If you can’t see the forest for the trees, then look at the trees;

When you’ve looked at enough trees, you’ve seen a forest.”
-- Annie Dillard

I couldn’t sleep last night. The tingling returned in the fingers on my left hand. It felt like I had been sleeping on my arm, but I hadn’t, and no amount of stretching and massaging would take it away. Stress. I was apparently stressed, according to online medical journals that I researched around 1:00 am. Stress was what I was hoping for, because if not, my other options were Multiple Sclerosis, neural damage, the onset of migraines, diabetes, Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, and pinched nerves. I could have taken the pinched nerves too.

When I awoke again around 5:00 am, it occurred to me that I might die. This may have been a bit dramatic for tingly fingers. It may have been that it was late and I hadn’t slept much. It may have been that I haven’t inherited the cough, but I’m feeling other effects of the storm and this city and this life.

I suppose I have considered my own death before. But the thoughts have been of the future or I can’t believe I did that, I could have died thoughts. Left unnerved, I knew I would not sleep any more that night. It was like one of those rare terrifying nightmares, the kind that I have to get out of bed after and watch the Disney Channel to calm down and reprogram my mind. On this occasion the Disney Channel wouldn’t do.

I had a teacher once while studying abroad who had never been to New Orleans. She loved Tennessee Williams and envisioned New Orleans as this romantic, warm and muggy place where life was lazy and revolved around the river. I could picture what she meant. The people, the attitude, the heat, the river. “Is it a myth?” she asked me. “No,” I responded, feeling nostalgic, “it’s not.”

So I got out of bed, threw on some jeans and a sweater and headed from Uptown to the French Quarter for the awakening of sunrise on the river. Driving down St. Charles Ave. past downed streetcar lines, with the windows open, the lights on, dew streaming in beads down the back windshield of my car, I listened to Elliott Smith’s sad, absorbing “Rose Parade” on repeat. Garbage men were doing an early run, Latino guys stood yawning, stretching, and scratching bellies at Lee Circle, and the tiny men were already on the roof of the Superdome.

I parked my car and as I walked down Decatur, I realized that I was the only non-worker in sight. People in brightly colored restaurant polo shirts, cigarettes in hand, and the hotel maids in dresses and shiny nametags passed me. A man hosed off Sunday night’s beer bottles from the steps of Jax Brewery, sending the bottles broken and clanking down the stairs. “Morning,” he said as I walked by. As I passed Jackson Square, the scent of jasmine and manure wafted over me.

The chairs were still stacked atop the tables at Café du Monde. The ladies working nodded hello and one took my order at the take-out window; a few guys in the kitchen washed dishes and one stood idly, staring blankly, with his sugary, floured hands on his apron. I bought a large café au lait and headed toward the river.

Boat horns sounded in the distance. A huge barge was being stocked at the Governor Nichols wharf to the left. I walked a bit and sat on one of the circular benches, because the straight ones along the walk were occupied by several large groups of gutter punks with dirty hair and dirty dogs. A woman older than the rest, wearing brown jeans that once were blue, smiled a toothless smile at me and said, “Good morning” as though to calm any discomfort. “Mornin’,” I responded with a slight raise of my coffee.

A misty fog rose from the river under the Crescent City Connection. Two guys slept on the round benches nearest mine. One had a forlorn posture, sitting upright with his head in his hands. The other, perhaps the perpetrator behind the lime green Hand Grenade cup next to me that bore unfinished remains, straddled the bench partitions, squirming uncomfortably. The sun rose higher. My light sweater began to stick. Seagulls sang and gathered with the throngs of pigeons being fed by an old black man in a bebop hat ahead. He smiled my way and gave a half wave. I returned the gesture, as healthy morning runners glided past.

The heat settled around me, reminding me of warm bath water, as I sat near the river and wondered how long spring lasts in New Orleans. The weather teases us with crispness and beauty until one day we wake and it is ninety degrees and the air is thick and damp. Remnants of spring’s light air lingered on the overcast morning.

As I soaked up the morning sun, smelling rust and inexplicably, something like violet candies, my mind drifted in and out of daydreams as it often does. My daydreams vary in scope and subject, but it was spring and I was feverish, so I devised mini romances.

I was distracted and brought out of my imagined scenes when the uncomfortable sleeping guy shifted, farted and began hacking for what was a painfully long time. A green streetcar passed and I clapped at the sight of it. As I turned to watch the empty streetcar roll by, I noticed a new man had occupied a nearby bench. The sprinklers had turned on and the one closest to him was broken and confused, spraying in the opposite direction than intended. He remained in his seat, defiant, waving hands of dismissal and challenging the water.

The sky opened up blue.

Coffee consumed, I walked along the river, through the empty flea market, down Royal Street past flower-laden balconies lined with lights. I found my car and as I drove out of the Quarter, I stopped at the gas station on Rampart Street which was strangely crowded. Men in construction attire filed in for this and that. Customers waited patiently in line.

Behind the register, guarded with bulletproof glass, was a thin black transvestite. From the back with her slender waist, long black curly hair, and glistening nails on a hand resting on her small hips, she could have passed for an attractive, albeit tall, woman. From the front, the size of her face gave her away.

