As we drive into the French Quarter, the rain started to come down in buckets.  The streets began to flood as I was looking for a parking spot.  Rain in the French Quarter is something I LOVE.  It quiets and cleanses the streets.  It slows folks down even more.  After finding a spot close enough, we hop out of the car and immediately step in puddles over our ankles.  And the pelting rain is soaking our clothes.  We dash the block and into La Maison d’Absinthe.  Sun and I look at each other, each looking like we were fished out of the River, and laugh.  We look ridiculous.  And for what? Wine glasses.

Last time I was here, I’d spied these fleur de lis wine glasses that match the glassware we registered for when my husband and I married.  I bought the only two they then had and this was my return trip to get six more.  When the clerk gave me the total, it was too low.  I repeated the amount to her as a question.  She explained everything in the shop was TWENTY FIVE PERCENT OFF.  I swooned.

But for already having so many items from here, I’d have been in SERIOUS trouble.

Tara and Brian, this one’s for you two.

They had cool rock glasses similar to the wine glasses I was buying but with dragonflies on them.  Had they had them with the fleur de lis, they’d have been mine.

I kept scouring the store for anything that I may have overlooked in the past or that I now cannot live without.  Many items tempted me.  Mostly this one:

I don’t burn the sugar that goes into my absinthe.  I don’t always even include sugar.  But this cool match holder/striker, oh, how I coveted.  And now I am scratching my head as to WHY I passed it up.  Dammit.  Soon, it shall be mine. Maybe tomorrow? Ugh.

Once we had our glasses wrapped securely, the rain had stopped.  Of course.  We walked back to our car with the water glistening all over the Quarter.

I wish I could say our next stop, Kitchen Witch, was as equally decadent.  But, sadly, it was not.  I really, really want to love this store.  But their local collection is just so-so, and their customer service needs serious tweaking.  For example, if your website says you have a book in stock, and I cannot find it, and your clerk cannot find it, the proper clerk protocol is NOT to hand me a business card and tell me to call next week because you expect to order some soon.  And in the past, when I’ve called to check their inventory and they’ve had to call me back, THEY NEVER HAVE. Ever.  Yes, this has happened more than once.  In a world where we can find rare, out-of-print books online so readily, a brick-and-mortar store has one advantage: physical contact and thus the opportunity for top notch service.  Kitchen Witch is SO not that place.  They could be.  And I hope they want to be.  But will I be calling next week to see if the book I can order online came in? Sadly, no.  Not unless it coincides with my return visit to La Maison d’Absinthe; in that case, I MIGHT give them yet another chance.

FICTION:

1. “A Confederacy of Dunces” by John Kennedy Toole. This is the quintessential NOLA read. If you did not read, or were not assigned to read, this book in college, go buy it now. No, really, I’ll wait… Got it? Good. I picked this up just the other day to re-read (for about the third time). It just gets better each read. I am all of 10 pages in and have laughed aloud numerous times. Toole was masterful at describing New Orleans and its denizens.
2. “Lives of the Saints” by Nancy Lemann. This is a great little find. I read it years ago and still remember Lemann’s description of Claude, who broke the narrator’s heart “into a million pieces on the floor.” Lemann made me seek out several other “Voices of the South” authors. None disappointed.
3. “A Streetcar Named Desire. ” I know this is a play, but really, what list of NOLA works would be complete without Tennessee Williams’ classic? And there’s good reason this is a classic. It’s haunting and alive and lusty and depraved, just like NOLA.
4. “The Awakening” by Kate Chopin. This was written in 1899 and was scandalous. It deals with issues of race and sexuality and a woman finding herself and the tragedy that ensued. Because it was 1899. And Louisiana.
5. “Interview with a Vampire.”  Yes, Anne Rice.  But I did not read this because of Anne Rice or even because of vampires.  I read it because of Sting.  Back in the early ’90s, I was a devout fan of his, and his “Moon Over Bourbon Street” intrigued me.  Back when albums had liner notes, Sting explained that this song was inspired by Rice’s novel. I loved Rice’s descriptions of the City; I always connected more with Louis than Lestat.  And never liked the other books in this series as much as the first.
6. “The Moviegoer.”  I hadn’t read Walker Percy’s famous book by the time I was in law school.  But when my Mineral Rights professor used the story as his backdrop (oh, law school professors are an odd lot), it was a dare NOT to then read it.  And read it a did.  It is a short novel, but it was, for me, a slow read.  Not because it is boring but because it’s written as though reflecting our hot, simmering summers, where time moves more slowly.  How Percy was able to capture that tone is the genius of it.
7. “Louisiana Power and Light,” by John Dufresne.  This is set more in the swamps outside of New Orleans, but is close enough.  I enjoyed the journey Dufresne took me on here.  And I especially like how the main character finds himself in Monroe, Louisiana to begin with.
8. “The Sound of Building Coffins,” by Louis Maistros.  Ok, I am only a chapter into this one, so there’s your caveat.  But so far the writing is sharp and clear, and I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about it.  And my grandfather tells of how, as a carpenter, he’d do side jobs of building coffins.  The coffins would line his front porch and his dining room as the days passed while they were built.  So I am piqued as to what IS the sound of a coffin being built.
9. “Dinner at Antoine’s,” by Frances Parkinson Keyes.  A murder mystery set in New Orleans.  Dinner parties at Antoine’s.  Good stuff.
10. “The Grandissimes.”  George Washington Cable wrote many fine and notable works of fiction peopled with Creoles.  This is one of them.

