drying out

After camping in Massachusetts and Vermont for the past week, we have come to New York to house sit for an artist friend and to regroup. The leaves have been lovely, as has been camping; however, it has been raining nearly every day for some small or large amount of time. This would be okay, except the truck topper is a bit leaky. Our nice comfy sleeping setup has been a bit on the musty side. No real complaining here though, because we have been more than happy and dry enough.

We keep wondering when our last autumn was and we, honestly, can't remember. So, we peep joyfully at leaves and 'oooh' and 'aaah' at the various vistas on our journey. We breathe the fresh, cold fall air and stop at every farm stand and pumpkin field we pass. The truck is filling with evidence of our journey - apples, pumpkins, garlic, acorns, leaves, pine cones, granite, and more - we love them all and squeal with delight at the things that make us happiest - beaver dams, bears eating berries (in the distance), goats, sheep, a moose, nice people, maple syrup, rivers, streams, mountains, deer, chipmunks, honey, jellies, jams.

Sometimes we get tired on the road - when it is hard to find a place to stop for the night or when we wait too long to eat or we get a flat tire, but those are all minor complications and are eventually resolved.

We are satisfied with our journeying and wonder at how few people we see exploring autumn.

Lots of picture taking, but posting won't happen til later.

Postcards from FLA

Hopkins Prairie in Ocala National Forest

Anastasia Island Dunes

On the run in St. Augustine

From Florida with Love.....

A tisket a tasket a tree in a basket

The giant basket arrived by plane with its creator, William Colebrooke (Scrap Iron), and Rasta sculptor, Henry Wallace, in February of 2005. Magnificent though it was (the largest palm frond basket ever sewn on Andros Island) it had trouble written all over it. Customs allowed it to pass from the Bahamas into Florida - apparently the termite damage in the bottom of the basket went unnoticed due to the large number of other crafts, shells and trinkets crammed inside.

The basket traveled up through Florida in a van and arrived at our house in Gainesville with our shivering island friends. Too large for Grinter Gallery, the venue for exhibit, the basket sat in the building's entry and excited many passers-by because of its size. Countless photos were taken of students, faculty and other visitors standing in or around the enormous work of art.

When the exhibit wrapped up in mid-2005, the basket went to live in Micanopy with the co-curator. There it stayed in a small sun room gathering dust for two years, waiting to be sold or for the van to take it on a journey back to the island. In 2007, the co-curator moved and responsibility was passed back to me, the basket was transported to our garage where spiders and cockroaches immediately took up residence. I contacted Scrap Iron who stated emphatically that he never wanted to see the basket on Andros again; it made it off island and its destiny was now to live a different life.

I attempted to find a collector who would love the unique piece, and when that didn't work, a museum that might exhibit it (permanently) and when that didn't work, I offered it to UF for display in various public areas. In the interim it sat. We moved to New Orleans and it continued sitting.   

We returned to Florida and were again faced with the conundrum, "What do we do with the giant basket  in our garage?" Inspired by the work of Steve Siegel, the artist I exhibited for my thesis in 2003, we decided that the work should return to nature and made plans to move it to Luna Oak Grove (LOG), James' property on the Sante Fe River.

We learned of Scrap Iron's death a few days before our next planned trip to the river and thought it appropriate that the basket be placed in his memory. So, on Monday, we drove to High Springs in the rain, and arrived to sunshine and high humidity. James rolled the basket 1/4 mile down a path to the spot we selected, gathering chiggers all the way (17 in all - he is very itchy today). I trailed behind carrying a young sycamore in a bucket, a machete, a serrated knife, and a shovel. While James cleared the area, I cut a plate-sized hole in the bottom of the basket. Together we dug a hole into the earth, placed the basket over said hole, and planted the sapling that we brought from New Orleans. A little gecko kept me company as I squatted low in the basket filling the hole and tamping down the dirt.

Afterward, we sat on the bank of the river watching the sunset and James asked me if I said any words to Scrap Iron while creating his memorial. I answered yes, but that I'd said them quietly because it was just between me and him. "Did you?" I asked. "I was just thinking of him throughout, but I've been thinking about him a lot lately." With that, the stories began, one after another, we each took turns, laughing, talking, remembering, honoring a person very dear to our hearts.

In Memory of Scrap Iron

William Colebrooke (Scrap Iron) in December 2007


We received the news on Saturday that our friend, William Colebrooke (also known as Scrap Iron or Old Iron), died the week before. Scrap Iron was born in Red Bays and was the last of the Black Seminoles on Andros Island. He had no children and to my knowledge, was never married. After spending his teens and early 20s working as a migrant laborer in the US, he decided to stay on the island full-time where he worked as a sponger and fisherman. When the sponge beds were devastated by a hurricane, Scrap Iron began making baskets - the biggest and strongest on the island. James introduced me to him for the first time in 2002; Scrap Iron was sitting on the side of the road in front of his hut weaving a giant circular mat. "No one buys dem." He told me then. "Dey's too big to take home, so I'm gonna stop makin' dem." Two years later, when we lived on Andros, he was weaving and had created his largest basket ever.



Scrap Iron Weaving in 2004


In 2005, he exhibited this and other baskets at the University of Florida and sold some of the pieces he thought would never find their way off-island. Our last visit with Iron was in 2007, he had aged significantly and lost weight. He must have been in his late 70s at the time. He wasn't weaving any longer and was getting by on fish, conch and iguana - living a quiet life in his hut in the bush of Andros Island.

Henry Wallace and Scrap Iron after returning to Andros from their Florida adventure in 2005

crick in my neck

Was it the hours of sitting in front of a computer for multiple years that has caused this horrific crick in my now crooked neck? Or was it the three-week journey by car to my multiple family homes compounded by sleeping in one, two, three too many beds that were not my own? Or is it simply (or not so simply) the mounted tension that I hold in my shoulders? How much yoga and walking and stretching and massaging and walking and yoga and gardening and standing and breathing and walking will it take to get better? I will overcome! Hopefully, sooner rather than later.

wet balls of sand

While I walked on the beach a few days ago, James sat under his beach umbrella making perfect spheres of sand from about two inches in diameter to maybe 9 inches in diameter. He created them one at a time and placed them in a line leading toward the beach starting with the smallest and making each increasingly larger. My walk was about an hour and I returned while he was finishing the 8th sand ball and moving on to the 9th and final one.

