had my first real food. It was there that I received my lifelong love of music. Both continue to nourish my very soul. On our trips we visited Audubon Park, Tulane Stadium, The St Charles cable car, Dixie Brewery (located on Tulane Avenue),
Carrolton, and Lee Circle. We rode several of the
ferrys that crossed the
Big Muddy and of course we would always end up at the amusement park on the shores of nearby Lake Pontchartrain. The first roller coasters I remember riding was the
Wild Maus and the
Zephyr. I can still here my brother singing the theme song from the amusement park as we traveled to it. "
At the beach, at the beach, at Pontchartrain Beach". We would go swimming in the lake and eventually we would leave and drive down Highway
90 dodging nutria on the way back to
Houma. Dad found a small place on the West Bank where he would stop and purchase a few dozen tamales. Those summer visits created my lifelong affinity for New Orleans. In the Summer of 1960 we returned to
Houma and our trips to New Orleans resumed. One time Johnny and I spent the night with the
McDaniels at them home on Lafitte Street while our parents had a night on the town. We even helped Mr.
McDaniels work on his "
Indian" costume. although I never got to see him "
dressed" I bet he was
"pretty".
The summer of 1969 would be the last summer that we would spend with Dad on the road. I would be going away to college. Dad eventually was promoted and spent most of his time behind a desk in the "
General Office". It found us in Lafayette, Louisiana. My mother were setting around the table after boiling several dozen crabs. Dad liked to eat crab but was too lazy to take the time and pick the meat out. My brother did not like seafood so my mother and I had plenty to eat. She and I had eaten as much as we could and were picking the meat off of the remaining crabs. We were waiting to watch Neil and Buzz walk on the moon (scheduled for later that evening). The phone rang and a few minutes later my mother returned to the table. Because she was a red head, her face would turn red when she was upset or had been crying. She informed us
Honere "
Tee"
McDaniels had passed away. A day or so later I learned that we would be attending her funeral in New Orleans.
That trip to New Orleans was epic. It was during the drive to and from New Orleans that my parents finally relented to my planned trip to Woodstock later that summer. We also stopped and visited LSU and I tried out for the GBFTL (Golden Band From Tiger Land) . I actually tried out in front of Dr. William Swor, the Director of Bands. He informed me I was probably the worst clarinet player to have ever auditioned for his band. He told me I make the "cut" but that I would probably be on the drum line instead of woodwinds. We drove up to Opelousas and then through Krotz Springs on into Baton Rouge. We then followed the Airline Highway into New Orleans. It had been several years since I had been to New Orleans but as we drove down US 61 and then onto Interstate 10 across the diversion canal. I began to get the same feeling I remembered from our earlier visits. The visit was a somber one but I was still excited.
Other than attending my two cousin's first communions,
and a tour of St. Louis Cathedral on one of our summer trips back in 1959-60, I had never stepped foot inside of a Catholic Church. I had only been to a few funerals up until then. I really was not too much on viewing dead bodies. I was pretty naive too. I had no idea that
negroes could be Catholics. Yes I said "negro". I always thought the word "colored" was pretty stupid.
We parked on the street and walked a few blocks to St. Augustine Catholic Church .(The church is considered the oldest "African American"Catholic Church in America.) We arrived early but before long the church began to fill up. I was not looking forward to seeing a dead body. I was relieved when the casket was brought in and it remained closed.