NON-FICTION:

1. “Gumbo Ya-Ya: A Collection of Louisiana Folk Tales.” This is a must-have reference for anyone serious about Louisiana culture–it explains Creoles and Cajun; it discusses an unsolved NOLA serial killer; it talks about the history of Rex and Zulu. Plus, it’s got cool hexes and charms you can use to cure what ails ya!
2. “Frenchmen, Desire, Good Children: And Other Streets of New Orleans.” Another oldie but goodie. This one gives the history behind the (often-changing) NOLA street names. Like Canal Street was supposed to be an actual canal. Or Berlin Street was changed to General Pershing during World War I because it was “too German.”
3. “The Lost German Slave Girl: The Extraordinary True Story of the Slave Sally Miller and Her Fight for Freedom in Old New Orleans,” by John Bailey This is truly an amazing read. From the historical aspect of the history of slavery in the South to the immigration of Germans to New Orleans. A true courtroom drama that would not be believed as fiction.
4. “Gawd, I love New Orleans,” by Frank Schneider. Gawd, I love this book.  This is Schneider’s recollections of his life in New Orleans.  They are thoughtful, funny, and feel oh, so familiar.
5. “The Joy of Yat Catholicism,” by Earl J. Higgins.  This one explains it all. So many out of the City do not get that Catholicism in New Orleans is more cultural than religious.  From St. Joseph’s altars to Jews eating seafood on Friday’s during Lent, this joy of a book puts it all in perspective.
6. “Gumbo Tales,” by Sara Roahen.  Roahen is a foodie.  And one of those folks that isn’t born and raised a New Orleanian but is hardwired as one nonetheless.  She seeks out every possible foodie excursion New Orleans has to offer, and that’s a lot, and describes her experiences.  This is a love letter to New Orleans.
7. “Letters from New Orleans,” by Rob Walker.  This is another non-native writing about this weird, wonderful city he stumbled upon and fell in love with.  His love was the music and people.  Much of this was written before Katrina and is all the more precious as it was published just after.
8. “House of Dance and Feathers.”  Ronald Lewis is the curator of the museum behind his house, The House of Dance and Feathers.  This is a book about the journey Lewis took to open the museum and then to rebuild it after Katrina.  The pictures alone are worth the price of this book.
9. “Rising Tide.”  John Barry’s novel about the intentional blowing up of the levees flooding the Lower Ninth Ward and St. Bernard in 1927 is chilling in its similarities to Katrina.  I read this before Katrina.  It is a fascinating read.  Even if Katrina had never happened.
10. “Inventing New Orleans.” A collection of Lafcadio Hearn’s writings while in New Orleans.  All I will add is “the more things change, the more things stay the same.”