"People keep looking at me." He said as he dug sand from the pit in front of him and packed it onto the growing sphere. He nodded toward two children standing with their hands folded staring in our direction. "What do you think they are looking at?" I laughed because I think his question was sincere. I tried to explain how unusual it might look to others - picture the scene - a tall unshaven man sitting by himself under a bright turquoise beach umbrella decorated with fish and seashells, wearing a giant, battered, bahamian straw hat with a homemade sheriff's badge attached to the front, reflective sunglasses, a long-sleeved shirt, and blue floral swimming trunks - and he just happens to making sand balls. James enjoyed the description but didn't really get what was odd about it. After finishing the last one, he stood, brushed himself off and went for a swim.

As soon as he walked away, one of the staring children, a little boy of about 8, ran up to me and asked,"What are those?" My reply. "Sand balls." He wasn't satisfied. "Why did he make them?" My reply. "Because he wanted to." Another question,"What is going to do with them?" My reply. "Nothing - he just wanted to make them." Obviously the boy wanted more, but there was nothing more I could tell him. "Oh," he said and ran back to his sister.

James returned from his swim and we lowered the umbrella. As we picked it up and turned away, two other boys ran along the beach toward the balls. "I think they want the sand balls." I said to James. He didn't believe me. We walked a few more feet, turned and watched as the boys swooped in, each grabbing one of the balls and running away - carefully balancing them. "They are stealing the sand balls!" James exclaimed. Soon a little girl was running toward the balls. We watched in amazement as each ball was removed by a different child and taken to their respective play areas. Children who weren't quick enough cried out at the inequity. Parents did their best to console and distract the losers. Chaos a la James was created on the beach that afternoon and he is still rejoicing in the memories of it.

fer-men-ta-tion

Just because one small jar of salsa exploded three years ago during one of my food experiments, James has declared himself anti-fermentation. Personally, I find great joy in fermenting foods and have returned to my explorations since moving back to Florida. While living on the Apple Farm in 2006, I discovered a number of food books - Wild Fermentation was one of my favorites. Prior to that, I had not considered the health benefits and the flavor enhancing possibilities available in properly aged foods. Since that time, I've made a variety of concoctions - some that are more easily accepted like sauerkraut and sourdough starters for breads, and some that we in the US would not necessarily expect to ferment - like salsas, chutneys, kvass, and other health tonics.

James will sometimes try my fermentations, but mostly, he leaves them for me to eat. Last night, I served a peach chutney as an accompaniment to the pork, green beans, and sweet potatoes that he created. He was supportive yet not enthusiastic. He put a little chutney on his fork, asking repeatedly what was in it and how long it had fermented. Finally, after it passed the smell test,he ate a little with the pork. Victory came when he chose to chew it up and swallow it without spitting it out. He didn't ask for more and acted a bit tortured throughout, but he did, in fact, eat all five pieces of peach and raisins I put on his plate. Progress!

glass lizard in the grass

You might imagine my surprise upon seeing our old friend the glass lizard today. I was sitting on the front porch drinking coffee and talking with James when I saw a movement across the sidewalk. This little snake-ish lizard or its twin sister or relative has lived in the yard for much longer than I've been in Florida. A few times a year, mostly in the summer months, I'll see a shimmer in the mondo grasses by the mailbox and I'll know that the lizard is still about.

Because it looks like a snake, I always imagine how my mom or grandma Mattingly would react to seeing it - much vocalization and swatting would ensue. If a hoe were present, the lizard would most likely meet its end.

Because of knowing James and spending time outside looking at snakes and other creatures in nature, I find that I've been able to turn my fear of slithering things into respectful curiosity. I'm not saying I want to pick them up and cuddle, but I enjoy looking at them and knowing that they do nice things for the world,like keeping the rodent population down.

Though they look like snakes, they are actually legless lizards . They have little earholes on the outside and, crazily enough,eyelids. They also amble more and slither less. James and I love having them in the yard and look forward to seeing them.

So, we followed this one around the yard, James with his camera, and I with my coffee cup - noticing its various colors and little knicks on its body, possibly from a larger something trying to eat it. The lizard didn't seem bothered by us and was in no hurry to get anywhere. Neither were we. And a pleasant time was had by all.

What's next?

Over the past couple of months, I've been asked with great regularity, "What's next for you two?" Though I should have a pat answer, the question always takes me by surprise. What is next? I wonder. The question makes me feel as if I should know, and truthfully, I don't.

What I am confident of, is that with each move and with each return to Gainesville, we progress. We see a world that is bigger and with more possibilities. We are educated about the people and places of our country and the countries of others. We fill our minds with new information both pleasant and painful; listening to the sounds, smelling the fragrances, tasting the cuisine, breathing the air - all the while creating memories, ties and friendships.

Most likely, what is next will be more of the same. A life adventure that takes form in an unfamiliar place for the purpose of learning, growing and sharing.

"What is now?" is the more relevant question. This one I can answer. Now is time at home with friends and family. Time to enjoy all of the things we love about Florida. Time to take care of things that need taking care of. Time to rest. Time to regroup. Time to plan. Time to cook in our own kitchen and grow our own garden. Time to help. Time to watch movies and to read. Time to take little trips. Time to work, though not too hard. Time to take in all that we have experienced. Time to appreciate each other and those we love and miss while away. Time to sit quietly on the front porch. And, as always, time to tell stories.

bugs, glorious bugs

While investigating the sting on my toe yesterday, I realized that over the past year there has been a great absence of insects in my life. Besides the disgusting cockroach/ palmetto bugs that ran through the streets of New Orleans and often through our home, insects were few and far between.

I don't think I missed the bugs, but lately, I've been noticing them. No-see-ums in Suwannee,FL, mosquitos in Gainesville, dragon, damsel, and fireflies in High Springs, chiggers and horseflies in Henryville, IN, spiders in Salisbury, NC, houseflies in Rock Hill, SC, and, yesterday, bees in Clover, SC.



