Morning Walk

Morning Walk by Aviva Enoch

The sound of opening the zip lock bag of liver treats jolts Bentley awake from where he's been lounging on my bed, no doubt spreading white wiry fur on the purple and black Indian bedspread. He bursts into the kitchen. As I lift the leash off its hook, he jumps excitedly, lunges and tries to grab a hold of it, wagging his tail like crazy. Beside the glass doors that lead to the deck, he leaps about three feet in the air, as if to show me exactly where he wants to go. Then, he picks up his toy stuffed snake that's lying on the floor, whips it back and forth around his head, drops it and barks loudly. It's the most exciting thing that has ever happened: Bentley and I are going out on our morning walk!

I command him to sit long enough so that I can attach the harness around his chunky, wiggly body. The only reason he succumbs to this is because of the liver treats that he knows are in my pocket. As soon as the harness clicks, he gets to lick one out of my hand.

Bentley pulls me down the steps. I really have to work to restrain him. It's a good thing he's not a large dog, or I'd be in trouble. He's a pound hound, about knee high with freckles and spots all over like a hunting dog. The name Bentley, which he was given at the pound, reminds me of a dignified British gentleman. It's a funny contrast to his disproportionately long, short-legged body, and Beagle face with the warm, brown eyes.

Before we exit the back gate, I have him sit for me again to receive a second liver treat. This cues him that it is time to calm down, to stop biting and tugging the leash. Once we get outside the gate and on to the little cul-de-sac behind the house, he jaunts proudly—tail and nose held high. Sometimes people we pass remark on his gait and what a happy dog he must be. But now his nose is to the ground, and he's on to something—following an unseen trail. He pauses, emphatically snuffling a certain spot. I tug the leash and say “come on”, but he will not budge until he satisfies his sniffer, then lifts his leg to add his own special scent to this spot. This is a routine that is repeated often throughout our walk.

We pass old lady Helen's house. She has claimed to be on her death bed since 2002. She is tethered to an oxygen tank, and she never leaves her house. She claims that the old west Hillsborough cul-de-sac we live on is her private drive--even though town records clearly show that it is a public street. We have had some terse exchanges over parking more than once. If I were a better person, perhaps I'd still try to visit her, bring her food occasionally, ask her if she needs anything. She is a sick old lady after all—a shut in. But the rude way that she has treated me allows me to shirk being neighborly without guilt.

Helen's aging Chihuahua, Jada, runs out of the off-white water stained house with its awnings over the windows, and begins to bark at us through the chain link fence. Jada is the only dog I know whose bark sounds exactly like “Bow wow wow”. Although I always think of these tiny dogs as “ankle biters”, and actively dislike them, she and Bentley enjoy sniffing each other through the fence.

Jada's little bark is ferocious, but she is wagging her tail. As I wait for Bentley to finish socializing and leave his mark, I once again marvel at the yard full of old Southern kitsch. There are Negro statues of a man carrying a lantern and a boy fishing-- which I'm sure are no longer made. Behind the shrubs lurks the statue of an Indian chief, with his hand over his forehead as if to say, “How!”. A bottle tree with antique blue and green glass bottles glints in the sun. Beside the fence are numerous sparkly yard globes, bowling balls and bird baths. Stone gnomes lounge on the back porch. A rooster stands as a sentry beside it. The porch is decked with Christmas lights that are never taken down.

Helen grew up in this house— her parents were mill workers. This whole little section of town is now known as the historic “mill village”. We live in simple, small, but very sturdy houses—with heart pine floors and bead board ceilings—originally built by the Bellevue Cotton Mill for its workers in the 1920's. Now, although a few of the original families still remain, the neighborhood is gradually being taken over by young families and singletons who shop at Weaver Street Market, the local health food store. We love the funky old houses, and have renovated them—uncovering the old brick hearths, putting in central air and new roofs, or adding a second story under the eaves, for childrens bedrooms. This is the case with the Clayton family home that we now pass. This sweet young family with two children can often be seen outside chatting in the evenings. I love the way the little street comes to life with the sound of kids riding bikes, playing in the yard, or running outside to watch the trains pass when the whistle blows Both of these children are now my piano students. Yes, sometimes my neighborhood walks lead to professional networking—and I have gained four new piano students this way.

As we round the corner, a lone mockingbird perched on the wire above us, gives us a morning concert-- loudly performing his complete repertoire of whistles, and tunes and cackles.

We are cross Nash Street to Margaret Lane, entering the historic district of Hillsborough proper--

which is generally more genteel, with larger, fancier homes than the mill village. There on the left, we pass one of the more elegant houses in the neighborhood--Sarah's stone mansion, with its lovely showplace garden and meditative goldfish pond. A Mexican man is kneeling in the dirt pulling up weeds. Sarah calls to me from the other side of her wrought iron gate with the artistically welded

metal dragonflies on it. Pink, yellow and white roses adorn top of the fence. She greets me and Bentley, and tells me about how her dog was sprayed by a skunk a couple of days ago—and what a disaster it was. Baxter bolted into the house, rolled on the carpet, and rubbed against the couch—mad with the nose-stinging stench. Sarah said the smell still lingers in her dog's fur despite her extraordinary cleaning efforts involving baking powder and Dawn dish-washing liquid. Bentley is tugging on the leash, bored with this conversation, and ready to get going.

In contrast to Sarah's elegant well kept home, is the rental house across the street, where several young guys in their 20's live. They play their music loudly, put out recycling containers full of PBR cans, and hang out in folding chairs and chat in the front yard in the evenings. One evening, as Bentley and I walked by, I chuckled to myself, as I overheard them comparing the relative rigidity of their fishing poles.

We pass the old slave cemetery. It has no headstones, only a simple memorial to the multitudes who sleep below. I once wandered here around midnight, on a misty night-- on a mission to release a mouse I had just caught in a “have a heart” trap. I didn't want to hear it struggle in the trap all night, so I went out with my coat over my nightgown. I felt like a character in a mystery novel, sneaking out to the cemetery at midnight. This morning, in the sunlight, there is a hawk watching, perched atop a high tree. Perhaps my having a heart did not stop the little mouse from meeting his fate after all...

Here comes Bentley's friend-- little black and white Zoe, with the foxy ears, on the retractable leash

held by her middle aged “mom”. Zoe adores Bentley and starts bouncing and wagging whenever she sees him, even though mom tells me she is 13 years old. As the dogs entangle themselves in each others leashes, trying to sniff each others behinds—Zoe's mom tells me she is moving out of the neighborhood. This surprises me. She says she has a new man in her life, and is going to move in with him. She does seem to have more of a sparkle in her eyes, and she is wearing some pretty green earrings. She seems like an unlikely candidate for romance-- in her sixties, rotund and slow, with a limp in her step. “Do you mind if I ask where you met?, I ask her somewhat enviously. “E-harmony”, she tells me—the online dating site. They just got back from a cruise together. She explains that while he didn't meet all of her “would like to haves”, he does fulfill her “must haves”. She says she attends Unity Church while he is a Baptist. They cancel out each others votes. But he is a good person, she assures me, and they are tolerant of each others differences. Hmmm, maybe I'm not so jealous after all, I think to myself-- but I wish her all the best. We disentangle our dogs, and continue on our way.