Now, a little lagniappe.  My top ten favorite NOLA cookbooks:

1. “The New Orleans Cookbook,” by Rima and Richard Collin.  To many, including me, the go-to NOLA cookbook. My bible.
2. “Cooking Up a Storm.”  The Times Picayune’s collection of recipes lost and most requested post-Katrina.  This is already well worn.
3. “Famous New Orleans Drinks & How to Make ‘Em,” by Stanley Clisby Arthur.  Traditional and time-withstood.
4. Junior League of New Orleans’ “Jambalaya.”  Their recipe was the one I used to make my first gumbo. It was a success.
5. “Who’s Your Mama, Are You Catholic, and Can You Make a Roux?” Marcelle Bienvenu’s delightfully-titled cookbook is not for the meek.  But it is spot-on for the tough dishes.  For example, this is the only recipe you’ll ever need for Crawfish Bisque.
6. “From Woodstoves to Microwaves, Cooking with Entergy.”  These recipes were once given away on cards on the buses and streetcars.  They are all classic, and easy to prepare, NOLA eats.
7. “Crescent City Farmers Market Cookbook.”  For the cook who wants to use all those tasty yet strange-named veggies from the Farmers Market.
8. Susan Spicer’s “Crescent City Cooking.”  The only “famous chef” book on the list.  Because her recipes are not too intimidating for the home cook (meaning, me).
9. “La Cuisine Creole.”  The collection of recipes compiled by Lafcadio Hearn.  I have a thing for him. Deal with it.
10. “Picayune Creole Cookbook.”  I have a very old one from my grandmother.  It is still in print today.  Rock solid creole recipes and some background to explain how this style of cooking became so popular in New Orleans.

Now give us your lists!  Write a post on your blog and link it here for us to come visit you.  If no blog, leave your lists in the comment.

It took Mr. Lewis about ten minutes to walk the 50 yards, what with his ruined knees. I inquired after his knees, having known of the trouble they give him. “Acupuncture,” he said, “I don’t want surgery—folks tell me often they hurt just as bad after surgery, so that’s not for me. I’m gonna try Alternative Medicine.”  Mr. Lewis shuffled to his chair, slowly bent down to sit, got situated, then took up reign as the Curator of the House of Dance and Feathers.

He asked where we were from.  I explained that my husband and I were from New Orleans, and that Tara was in from Florida.  He seemed more pleased with locals coming, white locals especially.  He asked how we’d learned of the museum.  I explained I’d known of it from visiting the Backstreet Cultural Museum (“Oh, Sylvester’s place,” he’d responded, “he’s a good friend of mine.”) and that I had read Dan Baum’s “Nine Lives” and so knew that end of things as well.  Then I couldn’t hold back.  I told him it was an honor to meet him; that I commended his sense of commitment to his neighborhood and the culture it generated; that I applauded his perseverance to preserve that culture and make it available to a larger audience.  He politely thanked me, as if I’d complimented his choice in a hat.  I STILL do not think Mr. Lewis thinks of himself as a catalyst; as a hero; as an icon.  And that modesty makes him all the more the hero and all the more likable.

He began by telling us he’d worked over 30 years with NOPSI maintaining the St. Charles Avenue streetcar tracks—that’s what ruined his knees. That for decades, he’d been actively involved with the Mardi Gras Indians and the various Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs—his club is the Big 9.

The museum, he’d explained, was a way to preserve the culture and beauty that is associated with those organizations.  “And that’s my love story, ” Mr. Lewis stated, “I don’t have much more to say than that.”  He welcomed us to take pictures, and I asked if I could take one of him.  He obliged me.

Then he started fresh on a new topic.  His being asked to be the 2008 King of Krewe du Vieux, and his wife, Minnie, the Queen.  “When I was young,” he’d said, “I thought all white people were rich.  Mardi Gras to me was going down and catching as many beads as I could to then sell them for lunch money. I’d watch the floats stop in front of the Bienville Club on Canal Street—all the white people on the floats dressed so fine.”

“Then in 2oo8 Krewe du Vieux asked me to be King. I was King of the French Quarter. ME,” he stated, still humbled by the honor these 2+ years later.  The krewe even put his likeness on their cups that year.  He reached for a cellophane bag that contained maybe 20 of the golden cups left.  He snaked one out and gave it to me, telling me he didn’t give those to everyone.  It was my turn to be humbled.

Then he settled down as though he had no more to say.  He looked around his museum and started anew.  He discussed that he is a member of the Krewe du Jieux—”a member,” he repeated for emphasis.  The museum had hosted several Seder meals over the years for Lewis’ Jewish friends.  He talked about American Indians, and how their story intertwines with the Mardi Gras Indians; about how he met a Choctaw Indian in a shelter post-Katrina and a member of the Houma Nation at Jazz Fest, and how they each discussed how much they had in common.

