Much of a Good Thing

On the flight to Dallas, I read A Confederacy of Dunces to get myself in the mood for the sensory onslaught that is New Orleans. I had tried to read it ages ago and skipped to the end because I didn't understand Ignatius Reilly's feigned distaste for what did not fall into the categories of proper "geometry and theology." It is a great read, and I kept looking for the green hunting cap and the flannel shirt in the Mardi Gras crowds.

The Brother and I had a memorable Mardi Gras, and we give a shout out to our gracious host and hostess, J.P. and Erin, and another shout out to all of their family. They are the embodiment of southern hospitality, and we all had a grand time.

The ball on Friday night was an affair, and everyone looked grown up and elegant in white tie and formal dress. Erin had previously commented that we would be in "an older crowd, and probably the youngest ones there." Her words were true, but the crowd certainly knew how to have a good time. I had barely met Erin two hours earlier and we were chatting about her experiences in riding with a Mardi Gras Krewe. She loved it, and likened some of the activities to being in a sorority. When I asked her which sorority she had pledged, we discovered that we had both pledged the same one, although at different schools. For a moment, all grown up seriousness was cast aside as we squealed, "Oh my gosh, we're sisters!" Then we put our grown up face back on and sipped our drinks. It was a moment, and you had to be there.

The weekend was packed with parades and people and laughter and generosity, and I drank it all in like it was my first Mardi Gras. It became even more special when I realized that twenty years earlier, nearly to the day, my parents had moved us from New Orleans to Memphis, and my brother and I were crushed that we would miss Mardi Gras. It seemed fitting to go back, and we drove by the houses that we grew up in, remembering features and nuances about each one, and we also visited our church, which had been devastated by Katrina. I am happy to report that the church and parsonage have been rebuilt, but I was not prepared for the desolation of the surrounding neigborhood. Whole neighborhoods are vacant. The windows that are not broken are still grimy from the toxic soup that lapped against them, and in the neighborhood that we visited, it was as high as four feet. Some neigborhoods were as high as fifteen. Rebuilding is slow; I would not use the word "progress" to describe the rebuilding, but it is happening and I believe it is a reflection of the resiliency and the resourcefulness of the people of New Orleans. In retrospect, perhaps we should have visited on Ash Wednesday, after all of the festivities were over, but we went on Lundi Gras, the Monday before Fat Tuesday, and it was a reminder to me to count my blessings, right then and there.

My brother and I headed back on Wednesday, and we stopped in the French Quarter for breakfast and to pick up lunch before heading west. The difference a mere eight hours makes is incredible. It felt like Ash Wednesday, with rain dripping from the eaves of buildings, and people huddled quietly under the covered patio of Cafe du Monde, sipping coffee, perhaps nursing a hangover. The Quarter was quiet, and it felt like it belonged to me and I could have stayed
there all day, just wandering the streets. It was on Ash Wednesday that we drove, in the rain, to our childhood homes, and marveled at how everything looked smaller. Perhaps that is testament to the passing of twenty years: the memories enlarge and make bigger in life, what is actually small in scope and size. I am glad I was there with my brother, because he understood the importance of those unmarked landmarks, their historical significance to us, because the events that took place are our memories, and they shaped part of who we are today.

I am going back next year. I am making The Rev. come with me.