Coming towards us, climbing up the hill, I see the 30-something, dark-haired man who always looks down—literally and figuratively. His earplugs are in, I'm not sure if he even sees me. He doesn't smile or in any way acknowledge me or Bentley. This is odd, as most people will say “cute dog” or “good morning”, or reach down to pat Bentley on the head.

My neighbor, Dave passes us slowly in his truck—coming home from dropping his young son off at Carolina Friends School. Ryan is taking piano lessons from me, and is making excellent progress. Dave rolls down his window, greets me and Bentley, and complains that Ryan is waking them up every morning by playing Reveille loudly on the piano. But he smiles when he says it, so you can tell he loves it.

We pass the little creek in the culvert by the left side of the road. Bentley begins to sniff around interestedly. If you're lucky, you can sometimes spot baby ground hogs here. Early one morning, I got to share my excitement on seeing with a young mom pushing a stroller. We very quietly watched the baby ground hogs, until Bentley strained towards them, and startled them quickly back into their hole beneath the roots of a creek side tree. Because I was so intent on watching the groundhogs, I hadn't even peeked into the mother's stroller. After the groundhogs disappeared, she proudly took out her new baby to show me, and told me he was only nine days old. I thought that was pretty exciting too, although Bentley was completely oblivious. No groundhog sightings today, although Bentley's sniffer is going full speed. He pauses to leave some nose graffiti. “Bentley was here!”.

Across the street, I see my friend Laura's red brick house. The blinds are drawn, and there are no cars in the driveway. She never seems to be home. Although we are neighbors, I met her for the first time on facebook. A little further down is Karen's little white house. Karen and I have been acquainted since our now college age kids were in elementary school together. Her cat, Cleo, is sitting outside by the old Volvo sedan with the “Obama then and now” bumper sticker. When she sees Bentley, she ambles forward to greet us. Bentley bends his head down, as she rubs against him. It's so funny the way these two seem to really like each other. I think it's partly because Cleo is just so bold and walks right up to us. If she were to run away, Bentley would no doubt want to chase her. On days when Cleo is not outside, Bentley seems to be looking for her, gazing back longingly as we walk by.

Now we see the dog that Bentley doesn't like coming towards us. We stake out our territory on the left side of the road, and I grab Bentley's leash tightly, as the owner of the black lab does the same on the opposite side of the street. Both males snarl and growl at each other, straining to cross, just as a car passes between us. The blond haired owner and I both mutter our apologies and wish each other a nice day anyway.

I am planning my day, as we cut through the parking lot of the large, brick Baptist church and head out to King St. I'm calculating my finances, considering errands I need to run—reminding myself to reschedule Nora's lesson, and to email my mom.  Bentley stops and squats. I turn my head so as not to be rude. I wait for him to finish, knowing the deed isn't done until he kicks some grass in its direction. I found this out the hard way one time when I bent down too soon, and got a face full of grass. I lean down, and expertly scoop the steaming, well-formed turds into my politically correct little white biodegradable bag. I look around for a trash can. Fortunately, the doctor has left his out by the street, even though trash pick up was two days ago. I sometimes feel guilty about dropping these stinky little white bombs in other people's trash cans. One morning, a homeowner apparently witnessed my transgression. I glanced back, as we were a little further down the street, and saw that she had gone out to investigate-- to lift the green lid and peer in, just to make sure it wasn't a real bomb, I suppose.

Now comes one of my favorite parts of the walk. We walk on the sloping purple berry stained sidewalk, as I search above for the juicy ripe mulberries—not the red ones, but the purple ones. I grab hold of a branch and lower it, so I can pluck and pop the sweetness straight into my mouth. This taste reminds me of my childhood, of finding these berries wild in an alley with my best friend as we walked to school.

I hear the plaintive, low call of a mourning dove. In the distance, I spot Bill, walking his German Shepherd up the hill of one of the side streets. Shoot, I missed him. I have a little crush on Bill, a handsome, friendly man about my age. But I don't run in to him very often, and though he always smiles warmly, I'm not sure he remembers my name.

We pass the big, run down historic house that has finally been sold and is soon to be remodeled. I was excited to learn that the new owner is Jim-- someone I had watched bring back to life an almost impossibly derelict mill house that was sagging and falling apart—but had the most enormous oak tree in Hillsborough in its front yard. Now it is a cute little cottage with a handcrafted stained glass window that Jim made himself. I look forward to watching him incrementally transform this bigger place as well. He's not going to “flip” this one, he told me the other day. He and his wife are actually going to live in it. I should ask Jim to advise me on who to call for my drainage issues in the front yard. I bet he would know. But he doesn't seem to be around today.

Suddenly Bentley jerks hard on the leash, practically tearing my arm out of its socket. He barks like mad as he runs, pulling me to the base of a large oak tree. He stands alert and attentive, his tail extended back in a straight line, his nose pointing up, his right fore paw bent slightly in a timeless, hunting dog pose. There is a slight rustling in the leaves above us. Bentley leaps high up the tree trunk, and although I am grasping the leash tightly, he seems to believe he can levitate up the tree. He is baying loudly, a sound that resonates throughout his whole body, as if he has found his voice and is doing exactly what he is meant to be doing in this moment. The whole world needs to hear this Important Announcement. It is the most exciting thing that has ever happened: Bentley has seen a squirrel!!

Intractable

“Viajero would like to meet you”, read the notice from Plenty of Fish. It is not unusual to get these types of messages. They are the equivalent of a “wink” on Match, or a “smile” on Green Singles—and they don't mean very much--only that someone clicking through numerous online profiles, chose to respond “yes”, rather than “no” or “maybe” after seeing your picture. Usually I delete these automatically—especially when they have names like HotHarley, Crappieman, or Python.

Perhaps it was the name, “Viajero”, meaning “traveler” in Spanish that appealed to the globe trotter in me, or perhaps it was because it was early morning, and I'd just awakened from a dream in which a gentleman extended his arm to me and asked “May I have this dance?” Whatever the reason, I clicked through to the profile and checked it out with a little more of an open mind than usual.

There, on my computer screen was a very handsome man—dimples, blue eyes, fit and trim, dark hair graying at the temples, with a warm smile. What really got me were the mountains of Peru in the background—and the photos of a Bolivian city, a llama, and of “Viajero” wearing a crazy, colorful hat posing with children. For the first time in many moons, I felt a little flutter of interest.