Drum donated by a member of the Houma Nation

And like so many Lewis meets that have an impact on his culture, that Houma Nation Indian began giving items to the museum to expand its cultural horizons.  The latest item he’s donated is this skull cane:

He talked about the Acadian people cast out of Canada that settled in Louisiana.  He’s got donated items from Acadians that likewise fit with the theme of the museum: pamphlets on Acadian home remedies to ailments.  He talked about his continued relationship with Dan Baum; the section of the museum dedicated to Hurricane Katrina; his lack of interest in being in Spike Lee’s Katrina documentary (“Friends tell me I should be in it.  I tell them Mr. Lee is getting paid to do that for HBO.  He isn’t doing it for me.  He didn’t help me rebuild.  He would just want my story.”) Interspersed in each of these topics, he returned to his real love: the bead- and feather-work of the Mardi Gras Indians.

Mr. Lewis is humble, but he is human.  And it is this final piece, an intricately beaded Indian Chief head, that brings out Mr. Lewis’ pride.  The pitch of his voice changes ever so slightly; the light in his eyes brightens just a tad.  He simply cannot resist drawing your attention to the piece and then explaining it:  It was a patch beaded by Mr. Lewis for an outfit his son wore one year for Mardi Gras.

On the one hand, it represents six months of work done for love of the craft and love of one’s child.  But to Mr. Lewis, and to folks like me that appreciate this craft, it represents so much more.

This beadwork is also the artwork used on the cover of Mr. Lewis’ book, “The House of Dance & Feathers: A Museum by Ronald W. Lewis.”  You can buy it from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.  But, as Mr. Lewis aptly points out, if you by it from the museum, he signs your book for free, as he did mine:

As we were leaving, I asked Mr. Lewis to indulge me one last thing: to allow me to kiss his cheek.  Of course, he obliged.

Thank you, Mr. Lewis, for showing us your museum, for opening your heart to me, for opening the minds of blacks and whites to see that there is no racial divide in loving art.  And thank you, Tara, for indulging me on taking you on this tour with me.  It is something I will never, ever forget.

Monday, September 12, 2005, Little Rock, Arkansas.

As I drove to the airport to pick up CS, I was barely able to keep the tears back.  I should have been ecstatic to be seeing him after a two week break, but, I realized, a lot of my emotions had been at bay with CS not around.  Now that the one person to whom my emotions could not be concealed was returning, my emotional dam was breaking. I think he assumed my stand-offish welcome indicated that I wasn’t as happy as him to be together again.  In truth, my heart was breaking anew and if I spoke of it in detail, the tears would come.

We returned to the hotel in relative silence.  I retreated into a hot bath; CS joined me.  I lay my back on CS’s chest; he snaked his arms and legs around me and buffered me from the outside world.  And in that steamy, watery cocoon, with the overhead heater whirring us into further isolation, the angst released from me.  I wept and grieved. I wailed and convulsed.  I dissolved into the bath water and became the whirring of the heater.

*     *     *     *

One hundred and fifty years ago, ancestors on both sides of my family traveled from Europe to America with little more than the clothes on their backs and hope in their hearts.  They traveled rough seas in steerage compartments of overflowing vessels.  They landed in New Orleans and put down roots.

I never knew WHY my ancestors chose New Orleans over, say, New York or Galveston.  But I do know they never looked back.  This became their new home.  They got jobs, bought real estate, paid taxes, married, lived, and died.

Five years ago, I returned to New Orleans alone.  My husband was working long hours in Little Rock and I felt I could be of better use back home.  There was no discussion of NOT returning: our home did not flood; our jobs remained in place; our mortgage was still due.

That Thanksgiving, we traveled to Taos, NM.  We were still bruised from Katrina but brave enough to venture out.  A clerk in a store inquired where we were from.  “New Orleans?” he snarled with a sneer, “I don’t know why they are bothering to rebuild. It’s not worth my tax dollars.”

I was stunned.  Or rather, stung. I quietly placed the necklace I was about to purchase down and walked out of the store.  Other customers apologized for the clerk and hugged us.