I really do not recall much about the service except here were four New Orleans police officers there and of them three of them were white. There were two priests and one of them was white. Other than that, all of the other people attending were black. We pr
oceeded outside and Tee's casket was placed on a small wagon pulled by an old mule. A small brass band in attired in black was assembling and before long the wagon and the band began take a slow walk towards St.Louis No. 2 cemetery. It was very hot and humid and I was wearing a suit and tie. The band was playing "
Just a Closer Walk to Thee." We, along with everyone else, f
ollowed behind and formed what I learned later to be a "
Second Line" Before long we assembled by an old tomb. The priests said a few prayers and two very old black women sang a few songs that seemed to never end. It was so damn hot. My mother was crying and my dad left to go sit in our car because he had no idea how much longer the ceremony would last and he was dying for a smoke. The
women finally stopped singing. The priests said a few words more and before long, the band started playing and marching out of the cemetery. Everyone once again followed behind the band. The music was a lot livelier. I do not recall what song (s) they played but it was pretty cool. As we joined in the
Second Line, my mother and I began to truly 'feel" the music. My mother's tears were still on her face as we felt a certain "gait" in our step, but she had a slight smile. We ended up back at St. Augustine's and then everyone pretty much went their own way. One of the policemen (the black one) approached my mother and spoke to her. She hugged him and she spoke to him for a while. Mother introduced him to me. His name was Jack
McDaniels. As I shook his hand and I laughed and told him that I remembered his mother teaching me that song so long ago. I told him about her telling me she "already" had a son named Jack. I offered him my condolences and he told me us was so proud that we would drive all the way down to Nu
Awlins for his mother. But what I remember the most was what my mother said to him. "
Of course we would come, she was my best friend"My dad drove me to New Orleans in late May of 1972. It would be the last time he and I would visit the Cresenct City together. I had to visit the offices of an offshore construction company over in Harvey in order to get the summer job (working offshore). I had it for the next three years. Once again, we traced many of the steps that our family had taken years earlier. We had a few cold ones at Tujagues, as well as a dozen or so at Felix's. We visited the New Orleans office of my dad's company. We ate a wonderful po boy at Mother's and dinner at Kolbs's. We spent a whole afternoon drinking at a few of the bars on Bourbon Street. It was wonderful.
Over the past 38 years I have vistited New Orleans many more times. My most recent trip was in December of last year. I ate an Oyster Po Boy and drank a cold Barq's at Rocky and Carlo's. One year ago when I was still working for The Power Load, we had a job on the West Bank. One evening I, and one of my co workers, from West Virginia, took a stroll in the Quarter. We had a muffelleta at The Napolean House. I gave him the "nickel tour" of the quarter.I took him Pat O'Brien's, Felix's, Cafe DuMonde past Donny's flat and finally to the checkerboard floor of the bar at Tujagues. We each drank a Blakened Vodoo (Dixie) while there.
So there.......I did mention beer in this blog.
I realize that I have started a continueing series about my favorite bars. I also realize this posting is a reflection about my mother. New Orleans is famous for it's "nightlife". It is very difficult to pick only one to be on my list as my favorite bars. Hell they are all good. I suppose the "first bar you ever went inside of" would qualify as the best.
As I write this I realize it never was my mother who cared much for New Orleans. The love of the city was instilled into me by my father actually. But of all of the memories I retain of my sojourns to the Cresent City, it is my mother's arguing with a tour guide inside of St. Louis Catheral and that simple statement to Honere's son while standing at the corner of St. Claude and Gov Nicholls. I am so glad she was my mother and yes, I still miss her...
Between the time I was finally divorced from The Plaintiff and when I wed The Mrs The Third, I purchased a "Bangora" straw cowboy hat. Over the years I would misplace it and eventually find it again. It has been stepped on and set on fire more than once. As the years passed, the hat continued to be lost and then found. I have "creased" it countless times. Each crease means something to me. There are several cracks and holes in it. If you look at the picture closely you will notice a slight "pinch" on the top front of the hat. That particular "crease" is sometimes called a "Fort Worth Pinch". I added that years ago in homage to The Plaintiff's Uncle Clovis. You really can not be a real Texan unless you know people with names like Clovis, Aubrey or T.W. I wore this hat while operating a D-7 clearing land for our former church in Tomball. I learned to operate bulldozers from Uncle Clovis. The pictures does not show the burn holes, dirt, bird droppings and the immense amount of sweat stains encrusted into it. I wore this hat as I have cooked countless pieces of meat on the grill. I wear this hat as I work and sweat in my yard. The bamboo stalk and rose bud are both from my yard. It hangs either on a rocking chair that was once owned by my grandmother or on one of the "points" of a deer head on our wall. 