Yet, I knew better than to take this “wants to meet you” thing too seriously. I wrote back: “A little bird told me you might want to meet me. Normally when I get these thingies they are from men 15 years older than me or 50 pounds overweight pictured without their shirts. So, imagine my surprise to find these arresting travel photos with the handsome smiling man in the foreground...” Oh, God, had I really written that? I was actually flirting with someone! I thought I had forgotten how... I went on to tell him in a couple of quick sentences about my own recent travels in Transylvania, and asked if he might want to meet and share our travel stories over coffee. “That is, if you really do want to meet me.

Or was it just a random keystroke?”

I hit “send”, rose from my desk and went about my day—not really thinking too much about this. He might or might not answer. I have this philosophy when applying for jobs, as well as looking for love, that if you put out many feelers, —not putting too much stock in “the one right job” or “one true love”, not putting all your eggs in one basket and getting too attached—that it increases your chances.

I was already corresponding half-heartedly with “ZenWalker” and “Phoenix”. Zen Walker was somewhat boring, Phoenix lived too far away. So, I went about my day as usual, only letting my mind wander a little bit, as I walked my dog in the brisk January air, to the handsome, smiling man in the Peruvian mountains.

When I woke up the next morning, his answer awaited me: “No, I did not fat finger the keyboard. I found your profile, ergo, you—interesting. Would you like to meet for coffee at Cuppa Joe or Weaver Street? He obviously had read my profile in some detail, as he'd noticed that I listed these as my favorite hang outs. A good sign. “We could talk by phone first, if'n ya like”.

I revisited his profile, and perused it more closely this time. It sunk in that he was nine years older than me. 64 years old. One year over my stated age limit. Ideally, I would like to find someone within five years of my age—age can make such a difference between your 50's and 60's. The difference between work and retirement, between helping college kids move into a dorm or being a grandparent, between active good health and serious problems. But vitality can vary considerably depending on the individual, and he did look healthy and active in the photos, which were clearly dated from December—just a few weeks ago. I also noticed that he lives in Greensboro. Of course, my preference

was to meet someone in my own little town of Hillsborough, or at least in Durham or Chapel Hill/Carrboro. I don't want to have to make a huge effort to see someone. But Greensboro, and 64 years old were not so far out of the range as to be deal breakers. I decided to go ahead and respond, but to wait a few hours, so as not to appear too eager.

It was the morning of Martin Luther King Day. I got to participate in an inspiring interracial celebration and service at the 1st Baptist Church in Chapel Hill— with spirit filled gospel singing, and rousing speeches by officials with the NAACP. The Unitarian Universalist Choir I am part of sang “Joshua Fit De Battle” with gusto—and I got to belt out some of the high soprano notes. We heard passionate testimony about fighting poverty and injustice, and how there is no turning back. We lifted up our voices as a whole congregation— blacks and whites together, and sang “We shall not be moved” with spirit and conviction. A state legislator spoke about how the Republicans were unfairly trying to rig the voting districts in a completely unbalanced way. He spoke passionately about voting these guys out of office come November.

As I drove home to my afternoon of piano teaching, with these songs, emotions and thoughts reverberating in my mind and heart, I was also internally composing my response to “Viajero”. He had said in his profile, that he was looking for a woman with “a well formed world view”. Good. That resonated with what I had just been immersed in, at the church. But still, I made myself wait to respond. I ate lunch, did some quick household tasks, then devoted myself to listening to my piano students—the theme from Star Wars, The Happy Farmer, “F-A-C-E”-- remember “face the spaces”. ..

Later that evening, when the day was done, as I sipped my celebratory glass of red wine, I finally allowed myself to savor my conversation with the handsome Viajero, and compose my response. I wanted it to be short and snappy, and to show off my “well formed world view.” I suggested a weekend meeting. I said I didn't need to talk on the phone first, as I actually find that more awkward than meeting someone in person for the first time. “Just promise me you're not a Republican, and I'll be fine.” How clever I was! I hadn't said “ax murderer” or “rapist”. Rather, Republican would be my worst fear. I went to sleep eagerly anticipating his reply, and our upcoming weekend meeting, which would soon be finalized with details.

The next morning, I opened his message: “I'm not going to reveal my political convictions here”, it read, “but I will tell you that I would never date anyone who can't listen to other viewpoints and is so intractable. That's a deal breaker for me. Good luck on Plenty of Fish. You'll need it.”

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

The Miracle of Light

I grew up in the Midwest, where being Jewish was a bit of a novelty. One year, a newspaper photographer came to our house—and a picture of our family lighting the Chanukkah candles was featured on the front page of the Lawrence, Kansas Daily Journal world.

In this grainy black and white photo, my father with his bald head and 1970's sideburns— solemnly lights the silver menorah—as he chants the ancient blessing. He is uncharacteristically wearing a dark suit and tie. My mother, sister, brother and I gaze earnestly into the flickering flames. Had the photographer caught us a few minutes later, we would have been acting silly or arguing, but in that moment we were the picture perfect Jewish family observing a ritual passed down from generation to generation for more than two thousand years. We always followed the candle lighting with two songs in Hebrew-- “Maoz Tsur” (or Rock of Ages) and “Mi Yimalel”--which we sang with great gusto. These songs tell of the heroic deeds of our ancestors, in days of old.

In 168 BC, Syrian-Greek soldiers took over the Jewish synagogue, and tried to force the Jewish people to give up their religion of one God, bow down to a statue of Zeus, and to participate in animal sacrifices. Some did it, simply because they were afraid of what would happen to them if they didn't. But a brave band of brothers, known as the Maccabees, led a rebellion against the powerful Greek army—hiding in the hills and using their knowledge of the terrain to attack by surprise, and defeat this much larger foe.

After their victory over the Greeks, when the Jews returned to their Temple, they needed to clean it, not just physically but spiritually—to purify it. They had to rekindle the Eternal Light, which is supposed to be burning always. However they found only a small amount of oil left—barely enough to last a day. According to the story, after lighting the lamp with this tiny bit of oil, an expedition went out to search for more-- travelling by row boat for 8 days and 8 nights. When they got back with more fuel, they were astounded to find that the Eternal light was still burning! Miraculously, that small amount of oil had lasted. This is why we light the menorah, and celebrate Chanukkah for eight nights.

In all my years of lighting the Menorah, first as a child and now as an adult--there is one Chanukkah that stands out in my mind. Some of you will remember the great ice storm of 2002. During this time, my then husband, son and I were without power or water for a week, due to downed tree limbs on power lines. We were fortunate to have a garage/shop adjacent to our house, which was heated with wood. We moved in, and this became our little “cabin in the woods”. We became a pioneer family, making lentil soup and hot chocolate on top of the wood stove, and melting ice to wash up. It was much darker than usual at night, deeply dark, with no street lights or house lights nearby. As we lit our Menorah , the eight small candles gave off a surprisingly significant stream of bright light, illuminating my family's faces, and filling the entire room. As we sang, and played our traditional game of dreydl, I felt connected to Chanukkah, in a way that I had never experienced before. It felt to me as if the flickering light had come alive. It dawned on me how precious light truly is, and how important it was to our ancestors. Before, the miracle of light had been just an old story—not my personal story. As the candles melted down one by one—our one-room-cabin grew gradually dimmer and dimmer, until the last flame extinguished, its tiny plume of smoke rising. All was sadly dark, save for the dim orange glow of the wood stove.