Now, when I get that question, “Why did you return?” I find it in poor taste.  It’s akin to “Why do you (not) believe in God?”  Sure, it may be a question you are curious about, but it’s certainly a tad rude.  The question itself condemns–suggesting that the thing done is unreasonable, miscalculated, and, downright wrong.  I no longer struggle to defend my decision; my city.  I no longer rally to win over people to love New Orleans, see her even, as I do.

How many years can a mountain exist before it’s washed to the sea?  ~ Bob Dylan (1963)

Wherever one lives, there are issues of weather.  Tornadoes, earthquakes, floods, volcanoes.  And hurricanes.  I’ve lived my entire life with hurricanes.  I even admit to liking them.  There’s something spectacular about Nature making the crazy world we live in STOP and take heed.  The water; the whirring of the wind.

We humans like to pretend Earth is something we possess.  I mean, we buy and own real estate as though that entitles us to possess that very earth forever.  But it is just pretend.  The Earth, New Orleans, doesn’t have the same footprint it had one hundred and fifty years ago.  In Louisiana law schools, they teach about alluvion land — how levees naturally enlarge and reduce; how borders and edges get claimed by the wetlands or are expanded by deposit of lands brought in from the rivers.

We Louisianians have always appreciated the ephemeral quality of the land and the water.  Maybe it’s the high humidity we have.  Maybe our lungs, upon close inspection, are more similar to gills. We are hardwired differently.  And you don’t have to be born and raised here to have this hard-wiring.  Countless people I know came to New Orleans as though she called to them in their sleep.

Why come back?  Why risk a life lived in a city doomed to be reclaimed by the sea?

In November of 2005, CS and I discussed leaving New Orleans.  Although where else in this country we’d live, we had no idea.  We’ve traveled to many U.S. cities. None are home.  But we resolidified ourselves to this city.  We choose to walk in her steamy wet summer days, risk seasons of hurricanes, endure mosquitoes biting on ankles, and houses built on shifting sands.

Why?  Because we can.  Because we know that one day every city will be washed to the sea.  And that our city’s time of offering us her gems is limited.  There would be no peace in wasting that limited time away from her and her gifts.

In those early dark, dank days, Tide recognized what I realized that night in the tub: Cleaning cleanses. Tide Detergent pulled into New Orleans when others feared to come near. They drove their Loads of Hope van housing 32 energy-efficient washers and dryers capable of completing 300 loads of laundry a day, and began the task that says Monday in New Orleans as loud as Red Beans and Rice: washing laundry. For free. For those who had no electricity or facilities to clean for themselves. And in that act of community, healing began.

Since Katrina, Tide has not been short on disasters, natural or man-made, to keep its Loads of Hope crews busy.  Hurricanes; wildfires; floods.  The disaster may be what’s marked in the books as historical, but it’s the survival of the people, the dusting one’s self off–cleaning and cleansing–and moving forward that is truly remarkable.  Hope remains in the Gulf coast.  As does Faith.  Faith Hill.  In recognition of the Fifth Anniversary of Katrina, Faith Hill has partnered with Tide Loads of Hope to give a free concert for the city tomorrow, August 24, at the Mahalia Jackson Theater for the Performing Arts. The Dirty Dozen Brass Band is the opening act.  Because even years later, we still need cleansing and healing.

This post was commissioned by Story Bleed as part of their *Hope Remains* carnival, sponsored by Tide Loads of Hope.

*     *     *

Potty training makes no sense.  How does a child learn how to listen to her body as to WHEN she needs to potty based on being placed on the potty every, say, 10 minutes?  Just because she in fact does sit on the potty when the moment strikes and she thus does pee in the potty, how does that translate itself in her head that the moments leading up to that are what she has to learn to feel next time?

For Sun, it’s not much different than other children.  She makes progress, then regresses.  But it’s two steps forward and one back.  She should be fully out of diapers soon.

I hope this is the best story I’ll have to relay to her when she’s older:

Sun was practicing with no diaper–just a skirt.  She came out of her playroom and explained that she “had spilled.”  We cleaned her up and replaced her skirt, socks and shoes.  She returned to her playroom.  “Poopies. Gross!” She exclaimed.  “What?” I asked, having checked where she had stood after her “spill.”  “The cat pooped!” she explained.  And there it was–three feet from where I thought she’d spilled.  A poopie. But clearly not from the cat.