My mom and I visited her friend, Sally, a beekeeper, who, because of my interest in bees, allowed me to suit up and journey with her to two of her hives. It was thrilling to open the hives and look inside while worker bees bumped us in their efforts to protect the hive. We found small hive beetles and ants in residence with the bees. Sally believes in treating her hives without chemicals, so she sprayed vinegar around the frame to ward off ants (ants aren't dangerous to the bees, but will eat the honey) and squashed beetles because they threaten the health of a hive.

Smoke is said to calm the bees, so because I was with her, Sally smoked the first hive, but decided against smoking the second (she generally doesn't smoke the hives when she visits them alone). The second hive proved to be a lively bunch and after we returned the lid of their home, a few followed us out into the field to make sure we were headed out. My mom, who was not in bee gear, remained calm yet was a little disconcerted when a single worker bee bumped her nose repeatedly in its attempt to get her to vacate the area.

We left with only one small sting between the three of us. Forgetting to grab my tennis shoes, I was wearing Tevas - leaving most of my feet exposed. One unfortunate bee landed on my foot and when I stepped toward the hive, it was squashed under my sandal strap, stinging me lightly in the process. A minor irritation for me, a bigger loss for the bee.

Sally's business, Mama Beehive, is thriving and info can be found on her website at www.mamabeehive.com.

at the pool

While at the pool with my good friend her 7 year old daughter said, "Mom, Heather looks like Evie's Mom, except Evie's Mom is skinny." Made me think twice about my decision to wear a two-piece....

the little things

There is something absolutely wonderful about a man who, when confronted with an unexpected summer downpour, runs inside grabs a bar of soap and a washcloth, runs back outside, strips down to his skivvies, lathers up, and begins singing off-key while enjoying his evening shower.

normal?

After one month, is it possible that I'm starting to feel like myself again? We're home. The mold seems to be under control. (Most) things have found their appropriate place in the house. I'm sleeping through the night. We've found a sense of purpose that allows us the freedom to do the work that is needed without going overboard. Not bad progress for one month.

To say that our experience in the past year changed us would be true, but to describe exactly how... that is the challenge. We can only take a deep breath and acknowledge that we have learned and seen more in one year than we could have imagined. This blog only touched on the reality of our life there.

Still, we did the right thing by moving to New Orleans, just as we have done the right thing by returning to Florida. Now we can move forward with what we each know and what we admit we will never understand.

This blog will change, but I intend to keep writing. Life has way too many stories to stop now.

Krewe of 2

James' mom described us as her 'crew' when we stopped by to deliver a chair today. Aptly put, I thought. In the past month, we've been the moving crew, the repair crew, the cleaning crew, the organization crew.... We are the type of crew that can adapt to the situation at hand.

We are helping to ready their condo in St. Augustine for sale. All in all, we are enjoying the change of pace, the independence, and in still having meaningful work. It has been refreshing to have a goal and, with each day of work, to see our joint progress toward that goal. Plus, there is something to be said for starting and ending a day of hard work at the beach...

NOLA view - our yard

back yard view



Sometimes in looking back at a situation, the reality is more shocking than when it is staring you in the face. Looking through pictures of our yard and our neighborhood, I find that I am actually surprised by how it looks.

front yard view

from my window on the 23rd floor

Though I don't sit in my New Orleans office anymore, life continues to happen there. My previous co-worker now occupies the space that I used to fill. Together we would often look out the window and discuss various activities happening below. Most frequently, police movement would attract our attention. She e-mailed me today to tell me that many people gathered in my office to watch as two body bags were carried from one of the Iberville Project's apartment doors.

Though I'm not there, I see it, and I know the scene exactly. I know the faces of the young men who may have been in each of those bags. I saw them each day as I entered and departed. I know that summer is worse for those who have no school, no job, no hope, nothing to fill their time except their disputes with one another. Anger at their world and at their resulting unhappiness - dealt with using terminal violence.

changing gears

Lately, I've been attempting to change gears while biking. I have this Schwinn that I bought at the Bridge House in New Orleans for $20. I chose it because it sits more upright than my single-speed Specialized which was made for me by a buddy of mine. The roads suck in NOLA contributing to my achy neck and back while biking around. So, I switched my basket and my bell from the Specialized to the Schwinn and used it while tooling around the Crescent City. If nothing else, NOLA is flat, so though the Schwinn had many gear options, I kept it at #2 on the left side and #4 on the right side (roughly equivalent, I'm sure, to my single-speed).

Surprisingly enough, when compared to NOLA, Gainesville has varied elevation, so I've been practicing changing gears. So far, I can't figure it out. My chain has fallen off more than once, I pedal too fast sometimes and with too much resistance other times. I'm told that gears do lots of nice things for you, like making hills easier to scale and giving your knees a break. Also, if you have gears, I've heard that that your bike likes for you to change them.

My response to this gear changing hoop-la is that I don't need to do it. I've given it my best shot and I'm a confirmed single-speeder. My legs adjust to the needs of the road when I bike, just like they do when I walk or jog. No need to fix what isn't broken.

back in FLA

After a year and a few days in New Orleans, James and I have returned to our Florida life. We arrived to a musty, moldy home that required significant cleaning after no air conditioning or heat for one year (yes, we had a tenant - no, he didn't use either - an unfortunate miscommunication which we have accepted and are dealing with). The upside is that the house has never been so thoroughly cleaned and we uncovered many items that will soon be craiglisted. We've spent the past few days visiting wonderful friends in Suwannee and will return to Gainesville to decide what life holds for us next.