We lit our “hurricane lamp”, which had a wick floating in oil. This lamp, a gift from my ex-mother-in-law, had sat on the shelf for years and had never been used until this ice storm. We didn't even have fuel for it. Some neighbors, who were better prepared for emergencies, gave us a small amount of oil. Amazingly, that small quantity of fuel lasted for the entire week we were without power. It gave out only after the power came back on, when we brought the lamp into our “big house” to use as a centerpiece for our first “welcome back to civilization” dinner! The house, with all the electric lights back on, now seemed enormous and garish.

In the traditional Chanukah blessing, we thank God for performing miracles in this season, in days of old. May the miracle of Light, be truly yours in THIS season today and always...

Blind Date

“A fan from way back wants to meet you”, said the email from my friend Janet. She had copied Joe Accardo on the message. What? I have fans? I couldn't help but feel flattered. Joe used to listen to my radio show, back in the day. And Janet knows him, so he must be all right. “He thinks you're the 'bees knees'” she wrote. I clicked “reply all”. “Do bees have knees? Would hate to disappoint,” I entered.

I heard from Joe the next morning. His email described wonderful memories of hearing me on the radio. There was one day in particular: He was shaping a metal sculpture in his studio. It was early spring and the door was open to sunshine and breeze. He described “the music, the butterflies, the wrens, zipping in and out of my big doors” to the ethereal electronic music of Japanese composer Isao Tomita that I was spinning. He had called to thank me. He had called me a couple of other times at the radio station as well. It was certainly not unusual for us to get calls from listeners—but I thought I perhaps vaguely remembered our conversation about Tomita that day. Joe wrote that he had admired my voice on the radio, and my VOICE—my musical selections. He said that he had always wanted to meet me, and when he came across recent publicity about my playing folk music with Janet, he thought “this is my chance” and asked her to introduce us. He wanted to meet for lunch or coffee.

I felt excited. This was different from Match.com—where someone is looking for a date and checking out various women with certain criteria. No, he wanted to meet ME specifically. Joe sent me a friend request on Facebook. I saw that he was an old hippie, living in the country—a few years older than me. I perused pictures of his interesting metal art—fanciful garden gates and flower sculptures, practical wine racks and fire place tools. He wrote that in addition to being a metal artist, he was a bass player who was just getting back into playing music. I couldn't help myself. I was really looking forward to meeting him, and felt some butterflies myself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As I waited inside the door at Fiesta Grill, I kept glancing around to make sure I hadn't missed him. He burst through the door. I thought for a moment it must be St. Nick-- bushy white eyebrows, round belly, full beard and thick white hair. Although I had seen his photo on Facebook, he was much larger than I had expected. When he shook my hand it was rough and weathered from heat and metal. “I'm a little nervous,” he confessed, as the Latina server led us to a table and brought us fresh, warm tortilla chips and salsa.

He started talking right way. Joe told me he had just met this amazing blues singer-- oddly enough, at Lowe's-- buying lumber from his son. They had joked about the warp of the wood, then introduced themselves. He placed her CD on the table, across from me and told me the story of her life—how she had been almost aborted-- then adopted and abused; was recovering from cancer; and had just moved to Chatham County with her new husband—and how her whole life story could be heard in her soulful blues songs. Her music was so powerful, that this lady had inspired him to pick up his bass again, after it sat idle and untouched for a year. He described a previous blues band he'd been in and how he had organized and drawn people together to play—including the “Boss Brass”-- how he was going to do this again, because her talent was so amazing, even though he'd sworn off late night bars and band personality clashes forever.

Joe told me he was ethnic Italian, from New Jersey and had been destined to become a blue collar worker until acid opened his mind. In college he “cherry picked” the studio art classes he wanted, skipping all the boring hoop jumps that would have led to a degree. He tuned in, dropped out, hopped the bus to North Carolina, and wound up living in a commune and creating art. Said he was getting more of an education in farm fields than he had in the classroom. He told me about sitting on the front steps smoking, during a break at a local reggae concert by Rasta Fire. A woman walked up the stairs, casually placing her hand on his head. “I felt an electric shock run through my whole body” he said. He described their courtship, their marriage, their children. The difficult years—building their own home, their poverty, his late nights playing music, his alcoholism, their estrangement when he came to bed reeking of beer at 4AM. The metal work, the forging, the sweat, the summer heat, his wife's affair. How he engaged in a little investigative work to discover who exactly she was seeing—pretending he knew more than he did in conversation-- until the name of her illicit man was unwittingly revealed. Suddenly, he found himself on moral high ground—a place that was new to him. He became so angry that his Italian New Jersey upbringing took him over and he phoned his wife's lover and threatened first to burn down his house, then to sue him for all he was worth.

I munched my Mexican grilled chicken salad in its fluted shell, as I listened. Every once in awhile I smiled or nodded, or asked a question. The salads at Fiesta had certainly improved in the last few years. The lettuce was much fresher and crisper. “Well”, he said “Say something. Tell me a little about yourself”. I couldn't think of a thing to say.

I told him a little about my piano teaching. He spoke again of how he had admired me on the radio, about how my voice had “soul”. “I'm just a normal person”, I said. “Yeah, I get it, ” he answered—like he had finally figured out that I was just an ordinary middle aged piano teacher and church musician, not some exotic, glamorous music guru who would change his life. All I wanted to do was go home and walk my dog.

I felt like a prisoner, waiting for him to remember to put his debit card on the table, after I had given him cash for my share. Now, he was talking about his redemption through AA. Finally, I pointed out that there were people waiting for a table in this small, crowded, popular lunch spot. He finally got up to pay the bill, but then I had to follow him politely to a friend's table—a blues guitarist from Raleigh-- and hear Joe tell him about the awesome blues singer who had inspired him to pick up his bass again. Just when I thought I had made it to the freedom of the parking lot, he asked me if I'd like to sit with him in his car for a little and listen to his lady blues CD. “I really need to get going”, I said. “I'd like to walk my dog before my piano students come,” but perhaps he could email me the files. I climbed into the shelter of my car and slammed the door behind me. It was such a relief to be alone again.

I have never been happier to get home to my little house-- to safety, to stillness, to my wiggling Beagle and my cats. As soon as I set my purse down on the counter I deleted Joe from my phone and then just for good measure, deleted my last the last “lame duck” date. Then I went online and deleted my free trial account from e-harmony.