Three years old and blaming smelly accidents on the innocent, old cat without as much as batting an eyelash.

A heart is not measured by how much you love but how much you are loved by others.

~ Wizard of Oz

Love is a funny thing.  It makes us do funny things.  But in my case, it tends NOT to bring tears to my eyes.

When CS got down on bended knew in a horse-drawn carriage under the blue shooting stars in Celebration in the Oaks to ask me to marry him, it was love.  He still rolls his eyes that I didn’t shed a tear of joy.  When he and his friend returned months before our wedding after a three-week trek in Europe, the friend’s girlfriend cried as she ran to her beau’s arms.  I just sheepishly smiled and ran to CS’s arms.

Don’t get me wrong, I love deeply, and my love for CS is unending.  It’s just, that, well, I’m not a warm and fuzzy person.  For example, if you are a friend and break down in tears in front of me, I WILL hug you, but I will say “I’m going to hug you” before I do so as not to startle you.

This is true for my love of my friends, my husband, my family.  I’d do anything for anyone I love, but give a big HUG or sweet little nothings?  Just not the way I roll.

With one exception.  Sun, of course.

When I first set my eyes on her in the operating room, I wept.  And I couldn’t even see her that well because my glasses weren’t on.  But all the concern I’d had for her growing in me, all the love I’d honed for those 35 weeks of pregnancy, all the overwhelming emotion welled out of my eyes and I cried unabashedly.

But that was SO three years ago.  I now have a toddler on my hands.  One that is learning to sometimes be sassy or rude or petulant or spoiled.  But who also has that innocence that only a child can possess.

I lay with her each night in her new big full size bed.  I read stories to her; I sing to her; I show her pictures of when she was a baby.  And it never fails, never, that my heart grows a bit each night.  My heart feels like a partially deflated balloon, and each night another wrinkle is blown taut.

I know that being three, Sun is still earning love for me to put in the bank that can be drawn upon when she’s older and testing me further.  But I cannot help but feel that she is the external manifestation of my heart.  And her daddy’s too.  And I suppose all parents of toddlers feel the same way.

Children are the best hope we have in the world.  They are our future.  And to believe in them; to allow the fullness of our love for them to be recognized; to wallow in the joy of their open-eyed wonder is a most precious gift.

New Orleanians are notoriously late showing up, if they show up at all, because by and large they don’t keep calendars.  Calendars are tools for managing the future, and in New Orleans the future does not exist. . . .

As for money, New Orleanians like it well enough, but not so they’d bend their lives out of shape to get some.  They have more time than money, and that’s how they like it.  Ambition isn’t a virtue in the lowlands between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River. . . . To the extent American’s strive to make their tomorrows brighter than today, New Orleanians really want nothing more than for everything to stay the same.

~ Nine Lives: Death and Life in New Orleans, Dan Baum

In a new ranking by Businessweek.com based on data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), Louisiana claims the top spot as the country’s laziest state. To be clear, by “lazy” we do not mean lacking work ethic or engagement. Rather, it is a measure of leisure time spent doing sedentary activities compared with activities that require more physical effort, such as exercising and even working.

~ Businessweek.com

When I read Dan Baum’s introduction to Nine Lives, a portion of which is quoted above, I was both offended and complimented.  We don’t keep calendars?  News to me.  Everyone I know has one (or more) and uses it.  But I think he’s right that we don’t chase the dollar the way others in America do and that we cherish our time more than other Americans.

Then I read the BusinessWeek article and had the same reaction:  We are honest, hard workers but enjoy our relaxation.

But seems I am in the minority.  Most NOLA folks (at least on twitter) take great offense to the BusinessWeek piece.  While at the same time, they applaud Baum’s description.  I still take issue with both.

Here’s why.

We here in Louisiana, not just New Orleans, ARE hard workers.  I myself have worked into the wee hours of the morning, and countless weekends, as a student and as a lawyer.  I missed Jazz Fest for the first 30-some odd years of my life because it fell during exams and I was devoted to studying.

In the work force, I have NEVER had issues with NOLA folks not, well, working.  At least not any more so than folks in other states (with the exception of the week during last year’s Super Bowl).  We take our work very personally.  We may not WANT to move up the corporate ladder, say, from administrative assistant to president of the company, but don’t let that suggest that we don’t take great pride in our work.