Many stories have yet to be told and many photos have gone unshared, so perhaps, the blog will not end right away. It may even take a new direction. For now, I'm enjoying the freedom my brain has from the constant stimulation of NOLA and James is relieved to be released from the endless temptation of the large, deep-fried shrimp/ fish po-boys.

power outage

Yesterday, winds picked up suddenly at dusk, the world became a dust bowl, and finally - 15 minutes of beautiful, much-needed rain. A little later, James and I took a walk. After two weeks of mid-90's, 82 was a welcome temperature and we wanted to enjoy it. About 6 blocks from home on our return, we saw some plants sitting at the curb waiting for trash day. Not able to leave them, I hoisted a large, neglected schefflera onto my hip and we began walking again. Just about that time, we saw a huge flash of light and then the street went dark. A transformer blew out and surged a couple of times in an attempt to regain power. As we made our way down the final blocks home, our neighbors began emerging from their homes, talking back and forth across the street, asking if anyone had called Entergy. Many didn't have phones and couldn't call, one woman, new to the neighborhood, had one of those minute phones, but she ran out of minutes earlier that day. The hairdresser had a phone but it wasn't working. Others had no phone at all. The buzz of conversation continued as we walked along. Even with the chatter in the street, we were amazed at how quiet the neighborhood seemed. No airconditioners buzzing, no radios, no sizzling electric lines. Someone said that it sounded like this after Katrina, but was darker, because this time, there were only a few blocks without power. We went inside, lit candles, and went about our business, our neighbors, however, stayed outside until another hour or so until the Entergy truck arrived and the power was restored.

'the smaller the group, the bigger the party'

At least 3 nights a week and always on Sunday evening, our corner neighbor, the hairdresser, plays this song. Sometimes she replays it multiple times in a row, sometimes she plays the entire mix cd, so that on any given week night, we might hear this tune 3-7 times. After having lived in the Irish Channel for one year, I estimate that we have heard this Mel Waiters song an absolute minimum of 468 times. I know its thumping base by heart. Interestingly, I still don't know the words.

Often there are loud conversations that take place over the music. Large, styrofoam Daiquiri 'to go' cups are generally present. Sometimes a grill is wheeled to the curb and some food is prepared. On occasion, a dance party ensues. Once, bag-head participated in a dance off with the hairdresser and the pink-shirt crack addict - somehow pink-shirt acquired an American flag and incorporated that into the dance routine. You never can tell what will happen in our neck of the hood.

It's all about the food

One of the many reasons that I love New Orleans is because the people who live here love to eat. And they eat well. Thanksgiving isn't Thanksgiving unless gumbo, mirlitons, and bourbon are present. Spring isn't spring without crawfish boils and Abita Beer. Every season has its food and every food has its cocktail. The city celebrates its love for food with fabulous restaurants, food festivals, museums devoted to food and drink, and many, many books on the subject.
One Book One New Orleans promotes literacy by selecting a city wide read each fall. This year they are also promoting this love affair with food in their book selection, Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table, by Sara Roahen.
Another recent release of interest to me is New Orleans Cuisine: Fourteen Signature Dishes and Their Histories (University Press of Mississippi, 2009).

too hot for po-boys

Can it be possible that it is actually so hot that even a po-boy from the Family Grocery at Louisiana and Daneel isn't tempting? Mid-90's every single day with no hope for rain. Nature boy James refuses to go outside during the daylight hours. This morning I left the house at 7:00am in a feeble attempt to beat the sun. I arrived at work by 7:30am, drenched in sweat and went straight for the water cooler. Aaahh summer in the hot, humid south.

The upside is that I love the genteel hats, delicate sundresses and the increased presence of linen. There is something divine about a place where, when others are wilting, a New Orleanian dresses up, smiles, drops a few more ice cubes in their cocktail, and sees the heat as a perfect excuse to sit on the front porch chatting the day away.

comments made in passing

People talk to me. Pretty much any time I am alone in public. Let me modify slightly. Men talk to me when I walk or bike by - sometimes kids do too, but definitely the men do. It has happened for as long as I can remember. My assumption was that this happens to everyone. James is skeptical when I share my encounters, because neither men nor women talk to him in this way, so sometimes, he follows at a distance to see if hears anything. Usually, he doesn't.

"I sure do like looking at your legs." "MMMmmmm... I bet you taste better than this pizza." "Hola, mama, mi amor. Beseme porfavor." "Oh, I see you walkin by and not lookin at me." My question is, What exactly is being accomplished? I can't consider what is being said a compliment and it isn't going to lead to any sort of further positive interaction. So, what's the point?

For the past few weeks, as I walk to the corner of Canal and St. Charles to wait for the street car, comments have been increasing in their aggressiveness and graphic nature. A few days ago, I saw a man grab a woman's rear end and squeeze hard as she passed by. She just kept walking without missing a step. Shocked and concerned, I turned and chose a different route to the car - no one is grabbing my ass without consent.

The increased talking in my direction troubles me. Can't women walk down the street without being verbally assaulted? Don't we have the right to go to and from wherever freely? Today, after two weeks of riding the car, I took my bike to work. Simply to avoid the comments. Kind of sucks if you ask me.

counting down

8 more days at Tulane. 12 more days in New Orleans. Can't believe we're really leaving....

riding the cah

I've been commuting by street-car, aka 'riding the cah', this week. It's slow. An hour to get home yesterday during rush hour and and an hour to get in today simply because it didn't show up for 25 minutes (they are supposed to run every 10 minutes during busy times). My best time for house door to office door has been 40 minutes - I have a 3/4 mile walk from each stop. I only live 3 miles from my office, so I could do the entire walk in 45 minutes to an hour depending on pace.

Why ride the cah? Because it is New Orleans and I get to feel the cool breeze and get some good people watching in. Yesterday, about half-way through my journey, a man wearing bottle glasses and overalls began tapping his foot, then patting his knee, then humming, before long he was singing "Wade in the Water," and suddenly he was up and dancing back and forth down the aisle of the car, kicking, twisting and waving his arms. The driver/ captain started yelling at him to 'Get off the cah!' - so, at the next stop, dancing man shimmied his way up the aisle, down the steps, and out into the grass. There he planted himself, singing about the water and looking off in the direction of his next ride...

deep breathing and focus

When anxious about life, I find comfort in wisdom passed on from others. Today, for multiple reasons, I am anxious about life.

"Life's challenges are not supposed to paralyze you, they're supposed to help you discover who you are." -Bernice Johnson Reagon

"I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it." - Rosalia de Castro

"Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over." - F. Scott Fitzgerald

So, I read what those before me have written, and I know that their words are true to my life as well. As I breathe in and out while contemplating our present, which is quickly becoming our history, James and I grab onto one another and plunge our best selves forward.