Out of Gas

I had just hooked up my new stereo and was listening to my first record album in about 15 years. Joni was singing “I am on a lonely road and I am traveling, traveling, traveling.” and I was singing along with her as I swept the floor. It was a warm, September Saturday. My front door was open to sunshine and breeze, when a knock came on the screen door. What's this? Nobody comes to my house spontaneously. And I hadn't heard a car in the driveway. Standing in the doorway was a shaggy middle-aged man in shabby shorts.

The scruffy stranger pointed to the old beat up blue pick up truck—parked illegally in the middle of the intersection. “Ma'am, we ran out of gas.” “Oh,” I thought, “the old 'I ran out of gas' trick.” A favorite of pan handlers. “Do you have some gas---like for a lawn mower that we could buy from you?” In his hand was a wad of cash and he was offering to pay for it. Well, maybe he really HAD run out of gas... “Sure”, I replied. It was a little weird, but all of those Sundays of listening to Mindy's sermon's about helping our neighbors, helping “the least of these” had influenced me. I wanted to be a Good Samaritan in my heart. Besides, he had offered to pay for the gas, so it must be all right.

“Do you want me to wait over here?” he asked politely, as I started to walk towards the shed, and he stood by the open door of my house—Joni still trilling through my splurgingly expensive new speakers. “You can come with me,” I told him, as I opened the door to the unlocked shed. I found myself apologetically explaining to him why I had three lawn mowers sitting in the dark, dusty shed. “That one doesn't work, and that one works but doesn't do too well when the grass is high. I really only use this one,” I gestured, as I picked up the red plastic gas can—filled with the most expensive gas I had ever purchased. I had bought it back in the day when gas was $4.99 a gallon. It had lasted for two years, and was still about 1/3 full. He took the gas can across the street to the old blue truck and dumped my precious hard-earned money into it. Well, never mind. I was helping a stranger.

His companion returned the empty gas can to me—an older black man with missing teeth and shoes with floppy soles. “Do you want anything for this?”, he asked. I shook my head. It was so obvious that they needed the money more than I did. He thanked me and left. I stashed the empty container back in the shed, closed the door, and went inside—feeling a little foolish, but virtuous at the same time. As Joni sings: “Some get the gravy. Some get the gristle. Some get the marrow bone. Some get nothing, though there's plenty to space.” I had helped a neighbor in need. I could pat myself on the back for that.

It was early one morning, about three weeks later—as I was standing over the kitchen sink, sleepily filling the coffee pot with water, that I glanced out the window and noticed that the shed door was open. “That's odd,” I thought to myself. I'm very careful about always closing that door because I have cats, and I don't want them getting into mischief in there. I walked outside to investigate, peered into the shed—and that's when I saw it—the shockingly empty space where my only working lawn mower had been. How could someone have just come into my yard and taken my lawn mower? Would the new stereo be next? I felt violated, upset and unsafe. I called the police. “My dog did bark last night,” I told them. “And I heard the sound of something being wheeled over gravel. I assumed it was my neighbor pushing his trash up to the street.” Never mind that it was midnight on a Saturday night. My half asleep brain hadn't thought of that. I felt really foolish.

“My lawn mower was stolen out of my shed last night *&^%$#@!” I posted on facebook. “Will your homeowner's insurance cover it?” asked one friend. I had assumed it would. But when I finally got in touch with an insurance agent I was told, “The value is not in excess of your deductible". $250 lawn mower and $1000 deductible do not compute. Right. Well, at least I could call Sears and get some credit by canceling my extended warranty.

“Do you keep some lights on outside at night?”, asked one of my facebook friends. “Thieves don't like the light.” “Was your shed locked?” was another helpful comment--and “Thank goodness they didn't break into your house!” Yes, my thoughts exactly. “Single women need to be smarter and more self protective than the rest of us, to survive well in this world,” advised another.

That night, I lay in bed—trying to sleep, with the porch light blazing outside my window, and a brand new lock on the door of the old shed. I must have just fallen asleep when I was awakened by the crunch of gravel and Bentley's wild barking. I peered out the window and saw car headlights in the driveway. Oh my God, the thieves had returned! Heart pounding, I picked up my phone and called 9-1-1. “Five oh one West King Street. I'm the one who called you this morning about a missing lawn mower.” I told the operator, my voice shaking, “A car just pulled into my driveway. I think people are getting out and walking around. You need to send someone out here right away-- PLEASE! ” I gave the operator my name and phone number—while anxiously peeking out from behind the blinds. There were flashlights in the yard, footsteps by the shed. A deep voice said “There's a lock on here.” Then, I heard the walkie talkies, and it dawned on me that they were not making any effort to be quiet. I suddenly understood what the operator meant when he told me “There should be someone there right now.”I opened the front door, and there, under the bright porch light was a uniformed officer. “Ma'am,” he said, “I think we may have found your lawn mower.”

They had returned to the scene of the crime to collect finger prints to take to their forensic expert. They were gathering evidence. Didn't I have the serial number? No, but I did finally manage to fish out my lawn mower manual from my bulging file marked “warranties and manuals” At least they had the model number and a picture of it now. They promised to return the next day.

The detective patted the handle of my red Sears lawnmower, which was looking none the worse for the wear. “Is this your lawn mower?” Why yes, it was! “It was an old beat up blue pick up truck”, explained the detective the next day, “that broke down last night.” Through what they called, “good police work”, they had brilliantly put two and two together. I had described the “out of gas” incident to the officers on the morning after the theft, just in case there was any connection. “These people have their scam down. They've done this many times”, he explained to me, They knock on doors and ask for gas, and they notice who has lawn mowers in unlocked sheds. “There were three lawn mowers in the back of the truck, and one of them was this one.” I was so surprised and delighted that it had come home to me. I had never expected this. “You are very lucky,” concurred the officer, as we both signed an official form, saying he had left the mower with its rightful owner. After fumbling a bit with the new lock, I wheeled it back to its rightful resting place, beside the now empty red plastic gas can.

Banshee's Story

If any cat has nine lives, it would be Banshee. Banshee's first life, before I met her, landed her at the pound, abandoned and skinny—yet still feisty and full of life. My 13-year-old son and I were totally charmed by this little black kitty with the white spot on her chest who rubbed against the bars of her cage, mewing vigorously in her high-pitched kitten voice, demanding to be noticed. We brought her home, along with her mama— a blue-eyed Siamese we called Koko.

The feisty black kitten and her mellow Siamese mama were a study in contrast from day one. While Koko hid under the bed in an upstairs room, Banshee explored every corner of our home—scampering around the house, pouncing at everything from my 13-year old son's pen, as he worked on his homework, to my husband Greg's bathrobe belt trailing on the floor, to her mama's tail. She especially loved the cat toy we got her—the mouse filled with cat nip that hung from the doorway by an elastic cord. She would pounce on that mouse and bite it, then let go. Released, it bungeed up into the air. Just as fast, she jumped several feet off the ground, grabbing it again in mid-air.