The BusinessWeek article admits it does not mean our work ethic is poor.  So this bit of defensiveness about our work is against Baum’s perception of us.  “Notoriously late, if they show up at all.”  WHAT?  My best friend in high school had perfect attendance for her entire academic career–and that means neither absent nor late ONCE in 12 years of schooling.  And that’s not atypical.  Many of us, me included, had years of perfect attendance.  I don’t know where Baum’s characters worked, but every job I’ve had, many of them hourly paying, would routinely fire people for incessant tardiness or absenteeism.

Now, let’s shift to the bigger issue of RELAXATION.  BusinessWeek ranks us at the bottom of the “Active” category.  I have to question this.  Really, what I question are the questions they asked in the study.  For example, did they ask:  How many miles do you walk per week? OR How many parades do you march in each year?

See, we here in Louisiana, we relax in ways that are simply foreign to our brethren in the rest of this great country.  Mardi Gras is the best example.  You in, say, Nebraska assume Mardi Gras is a day, or maybe a week long.  But in fact, its preparation takes all year.  Some parades require their riders to build their own floats.  So, each weekend for many months, the riders go down to a warehouse where the bones of the float are and literally BUILD the float.  They design, cut wood, mix plaster of Paris, sculpt, shape, paint, and otherwise make their float.  Were those folks asked about these long, numerous weekends?  Are the non-riders asked about the time they spend building, painting their child’s ladders?  Or the countless creations we’ve made to have the ice chest on wheels while at the same time being able to be stood upon when the parade rolls by?

But it goes beyond Mardi Gras.  Let’s take the next most epitomized Louisiana past-time, the seafood boil.  Those silly reporters.  They check this off as Four Hours of Sitting, Eating and Drinking.  But do they take into consideration the HOURS, nay, DAYS of preparation that goes into a boil?  We are proud to traipse all over the State to track down one key ingredient.  Or travel to EVERY grocery story and go up and down (on foot, mind you) every aisle for the precise seasonings.  We gather the borrowed boiling pots and burners; we cut countless veggies; we lug copious levels of ice to ice chests to cool beers.  Were THESE activities asked of in this study?

Louisianians treat food as a contact sport.  We celebrate it and worship it; we use it to worship; we use it through worship.  And consequently we spend a lot of time in the kitchen, whether indoors or out, preparing food in celebration.  Celebration of a hard week in the office; celebration of Bonnie not becoming a hurricane and worsening the oil spill disaster; celebration of the baptism of a baby.  And each of these requires countless hours of standing, walking, moving.

So just because we don’t walk on treadmills to nowhere does NOT make us lazy; it makes us Louisianians.  Maybe BusinessWeek needs to, em, work a little harder on its questionnaire.

And when I pull myself away from the still-sagging economy, my funereal office, my work-in-progress home and step out of my own little world, that DAMN OIL SPILL is still spewing and impacting further our lives here in Louisiana.

Yes, these have been hard times.

I struggle to sleep, to relax, to knit or cook.  I’m not depressed or even anxious.  Rather, there’s just a heaviness that is in the air now that has become a part of my  current existence.  It’s as if the terrible New Orleans’ heat is personifying itself  and permeating into the corners of my life to give no relief.

In other words, it’s all lemons and little lemonade.

Unknit yarn.

Too tired to read

Too burdened to sleep.

Stifling heat

Trifling tasks.

Long days

Fleeting life.

The thing about the blues is that you can run and occupy your time, your mind, and fall in bed too tired to even read.  But those blues?  They’ll sneak into your dreams.  They’ll leave their taste in your mouth when you wake up.  So that even if you dust yourself off and run again and refuse to give your mind any time to think.  If you stay busy, busy, busy.  Or if you pretend Sunday is Saturday because Monday is a holiday (to that, the blues whisper as they chuckle, “nice true,” because everyone knows the worst blues are the Sunday Night Blues). In the end, all of your efforts are rendered meaningless.

Finally, when you rest, and sooner or later you WILL rest, those darn blues are already sitting on the couch waiting for you, welcoming you, even.  Adding to your sentence, perhaps, for the escape you attempted.

No, you cannot outrun or -smart those dastardly blues.  They will be appeased only by your undivided attention being given to them. For as long as the blues deem fit. And in this particular case, I do not expect their visit to be a quick one.