22 days and counting - before 'Operation Po-boy' comes to a close and we return to FLA to regroup and plan the next

Does he have some color?

A few minutes after the preacher departed this morning, I gathered my things and headed off to work. I made it only to the corner before I was stopped in a mini traffic jam caused by a school bus blocking the rode. In the two seconds that I paused, a short man crossed the street in front of me and walked immediately to my window. "Do you know what is going on?" He asked through my window. I thought he was asking me why there was a back-up. I said that I didn't know. He motioned for me to roll my window down. Not really trusting him, I rolled it down about an inch and quickly looked for a way that I could drive out quickly if needed. "Do you know what is going on?" He asked again. "No." He smiled. "Do you have some time? I think I like you and I want your number." "Thank you, but I am with someone." "Does he have some color?" Before I could reply, he asked again, "Does he have some color?" I smiled and said,"He's kind of pink." With that the man threw his head back laughing and walked on.

preacher on a bicycle

James and I were sitting on the front porch enjoying the cool temps and coffee when a man on a kicked back bicycle scooted up using his feet to pull him rather than the pedals. He stopped in front of our stoop and told us that his butt was tired from riding and asked if we were having a nice morning. We said that we were. He proceeded to tell us that he knew our neighbor and then laying his bike on its side stepped off and walked over to lean on the fence. He began, 'I can see through the muddy waters of a person into the clarity that lies beyond.' We just looked on. Before long he was pacing back and forth in front of our gate, preaching. Throwing his hands in the air. 'I am annointed so I do not get disappointed.' Then in James Brown fashion 'huuh!','mmmm', 'God is good to me.' 'You know he is.' Suddenly he stopped, smiled at us with a mouth not quite full of crooked teeth and said, 'Did I do good?' We nodded and smiled. He replied,'I said, did I do good?' James said 'Yes, you did good.' 'That's right!' The man said. Then picking up his bike, he swung his leg over and rested on the seat and looked back at me.'Am I good looking?' he asked. 'Yes, you are a handsome man.' I replied, 'That is nice to hear. And you are a pretty lady. You see, I recognize the beauty that God has placed on this earth. And you, man, you are (buff or gruff or something like it).' James just laughed and said thanks. With that, the man rode off in the direction from which he had come 10 minutes earlier.

bag-head

Bag-head lives in various houses and street corners in our neighborhood. Though we've asked numerous neighbors, none seem to know her name and everyone tries to stand clear when she walks by. So, to us, she is bag-head. We've often seen her wearing white plastic grocery bags tied strategically on either side of her head creating a hat/ windsock as she walks along. She wanders up and down our street at various times of day and night talking, sometimes jibberish, sometimes sentences. 'did-IT' is a common phrase for her, said quickly and in repetition. We can also always decipher the words 'white people,' in her sentences if we are in close proximity.

James and I have taken particular interest in her. We've watched her since we've moved in and have found that she generally doesn't want to engage with anyone directly, but she also doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't move away from us if she is walking and we cross paths, but she doesn't often make eye contact either. It is on a rare occasion that we interact with her directly and I'm always amazed at how clear her eyes are and how focused she seems.

Early in our lives here, James was standing at the front window one morning, no shirt on, cup of coffee in hand, looking out at the world. Bag-head wandered by never looking directly at him as she passed the window, she said loudly, 'Naked white man looking at me,' and continued on her journey.

She has a name and a history, but I wonder if anyone knows it. I wonder if we'll have the opportunity to learn more about her. I hope so.

'any gunfire you hear is most likely not the real thing'

This was the statement made to ease increasing neighborhood tension caused by the sounds of constant gunfire on Esplanade and Claiborne yesterday. The reason for the gunfire? Apparently, Sylvester Stallone is currently making a movie, The Expendables, in NOLA. Full-day staged shootouts are set to occur through the weekend. The filming was primarily taking place in an Elmwood film studio on the outskirts of NOLA, but I guess, they needed some street footage and came into the city.

In a town where gunfire is a reality and post-traumatic stress disorder (ptsd) is a common ailment, it might have been nice to warn already anxious residents prior to playing a noisy game of cops and robbers.


Way to go, Sly.

From my window

Today, from my window, I see a lot less activity than normal in the projects. The Times-Picayune tells me that people are applying for Section 8 housing vouchers to get out.

There was another murder on Friday at 4:30pm - a 16-year old boy. Residents of the Iberville projects are upset and trying to move out. The fourth murder in their housing development since January 1st and one of at least 10 shootings this year.

How does this make me feel? sad and tired. Completely, absolutely, overwhelmingly - sad and tired.
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Teenager killed in Iberville complex shooting
Saturday, May 23, 2009 By Leslie Williams

A teenager was shot dead Friday about 4:30 p.m. in the Iberville public housing complex, said New Orleans police, who investigated two shootings within about an hour of each other.(Full story)
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No official plan' yet, but change rumbles through Iberville housing complex by Katy Reckdahl, The Times-Picayune
Monday May 25, 2009


Housing Authority of New Orleans officials say Mayor Ray Nagin spoke prematurely when he announced last week a new "mixed-income development" at Iberville. But while no plans have crossed the drawing board, City Hall, HANO and public housing tenant leaders agree that the aging complex across from the French Quarter will be redeveloped soon.

There is "no official plan," said mayoral policy director Maggie Merrill. But Nagin saw his State of the City address as "a chance to make an announcement to people, especially those at the Iberville, that we're ready to move forward and make changes," she said. Read more..

Hey, that's my shirt!

A few weeks ago, James and I played hooky for a day. Sort of. We didn't go to our places of employment. Instead we cleaned our closets of clothes, office supplies, and toiletries we didn't need, and went on a field trip to three of NOLA's homeless shelters. The New Orleans Mission, a shelter for men, Lindy's Place, a shelter for women over the age of 21, and Liberty House, for women ages 15-24 who are homeless and pregnant.