While Koko chose to be a mainly indoor cat, Banshee delighted in the great outdoors. Early one morning, Banshee stalked a deer-—many times her size—who was grazing in our wooded front yard. I saw through the window that little Banshee was lying in wait—flicking her tail, creeping up to the deer. He stared at her not knowing what to make of this spunky little creature. Then I saw her quiver and rush forward again, a little closer. The deer made a snorting sound and pawed the ground. But Banshee did not back down. I worried that she was in danger, —so I quickly ended her hunt by opening the door, clapping my hands and shouting that deer away.

One day, in an urgent effort to get back inside after being let in and out and in and out God- knows-how-many-times, Banshee got her paw stuck in the crack between the metal sheet covering the bottom of the screen door and the door frame. Her little body twisted as she howled in pain. Greg gently extracted her. Her poor front claw dangled uselessly. A piece of her toe was gone, and her leg stuck out at a scarily distorted angle. I rushed her to the vet immediately. After stitches, anti-biotics, pain medicine, a splint, and a big green bandage—Banshee was home again. She who could jump so high was hobbling around helplessly--evoking pity from us instead of amusement. But within days, Banshee was doing much better. Contrary to the vet's initial predictions, she recovered full use of her leg and her paw. Only one very observant guest has ever noticed that she is missing one toe on her left front paw.

Banshee and Koko have now lived with me in three houses—first, with Greg at our suburban family home—then, when our marriage ended—in two very different places. I knew when I moved out that I could never live in a condo with this wild thing—who was used to the woods, used to spending time outside. Banshee definitely influenced my choice of housing—and I was fortunate to find a little cabin in the woods by a pond—where she delighted in stalking birds through the sliding glass door—making strange strangling sounds in the back of her throat. Occasionally the neighbor's chickens would wander our way too—and Banshee sat and watched them from under a chair on the back patio, as they pecked up fallen birdseed. At night, the bullfrogs sang us to sleep with their deep throated “chugs” in combination with the rhythmic higher pitched “preeps” of the smaller frogs. It was an idyllic atmosphere for a newly single woman, her teenage son, and two cats. Yet when the opportunity to own my own house in Hillsborough basically fell into my lap—I knew I had to take it.

This house, where we still live—is on a fairly busy intersection with a stoplight—but there is enough of a yard for my cats to enjoy. Koko spends most of her time indoors, anyway. Banshee sometimes sits at the top of the driveway watching the cars—but she never crosses the busy street.

Not long after we moved here, Banshee took to napping on a high perch—in the roof rack of my SUV. The roof rack on a Nissan X-Terra is fairly sizable and enclosed on the front. It's a good hiding place for a cat, and a good place to watch birds hop on the branches above.

One day, I got in my car as usual and began the daily drive to the preschool, where I was teaching. A car honked at me—and I couldn't figure out who it was. I waved anyway. As I rounded a curve—I heard a thud, and thought a branch had fallen off the top of my car—not an unusual occurrence when you park under trees. I continued on my way---lost in thoughts for my lesson plan of the day—how to set up for the leaf rubbings and fall collages we were doing.

It wasn't until dinner time that evening that I realized Banshee was missing. Banshee has always been religious about showing up for meals and she was growing quite hefty. No matter where she hid out during the day, she was always around when I called her to come in and chow down on her Purina. All of a sudden, it dawned on me—my brain put two and two together: the honking horn, the falling “stick”. Oh my God, I had driven off to work with my cat on top of my car! The sky was beginning to darken, and I was in a panic.

Immediately, I jumped back in the car to retrace my route to work. Where was it exactly that I had heard that thud? I really couldn't remember... I drove down busy Nash street, around the bend and up Dimmocks Mill towards Orange Grove. I drove slowly with my window open, calling “Banshee... Banshee...” checking closely by the side of the road, where I wasn't sure if I'd find her dead or alive. I retraced my route a couple of times. I stopped and pulled over at some random places near my house, walking around and calling. No Banshee. The sun was setting, and I knew my teenage son Noah would be coming home. I called him on my cell phone and explained what had happened--that I'd driven off with Banshee on the roof of my car, and that I was afraid she was lost. “What?!” He exclaimed “How could you? I can't believe you did that!” I told him I was about to give up, come home—plaster the streets with sad “lost cat” posters. “No! That's not good enough!” he exclaimed, “You HAVE to find her!”

Hearing this from my son spurred me to give this one last try. I walked all around in the empty lot by the railroad tracks calling “Banshee! Banshee!” I got back in the car and drove some more. I prayed. I cried. It was really dark now. Reluctantly, I realized I would have to wait til morning to try again. I turned the car towards home.

As I rounded the final curve that goes under the railroad trestle, a dark shape darted in front of my car. Was it Banshee? I pulled over immediately and called where I had seen the speedy silhouette disappear behind a dumpster. Sure enough, there was my mewing black kitty. This seemed like an answer to prayer. I was so relieved and so grateful. I brought Banshee home and we put her on the living room floor and petted her. She had been a tough stray alley cat for a day, and this might have been the story of the rest of her life. Noah and I marveled at the miraculous story of Banshee surviving the fall from the roof rack in traffic, how she landed uninjured, how she darted out in front of my car, announcing her presence at just the right instant—to ME and not to anyone else.

I had a new appreciation for my cat's vigorous presence. I even loved her commanding meow, that made me a constant doorman. I even loved her rubbing against me demanding food and attention—interrupting my work at the computer. I loved watching her wrestle and play with Koko. I loved how she slept on my pillow with her paws draped over my head.

A big change came to our world, when after a couple of years of feeling settled in our Hillsborough home, I decided to invite a dog into our lives. Suddenly, Banshee was no longer the center of the universe. Bentley bounded through the house with his puppy energy, chasing the cats, licking my face, chewing my shoes, craving walks, needing my time and energy. Banshee did not seem afraid of him. Unlike Koko, she did not hide when Bentley nosed her, but stood her ground-- swatting and hissing at him until he backed away.

I noticed that Banshee was spending more and more time outside. I noticed she was becoming less demanding. I thought these changes were positive. I noticed she was losing weight, which I felt was a good thing. When I bought supplies for the new dog, I switched the cats to a higher protein, less processed brand of cat food. I thought her new sleekness was a consequence of this new healthier diet, and of her becoming more independent and spending more time outside. I occasionally found a dead vole or bird—so I assumed that Banshee was supplementing her occasional nibbling of dry food with prey. I was so focused on the new dog, that it took me awhile before I felt the prominence of her backbone; before it dawned on me that her once vigorous mew had weakened.