Ahead of me stood a middle-aged, soft-spoken tall man whose heavy lisp and mannerisms suggested a certain sexual preference. We exchanged a few words as we inched our way toward the register. When his turn arrived, the man politely asked for the cheapest pack of cigarettes, managing to say “sir” many times. “Thank you, sir.” “Excuse me, sir.” “Oh, sorry sir.” I bit my lip to suppress laughter as I observed the tense face of the cashier, progressively becoming angrier.

She couldn’t take it any more. “Fuck, fag” she yelled. “Why don’t you just tell the whole world?!” The line of twelve or so people erupted into muffled laughter. The clerk wasn’t really fooling anyone, but I suppose she thought that the act of trying merited the respect of pretending. The man did not seem to mind—maybe his subtle insult was intentional, maybe they have this same encounter on a regular basis. After finding his last few coins to pay for his cigarettes, he again thanked the “sir” and left. A guy behind me leaned in to whisper, “Now that’s not somethin’ you see everyday.”

I paid for my gas and said “Thank you, ma’am.” She appreciated it. “Okay. You welcome boo boo,” she said. I walked out into the warm air and the decay of Rampart St. with eyes bright and a smile. I filled the car with a tank of gas, and drove under the green canopy toward home, feeling good, feeling thankful for the little things that haven’t changed.

Down St. Charles Avenue, the magnolia buds were just beginning to bloom.

Random Recipe: Bay Scallops and Applewood Bacon

As you might have noticed, we've made a few changes around here. We've adopted a new name, spruced ourselves up a bit, and made some new friends. So stay tuned for more musings and miscellany from our home ports of New Orleans and New York.

They say that with age comes grace, much like a fine vintage. If you ask me, grace is overrated.

A stalwart fleet of five were on the line for the 156th anniversary of SYC's Race to the Coast, first sailed on July 4, 1850.

After spending what only seemed like 156 years (but every bit of 156 degrees!) nearly becalmed in the east end of the lake, the sea breeze filled nicely. But for a delay at Highway 90 in the Rigolets, the remainder of the race was a delight. The pink, full moon over the Mississippi Sound was simply spectacular!

The trimaran, TRIBOLOGY, took line honors while perennial distance-racer TIARE put a shellacking on the faster-rated LUNAMI. The two sailed side-by-side for the entire 68-mile race, rarely separated by more than a few hundred yards. LUNAMI's frustration was somewhat eased by the eventual discovery that TIARE's air-conditioner was not working during the race! TIN MAN, an Antrim 27 rating even with the 48-foot TIARE, wisely threw in the towel before reaching Highway 11 and motored the rest of the way. The final entry, a MacGregor 26X rating 234, gained respect and empathy by, apparently, persevering to complete the race (they had not retired as of about 0200 Sunday).

PATROL II was on station in Biloxi to finish the fleet and dockage was generously provided by Biloxi's Maritime & Seafood Industry Museum at their newly-restored pier. Thanks to PRO Tootie Barnett and his crew for their tireless efforts to support this historic yacht race.

Thank you,

God has truly brought many blessings. I will count some, here.

1) The day before Katrina, my aunt in Florida woke us all up with a phone call and told us we needed to leave New Orleans.

2) We stayed with friends in Baton Rouge for one and half weeks where we had food, lights, A/C, flushing toilets, high speed internet and unlimited long distance. My house group had 20 people; my son (age 23) slept with a high school friend's family just 3 blocks away with only 17 people.

3) Dear people have housed and often fed me and mine since August 27th 2005. I have only paid for hotels by choice.

4) My son had decided to complete his last college term this fall. He is sharing a small house with 3 people he already knew, and enjoys the company of a larger extended friend group in town. And, he has had work to occupy his mind for three months. He will own a BFA from Savannah College of Art and Design in
Sequential Art (hand drawn comic book style art). - I am actually writing to you from his den. I came to have dinner and they let me sleep in the den so I wouldn't have to drive at night.

5) I have a job! -- I have been paid throughout all of this. -- I got outside of the city to my office in Bucktown a week after the storm and retrieved my office PC. It takes longer to do most things from a distance, but, we are getting things done. The little commercial construction company I work for is still functioning. I am very proud to say that MY GUYS did the restoration of one of our dearest landmarks. Cafe du Monde on Decatur Street is open for business this week because our crews were ready and able to work.

6) As of next Thursday October 27th, 2005, one of my best friends is buying a house in Metairie (Airline Park area). She has offered to let me be her tenant and rent the spare bedroom.

7) I wake up everyday. There are more happy moments than sad. There are fabulous caring people in the world. I have made new friendships with some lovely people; I have made stronger friendships with precious
former friends.

If you are in New Orleans before me, I'll see you there in a few weeks. If you live elsewhere, I hope to see your face in town some day in the future.

New saying (from a prayer my Mom said the night before I left Louisiana): Thank you God for lending us beautiful things.

Feel free to pass this along to anyone who needs to read part of a Louisiana Storm Survival story.”

The Carrollton Station Foundation has, to date, sold just under 700 copies of Feeder Bands on the Run! Its officers are ready to cut the first grant checks, pending application approvals by the advisory board.

Taking a break from rebuilding in New Orleans – our visit to Pensacola Beach in Nov. 2006, right after we moved back to our half flooded house in Metairie. Grace Ryan Gootee with her great-grandmother Gloria Mayer and the Pensacola Beach seagulls. Gloria was living in Pensacola at the time since her house was completely flooded and uninhabitable. 7 months later – we’re both happily living at our homes in New Orleans and Metairie. Grace is 18 months.