Each day since, as we drive past the NOLA Mission on our way home, James has been searching anxiously for his clothing to appear on one of the men hanging out around the building or under the I10 on-ramp. I wasn't betting that he'd see anyone - and then, last week, we were headed through the stoplight when James squealed out in excitement "Hey, that's my shirt!" I was a little shocked and surprised and not quite sure what he was talking about. I also wasn't sure if he was trying to tell the guy it was his shirt and he wanted it back or if he was just sharing the news with me.



As we circled the block, heading toward the on-ramp, the guy crossed the parking lot walking in our direction. I grabbed our camera as we slowly drove by, James stuck his head out of the window and said, "Nice shirt, man." The man smiled, said "thank you," and stopped walking to admire his shirt for for a bit while also rocking back and forth. At the stop light, James snapped this photo in the truck's review mirror as evidence. "It looks good on him." He said with a satisfied tone as we drove away,"It never quite suited me, but on him - it's perfect."

jazz fest memories

Thanks to Kathy for providing us with our only photos during Jazz Fest! James has a few photos of performances, but no documentation of our existence at the fest. I'll share the other photos soon.

Mr. McDonald

Mr. McDonald is counting down. 8 school days remaining. Not a lot of hope for reaching the kids academically in the last 8 days of parties and field trips and 8th grade graduation and general summer fever. Essentially, he has completed his mission. It is nice to see him smiling again and looking at the world with hopeful eyes.

In these last weeks, he has begun to give treats to his students. Coming from a man who has been taking candy, gum, pencils, wrappers, rubber-bands, etc. from the kids all year and offering nothing in exchange, the gift of a cookie or a pickle is worth more than gold.

He was surprised yesterday, when upon handing out the last of the pickles, one of his students begged to drink the juice from the pickle jar. Mr. McDonald was pretty grossed out by this, but allowed the student a little if he poured it into a cup. The student happily got two cups and poured some for himself and some for another student. They then gulped it down with great satisfaction.

While on our walk last night, James asked with an almost worried tone in his voice if I thought the pickle juice would make the kids sick. I keep smiling whenever I think about his question. Partially because he's finally learning what it is like to be a kid growing up in the south and partially because he has learned what it means to be teacher of children.

New NYC Health Chief

Big news in my department today. Tom Farley, the department chair (Community Health Sciences), and my next-door office neighbor, has been appointed the NYC Health Chief replacing Thomas Friedan. The office is abuzz with activity as we await his return and more details.
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NYC gets new health chief amid swine flu outbreak

By SARA KUGLER | Associated Press Writer
May 18, 2009

NEW YORK - As New York City grieved its first swine flu death and looked ahead to more likely school closings related to the virus, Mayor Michael Bloomberg introduced the new commissioner who will take over the health department next month.

Dr. Thomas Farley is set to succeed Dr. Thomas Frieden, who is leaving to head the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Farley, a pediatrician and epidemiologist with years of experience in infectious diseases, said at a City Hall news conference that he is ready for "the best job in the field of public health."

Bloomberg noted that the appointment takes on great importance as the city continues to deal with swine flu. An assistant principal at a Queens school died of the virus Sunday evening, and several schools have been closed since swine flu was first detected at a private school last month.

Farley comes to New York from the Tulane School of Public Health and Tropical Medicine in New Orleans. He has served as a senior adviser to Frieden since 2007.

He also worked for the CDC and the Louisiana Office of Public Health. In Louisiana, he oversaw efforts to control tuberculosis, HIV and sexually transmitted diseases.

The New Jersey native said his overall goal at the health department is to "continue to make advances against the leading causes of death for New Yorkers today, such as smoking and obesity."

Under Frieden, New York City's health department has aggressively used public health policy to influence residents' lifestyles. The city banned smoking in bars and restaurants, outlawed trans-fats in restaurant food, and forced chain restaurants to post calorie information on their menus.

Farley declined to discuss specific policies he would like to implement. He starts the job June 8.

Fire on the Mississippi - view from my window

I've been watching it off and on since I arrived, trying to determine what exactly was burning and if the fire was getting bigger. From my window, it was hard to tell whether the fire was from a boat in the water or from the shore. Now that the smoke is beginning to clear, it is easier to recognize. There is currently a huge vessel on the Mississippi pouring water onto the fire and smaller boats zipping back and forth around it.


From the Times Picayune:

New Orleans firefighters are on the scene of a two-alarm fire at the site of the old Piety Street Wharf between Piety and Chartres streets. The condemned wharf, owned by the Port of New Orleans, consisted only of a foundation and was littered with debris, including lots of old wood, said Cpl. Mike St. Cyr of the Harbor Police.

The wharf is among several decrepit buildings that are included in massive riverfront development plan to increase pedestrian access to the waterfront. Built in 1916, the wharf had been out of use for 30 years and caught fire after Hurricane Katrina, according to broadcast reports.

The fire call came in at 5:34 a.m., according to a New Orleans Fire Department spokesman. By 7:45 a.m. the fire was under control, St. Cyr said. There are no reported injuries.

The cause of the fire is under investigation.

The first phase of the planned riverfront development, which was scheduled to begin before year's end, is designed to transform the area between Esplanade Avenue and Mazant Street.

Now a gritty industrial zone marred by burned-out cargo docks, the area is set to become a lush green space replete with bike paths, pavilions, a pier and even electricity-generating windmills. If everything goes according to plan, the park will open in 2011.

In the plan, the Piety Street wharf is set to be replaced with a pavilion with a musical theme, with plaques embedded in the ground giving facts about famous New Orleans musicians.

What East-Side Eye Learned in New Orleans

James' sister hasn't been to NOLA since Jazz Fest 2004, the year that the fest was canceled for one day due to rain. I love the pieces of New Orleans that each person takes home with them. East-side Eye.

annual visit

Conversation with my doctor today.
Dr. "So, what brought you here today?"
Me "My annual PAP smear and gynecological appointment"
Dr. "We don't do that here."
Me - no words - mouth falls open.
Dr. "Did you think we did those here?"
Me "Yes, obviously."
Dr. "What gave you that impression?"
Me "When I had my initial visit with you in October, you asked for the date of my last OB-GYN appt - I said May 08, so you told me we should make an appointment for May 09."
Dr. "Funny. No, we don't do those here. Is there anything wrong with you now?"
Me "No. Nothing."
Dr. - no words - flipping casually through my chart.
Me "Is there a reason that you would need to check on me in May if it weren't for an annual appointment?"
Dr. "I don't see any need. You appear to be very healthy."
Me "Maybe you could recommend an OB-GYN."
Dr. "Yes, of course. I guess you shouldn't pay for this appointment."
Me "I don't think so."