“We may be looking at a euthanasia cat here,” said the vet. I was totally shocked. He pointed out how the whites of her eyes had a jaundiced yellowish tinge, as did the inside of her ears. Dr. Mac told me that he'd learned in vet school that “a yellow cat is a dead cat. We have to treat this very seriously,” he said. I was in tears, not believing what I was heard. But then he gave me a sliver of hope.

Dr. Mac said that although she was very sick, there is a newer liver disease—not uncommon now, and not always fatal—called “hepatic lipidosis” or fatty liver syndrome (FLS). It can often be reversed if it's caught soon enough and treated aggressively.

Fatty liver syndrome occurs when an overweight cat stops eating—for whatever reason. The liver no longer has a normal diet to break down, and instead tries to process fat cells. Cats' livers are not designed to do this. Cats are meant to be lean hunters, living in the wild. Their livers are not built to break down the fat accumulated by modern domestic felines. So when the liver tries to process fatty cells, it becomes damaged. This can happen if a fat cat stops eating even for a couple of days.

The only way to know for sure if it is this, and not some other more serious ailment (tumor on the liver or shrunken liver) is to undergo first an ultrasound and then a biopsy. I told Dr. Mac, that for budgetary reasons, we would have to skip the expensive diagnostic tests. He supported my reasoning, saying that if these tests reveal a serious life-threatening liver ailment, there would be almost no hope anyway.

The whole progress of Banshee's illness very much fit his description of hepatic lipidosis. Some online research confirmed that there are many reasons for a cat to stop eating and become anorexic—chief among them are a new housemate and a change of food—both of which my previously fat cat Banshee had just been through. The cure for FLS is simple—feeding, feeding, feeding, trying to get the liver to function normally again, trying to get muscle to build up again, to return and cover her bony backbone. Dr. Mac said that if I could get Banshee to eat-- a LOT—if I can get her to gain some weight back, there may be hope. Food and love would be her treatment-- hope, her prognosis.

As soon as we got home from the vet, I opened a can of food out on the porch, and it was almost as if she had understood the doctor's words. Drawn by the scent of liver, she began to eat right away— and although her bites were small and delicate, it was more than I'd seen her eat in a long time. It was as if to tell me she still had life left, as if to tell me she was going to fight grim fate.

Liver is the one food I can't stand—but now for my darling, sick kitty, I found myself stirring up the wet meaty mass with my index finger, turning the food over, making little piles of it that she could more easily bite and pick up. Otherwise, she just licked at the food. Bentley, my dog, was so jealous. He was drawn by the scent of liver too. I fed Banshee out on the porch while the other animals were inside. But they both knew something was going on. Especially Bentley, with his beagle nose. If the window was open, he went right to it, pressing his nose up against the screen, barking demandingly. I learned to close the windows and the doors to keep his craving nose at bay.

I learned that once cat food has been refrigerated for awhile, the scent isn't as strong. I learned to microwave the food for a few seconds, to warm it up to room temperature so that the aroma is released, instead of contracted up inside the cold lumps that aren't nearly as appetizing to Banshee.

When she walked away from her dish, I picked her up and petted her for awhile, and stroked her bony back-- telling her she needed to eat more so she could grow strong again, telling her that every bite made a difference. I told her I knew she could do it. I set her back down in front of the plate—angled just so—so that the mounds I'd formed were right under her nose. I stroked her head as I talked to her. For some reason, this combination of talking, petting, mounding the food, turning the plate, and angling it just right seemed to be working. I was able to get Banshee to eat—slowly, a few bites here and a few bites there, many times a day. Not wolfing it down hungrily like a normal cat, but eating steadily nonetheless. I had my other cat to keep “normal” in perspective—and was struck by how quickly Koko ate in comparison.

It has been almost a week now since that traumatic visit to the vet, since I began Banshee's intensive feeding treatment. I'm happy to report that she is now eating more heartily on her own. Not requiring the mounding and turning of the plate as much, except occasionally, when she's about to walk away and I'm able to get her to stick with it a bit longer. Her meow is getting louder, and she is purring again as she enjoys her Fancy Feast. She's now eating more flavors—turkey and giblets, chicken in gravy. She's eating cold food pulled straight from the fridge. She squirms more when I hold her. The yellowish tinge which the vet pointed out to me seems to be fading.

As I happily watch her eat more heartily, I remember the little black kitten mewing in her cage at the pound. I remember her quick recovery from totally messing up her paw in the broken screen door. I remember her harrowing near death fall from the top of my car—her getting lost, and her miraculous rescue. I have every hope and every reason to believe that Banshee will pull through this too and come out fine. She is now five years old. She still has several more cat lives left to live.

Back to New Orleans

The French Quarter has changed since my last visit, twenty five years ago. But then again, so have I. On my first visit, I was in my twenties, a passionate public radio professional-- here with my boyfriend for a romantic getaway. Now, I am a middle-aged mom with bunions on my feet, here with my 18-year old son to tour Tulane University.

Hurricane Katrina has left her signature everywhere. I had thought that by now, four years after the hurricane, that the recovery would be complete-- at least in the main tourist areas— that everything would be fixed up, whitewashed, repainted. Well, the French Quarter is still the French Quarter, but you can tell it has been through something major. Mildewed stains tell the terrifying story of water rising to second story windows. The old buildings droop, their balconies propped up precariously. They look tired and seedy—yet simultaneously bright with color and life. They have lost their grandeur, yet retain their charm. Noah takes photographs of sagging wrought-iron balconies filled with colorful flower pots and Mardi Gras beads.

We walk down Decatur Street through the French Market by the riverside. The Jackson Brewery is not what it once was. When I was here in the 80's with Daniel, it was new and swank. Now, lots of the stores in this shopping center/eatery are closed. It has a broken, rejected and boarded up look. But we still go in and order fried oysters and sit on the balcony overlooking the broad, brown waters of the Mississippi River.

We stroll down Pirate Alley. The fake pirate culture is still alive and well—and the costumed pirates with their bandanas and gold earrings are still singing raucous sea chanties at the bar.

When I was here around 1985 with Daniel, we had our fortunes told and had our pictures taken in old wild west costumes toned in sepia. Now, as I walk into an antique store with Noah, I swear I feel Daniel looking over my shoulders at the Civil War era guns and the shipwreck coins.

We pass some young street musicians—a girl with the pink overalls, sunglasses, and green curly hair, playing the banjo singing “Arabian Fuck”--about a magic carpet ride of sorts. She's accompanied by a wild clarinet player, suggestively swinging the part of the charmed snake, and with the scrape of spoons on washboard. A few feet away, a long haired poet, with a ferret in his lap sits with his back against the low stone wall. He watches, jots down phrases.

I decide to follow my friend Kristen's advice and just “give in” to New Orleans. I stop worrying about how much money I'm putting on my charge card. Our dinner begins with oysters on the half shell and ends with “death by chocolate.” I have a couple of mixed drinks—a “Louisiana Lemonade” and a strawberry daiquiri. A guy on the street calls to Noah that he should fall down on his knees and thank Jesus that he has such a wonderful mother because his own mother has died.