Stand by me

This video features two of our favorite New Orleans artist, Grandpa Elliott and Washboard Chaz. It was the first in a series of 'songs around the world' featured on the Playing for Change website. Enjoy.

Memories of my melancholy hoes

The Keller Library in the Broadmoor neighborhood is a one room modular unit that opened just recently in the lawn of the previous building which is still awaiting restoration post-Katrina. James likes to go to the 'trailer' library, because the DVD selection is good and everything is new. All the books are new, too. About a month ago, I was excited to find, 'Memories of my Melancholy Whores', a recent book by one of my favorite authors, Gabriel Garcia-Marquez.

I checked it out, read it, and sent it back with James on one of his many trips. Last week, I received the notice that the book didn't find its way back to the shelf. Today, I visited the Main Branch to get to the bottom of the issue.

I have to admit, I felt a little embarrassed when the librarian called the Keller Branch to ask if the book was on the shelf and read the title. The first time was no problem, but apparently, the person on the other end could not understand. So the Main Branch librarian read it again louder. 'Memories of my melancholy whores. Whores. Not hose! Whores!' Then she spelled it - like in a spelling bee. 'Whores. W-H-O-R-E-S. WHORES!' I have never heard nor used the word so many times in repetition and with such volume.

She hung up the phone shaking her head and asked me "Why would anyone have memories of a hose? That doesn't make any sense." She must not realize that a huge majority of NOLA folks don't pronounce the r's in certain words. Ward is wahd. Store is stowe. The plural of stores is stowes. So, of course, the plural of whore is hoes.

Whores or hoes - whichever the case. The book is still MIA - lost within the New Orleans library system. I'm sure there will be more story to follow.

make it right

The Times Picayune ran the article that was being researched during our visit to the Make it Right houses two weeks ago. Fay Holmes was in our group. The article is interesting as are the comments that follow it.



Residents learn to cope as tourists, TV crews pour in to see Brad Pitt's 'Make It Right' neighborhood

Before Aug. 29, 2005, it's unlikely a tour bus ever rolled down the 1700 block of Tennessee Street.

Home to neither alligator swamps nor neon lights, that part of the Lower 9th Ward was not what visitors wanted see when they toured the Crescent City.

What a difference a catastrophic levee failure makes.

Hurricane Katrina exacted some of its harshest punishment on the Lower 9th Ward, turning the neighborhood into international buzzword and desolate spectacle. Countless houses were knocked off their foundations, hundreds of families displaced, and the neighborhood below the Industrial Canal became an unlikely tourist attraction. Read more.

Jazz fest co-pilot

In order to avoid paying $50 per day to attend Jazz Fest, James and I volunteered. For 2 hours on Saturday and 3 hours on Sunday, I was co-pilot in the musicians shuttle at the fairgrounds. My main responsibility was to yell out of the window to tell the passers-by to move out of the way. Of course, my version was the less intimidating, "Excuse me, sir or ma'am, we have musicians, could you please move so they can make it to the stage?"

I helped to safely transport Harry Shearer and Judith Owen (they were disgusted with the white PT Cruiser mini-van - too many blind spots - and, of course, it is a rental, who would ever buy such a travesty?), Sonny Landreth (he was rather pleased with the performance but concerned about the sound quality), Chubby Carrier and the Bayou Swamp Band (very difficult to round up this group of 7 who were enjoying food back stage hoping to meet Earth, Wind & Fire), multiple Mardis Gras indians, their elaborate costumes,and a souped up baby stroller, and a high school gospel group (two of which were making out in the back of the shuttle during the entire ride, while others vocalized displeasure with the situation).

I saw Etta James, and heard her sing 'At Last,' but she arrived in a limo and didn't need our services. Earth, Wind and Fire were also nearby, but they went from the stage directly to their tour bus to avoid the droves of ladies loitering near the exit.

Next weekend James and I will be assigned as ushers in the gospel tent during Aaron Neville's performance. Can't wait to report on that.

spring break 2009

Our good friend, Diane, visited us to help James celebrate his spring break last week. So many highlights - lots of great food, happy chatting, bead collecting and exploring.

Katrina re-visited

On Friday, I was responsible for taking a group of 40 MD's, PhD's and public health students from colleges across the country on a visit to some of New Orleans 'recovery' areas. I struggled with the idea of renting a motor coach, loading it with people, and doing a show and tell of all of the devastation that still exists post-Katrina.

We visited St. Bernard Project located below the Lower 9th Ward in St. Bernard Parish. Some of the lowest ground in the area. People who lived here were 75% home owners making an average income of $38,000 per year. They worked hard and lived comfortably. Katrina wiped out the area. The people here have lost everything and are working to rebuild their lives, the St. Bernard Project is working to help them. Liz McCartney, co-founder of the project, was named the 2008 CNN Hero of the Year because of their efforts. She spoke to our group about her work and about the continued struggle to help rebuild.

The Lower 9th Ward Clinic was another part of our visit and the area where the Make it Right project is hard at work.

Roland was our driver for the day - he has lived in NOLA all of his life. He has survived Hurricane Betsy and Katrina, both times losing his home to the flood. He didn't know he was going to tell his story as we drove along, but once I started asking him questions and realized he was a survivor and that he wanted to talk about it, everything fell into place. He drove us slowly along abandoned streets of St. Bernard and the Lower 9th Ward, pointing out areas where his friends used to live and his children used to play. He told us where the levees were breached and how high the water rose and for how long. He showed us where the church was and where it isn't any longer. He talked about the temporary clinics and the people who came to help and, when asked why he came back he answered, "New Orleans is my home. When I wasn't here, I wasn't anywhere. I had to come back and I'll keep coming back."

In the end, it is necessary and important to talk about what is happening and not happening in New Orleans. I know this, but it doesn't make looking at it or talking about it any easier. The reality is that people's lives were changed forever and they are trying hard to come home - to what they know, to their families, to a place that makes sense to them.

Catching monkeys

Who knew that when we attended the Muses parade that our new pal, Curious George, would fly from the hands of a queen on the float and fall into James' loving arms. George arrived beadless and with some extra nostrils drawn in. Since that time, he has caught some beads of his own, watched some parade action, taken a bike ride or two and been photographed countless times. He lives in a Mardi Gras shrine area that is steadily expanding on our kitchen table. George keeps us focused on the big picture. When life gets tough - you have to take time to stop and catch a monkey.

the not-so-scary monster

Yesterday, James and I were sitting in the sunny spot on the concrete slab in our backyard when we heard a chorus of childlike yells coming from the direction of our neighbor's house. We sometimes hear our little friend, Armani, making similar sounds (semi-dramatic, but not indications of danger)when life doesn't go his way, so we weren't concerned. A half a minute later we hear their dad, Floyd, talking to them, 'That's what happens when you leave the gate open - sometimes animals come in.'

I walked closer to investigate and saw my three young neighbors huddled together on their front stoop and a pretty little smiling australian shepherd below them - tail wagging. Their dad tried to round up the shepherd, but the dog really liked the yard and was doing everything in its power to stay with its new family.

James and I offered to help, so he went around the fence and I went to get some chicken from the fridge. Floyd managed to get a leash around the dog and politely tugged - the dog would move a foot or two before sitting down again. The chicken did the trick. We were able to lure the dog into the street and Floyd closed the gate. Of course, I made a new friend - the dog now sat beside me, rubbed up against my leg, and asked for more. My little neighbors did not want the dog anywhere near me. Still, I pet the dog and talked to it - James told them it was a nice dog and that not all dogs were mean. We walked around the block and the dog followed us, leaving the boys in peace.

They don't like animals. Their response to most living creatures is to search and destroy. I guess this could be typical for small rough and tumble boys, but it seems extreme from my perspective. They want to squash caterpillars, pull crickets apart, and they throw rocks at any bird who flies by. This all disturbs me. So, I pick up caterpillars and talk about the pretty birds and pet dogs in hopes that it will start to seem normal to love all types of creatures - no matter how different and frightening they may seem.

NoLA Rising

NoLA Rising is a non-profit that promotes local artists who create art work relating to the recovery of New Orleans. Later this month, during the first weekend of Jazz Fest, they are having an art sale/fundraiser for a new mural project that they are hoping to get off the ground.

Proctoring the LEAP

Mr. McDonald is proctoring the final day of the Louisiana Education Assessment Program (LEAP) test for his 6th graders.

Translation

James is spending his birthday babysitting 6th graders who are going stir-crazy after being removed from their daily routine to be placed in one classroom to take a standardized test in three-hour increments each day since last Wednesday.

what i saw today

I drove about four miles away from my office today - into the neighborhood called 'Desire'- to visit George Washington Carver High School. First Book did another book distribution and I was there to take photos. I mapquested the school, having never been there before and got directions to 3059 Higgins Blvd. When I turned onto Higgins, I knew immediately that the school was not open, nor were the houses surrounding it inhabitable.

Though I know what it is like here - I live here now. I'm still shocked. My stomach always turns. My heart yearns for something different. Something better. Something. Anything to be done. I drove past the abandoned school, looking for some sign of life.
I drove farther than I needed, but I couldn't stop looking.








When I pulled over, I was given directions to trailers that now held the students -only a few blocks over and surrounded by rotting, gaping houses, useless street lights, cars with flat tires, and trash.

It rained last night, so the grassy areas underneath the trailers were like mini-marshes. Water lapped over onto the cement sidewalks. Students - every one black - every one wearing a uniform of a bright orange shirt and khaki pants, goofed around in the breezeways.

I had trouble paying attention in the classroom. I kept looking at the kids, trying to see into their lives. Later, when looking through the photo release forms, I recognized the handwriting of one student and then her name. Tiffany. She was the brightest student in my summer school class at Reed. Planning to go to college, she was in summer school, not because she did poorly, but because she missed too many days during the year at her regular school. When she told me over the summer that she went to Carver, I had no idea which school that was, what it looked like or where she lived. Now I do. Tiffany wasn't in class today.

what's happening in the projects

Right now, I'm eating my lunch, looking out the window, watching the projects.A tiny baby in a white onesie is learning to walk. Another tiny person in a similar outfit is waddling around more successfully. Some women are standing nearby. A guy is playing basketball on the new court donated by a Hornet's player last month.A police officer just drove up on the sidewalk through the center of the houses and parked in the middle of the common area/lawn. No one has exited the car.Someone is walking along another sidewalk carrying grocery bags.3 other people are walking slowly through the center - each headed in opposite directions.It isn't raining yet, but it looks like it will today.The police officer is now standing on the sidewalk beside his car.

James and the giant sycamore

broken sandals

our street, like many other streets in new orleans, is covered with large white painted letters creating SOS messages on it. yet another memory of katrina. i bike over them, drive over them, and walk over them on a daily basis. seldom do i look down and read them. though sometimes i do. if you look up our address on google earth and zoom in - you can read the messages. it is creepy and bizarre and i only did it once.

today, as i was headed for work, i noticed a pair of metallic gold summer sandals lying in the middle of the road - interestingly enough, they acted as quotation marks surrounding the giant words 'need water' sprawled in white across the black asphalt. the sandals had a broken strap and were abandoned there.

i wonder who, upon hearing the snap of the vinyl, would simply step out of, or kick off the useless shoe and then unstrap the other - leaving both behind. preferring to walk along barefoot, both feet exposed on the gravely, uneven pavement peppered with shattered glass and nails, rather than looking for an alternate solution. choosing not to be bothered to pick up what had become trash in order to drop them in one of the many garbage cans that line the street.

i wonder if she had to walk far to get home? if she noticed where the sandals fell? if she read the words? or, if, like me, she chose to stop seeing the white paint as letters creating messages, and instead, waits for the day when they are finally erased by time and our daily passage over them.