We enter a souvenir shop called “Jazz Funeral”, where you are “dying to go in”. We handle dried alligator heads and voodoo dolls; finger purple and gold Mardis Gras beads; consider Cajun spices and New Orleans Saints T-shirts; touch soft feathered masks.

In a gallery on Royal Street, I am drawn to a photo of a saxophonist by the river. Lined up diagonally behind him are a bright full moon, and a ferry boat gliding over on the Mississippi towards the musician in the darkness. To me, this picture emanates audio. I can practically hear the deep call of the ferry horn, as well as the plaintive wail of the saxophone. The full moon calls forth it's own sounds-- a cry of longing from deep in the soul.

It's a sensory adventure just walking down Bourbon street,--catching snatches of blues from one club, Dixieland from another, and Trop Rock (as in Wasting away in Margarita-ville) from another-- spying people savoring their dinners in the windows of the oyster bar called Desire. I remember slurping up oysters on the half shell with Daniel, deciding they tasted better with our eyes closed. I remember dancing down this street with my lover, knowing we could be as crazy as we wanted to and no one cared-- enjoying the novelty of strutting openly outside while sloshing a big ass plastic cup full of beer.

Just as it did then, the street boasts numerous strip joints, with signs that say “no cover”-- proffering shows that are “barely legal” or feature “live girl on girl action”. Barely clad babes lounge in doorways luring leering passersby. It's a bit embarrassing to pass these places now with my teenage son. We both look away. When I was here with Daniel, we went to a drag show. The glamorous queens looked believably feminine-- until their male voices shocked us into reality. This is not the sort of place I would take Noah.

I WOULD take him into the jazz club, where Daniel and I sipped Irish coffee and enjoyed the trumpeter who could blow his cheeks out like Louis Armstrong. However this time, when we try to enter, they card Noah and won't let him in because he's under 21. I find this surprising, since the atmosphere inside is tame—with middle aged and older people listening to well-preserved, traditional jazz. You would think it would be an appropriate place for a mom to take her son-- unlike the bar where people get down to I'm a Soul Man. They wave us in without checking ID, and offer both of us drinks.“Don't ask, don't tell,” I smile to Noah , though I stop short of buying him a drink.

We are “blown away” by a couple of amazing brass bands playing for tips out on the street. The first one is all young guys—with a dented tuba, a couple of trombones and trumpets and a bass drum with a high hat on top. They are high energy and tight, yet ragged and dissonant. The sound is blown out raw—like oysters on the half shell with sharp edges. The beat is contagious. It makes you move your feet, makes you swing and sway. A black man of about forty approaches us and raves on and on about how cool these young guys are, this next generation of New Orleans musicians. We smile and nod agreement. He praises their talent to the skies—then tries to sell us the New Orleans Saints cap he's wearing as a souvenir. I tell him I'd rather support the band directly, and put a couple of bucks in their cardboard tip box.

A few blocks away, in front of the shoe store, on the corner of Bourbon and Canal streets is a bigger, fuller, inter-generational brass band. Their traditional repertoire is more familiar. “When the Saints Go Marching In” is pretty much the national anthem around here these days after the miraculous New Orleans Saints super bowl victory. It's preceded by the chant “Who dat? Who dat?”. This chant, which originated in minstrel and vaudeville shows and was taken up by jazz players, has become the slogan of Saints fans. T-shirts and posters boast “Who Dat Nation”.

Street dancers pull pretty young tourists into a dance. The dancers mime jumping rope—double dutch --the one in the middle jumping double time to the music with fancy footwork. A guy with dreadlocks does a clown version, miming getting whipped in the butt with the imaginary jump ropes. Another poses sitting on top of a milk crate holding his cellphone-- still as a statue, with one leg kicked out. A shoe shine rag is a prop, air shining shoes, flicking in jest. Multiple trombones slide to the beat. A legless trumpeter blasts out notes from his wheelchair. Cardboard boxes are passed around repeatedly—the tourist dollars tossed in with smiles. I add my own greenback to the mix, knowing that alone it will not go very far, but hoping all these multiples will at least add up to a water bill payment or a tank of gas for a couple of them.

Noah says thinks it's so cool the way jazz is the true music of the street here—alive and pulsing—being taken up and transformed by young people. I am so pleased with Noah, with his openness to the sights and sounds and smells and tastes: craw fish etouffe, alligator po' boys, bread pudding and pralines.

Yet, the next morning at the Cafe du Monde over beignets and cafe ole, Noah says he doesn't want to wear his hoodie on our college tour even though it's chilly outside, because when the temperature warms up later in the day, he'll have to carry it. “Just tie it around your waist”, I tell him. Noah explains that he could never do that, that it doesn't look cool, that the only people his age who tie their sweatshirts around their waists at his school are hopeless social rejects. I tell him I don't understand why. I always tie my purple Patagonia fleece around my waist when I don't need it, and then it's there when I do. I tell him I like being of the age where you don't have to worry about “cool” anymore, that I find it liberating. “When exactly does that happen?” he asks me. “I really don't know,” I answer. “ I suppose it happens gradually, over time.” Then I add, “ But for some people, it never happens, and they never let go of looking cool.” “That's a little sad,” my son remarks, his lips coated with powdered sugar. I'm guessing that's a bit of back handed approval from my son-- the closest thing to a compliment I can expect at the moment.

Daniel told me he loved me on the antique brass bed where we spent our New Orleans nights. “Come here often?” was a favorite joke. He and I were conducting a long distance relationship between Texas and Kansas. We met as often as we could— specializing in intensly romantic weekends--in Galveston, in Kansas City, in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Before the days of email, we wrote copious, heart-felt letters to each other several times a week, and talked long distance on the phone as often as we could afford to. Yet our different career paths eventually drove us further apart geographically, instead of closer together. Sadly, we parted ways, and both eventually wound up marrying other people.

In the years that followed, I survived some serious storms--including a work conflict that left me no choice but to let go of my beloved career in public radio. And four years ago, right around the time of Hurricane Katrina, I weathered the destruction of my fifteen-year marriage, which scattered its emotional debris everywhere. Every item had to be sorted through and sifted. I had to touch everything I owned, and decide whether to keep it or to throw away. But we are still here, New Orleans and I.

Like this glorious city, I rise from the wreckage of what once was. I'm no longer a young lover , but a middle aged mom, hair streaked with gray, whose feet hurt from all the walking we've done. I may be sagging a bit, yet I'm still dancing and singing, still wearing those Mardi Gras beads. When I look at the pictures of me and my son on our trip-- I don't notice my jowls or my glasses, or that decidedly uncool jacket tied around my waist. Instead, I see a mother whose face is glowing with love. I have full confidence that my son will fill the world with his own amazing music and I can't wait to hear it.