In Memory of New Orleans

My heart aches. My heart aches for the lives lost and devastated by Katrina. And my heart aches for the city--the beautiful, crazy, eccentric city of New Orleans. This has been a year of loss in my life. My mind cannot wrap itself around the magnitude of this catastrophe and the extreme feelings of helplessness the people of the Crescent City must feel. Perhaps because of this, I am grieving the loss of the city itself. It will rise again, I know. But it will never be the same again.

My mother's family is from Louisiana. Some of them live in New Orleans. When I was 16, we took a family vacation to this gem of the South. I loved the architecture and the quirky and often frightening history of the place. I felt the emotions of the long-gone occupants of the Houmas House. Our visit to the Audubon Zoo was a fun-filled day, a pleasure to see the animals as well as enjoy the lovely layout and landscaping of the facility. We saw a man playing "Amazing Grace" on his trumpet at the Cafe Du Monde. Midway through his song, he noticed a woman with cerebral palsy trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab. The man stopped, waved down a taxi and, taking her by the arm, helped her into the car. He then turned and picked up where he left off and continued his rendition of "Amazing Grace." My mother loved to tell that story, explaining to people that he was truly living amazing grace. Also on that trip, I had a pleasant little flirtation with a boy on the deck of the dinner cruise river boat. He was visiting with his youth group from Oregon. He gave me a stick of gum. I still have the wrapper pressed into my photo album that holds pictures from that trip. It was a magical night, made more memorable by the charm of New Orleans.

More recently, my husband and I honeymooned in New Orleans. We stayed at the Melrose Mansion, a gorgeous white house, that boasts tasteful antiques and elegant southern hospitality. The Gumbo Shop was our choice for many a meal. It's the best gumbo I've ever tasted. We enjoyed speaking with Patrick, the maitre d' at The Bistro, the restaurant at the Maison de Ville hotel. He's quite a celebrity. I caught a show on the Travel Channel that featured him as one of the treasures of New Orleans. Of course, we rode the trolley along St. Charles. We did get a bit lost that afternoon, as we got off the trolley too soon in an attempt to sample the antique shops of the Garden District. But we eventually got there, feasted our eyes on gleaming 19th century furniture, stroked silk bedlinens in the trendy newer boutiques, and revived ourselves with iced cappuccinos. Eating at the Cafe Du Monde was a necessity. The beignets were warm, the cafe au lait was chilled. (Mind you, our wedding was in late June.) To top it all off, we saw an older man on the sidewalk by the cafe, playing a trumpet. I know it was the same man of my mother's precious tale of compassionate character. My husband spoke with him and purchased a CD from him. The man's name is Hack Bartholomew. I pray that Hack is safe in this world. If he's not, I pray that he's in his real home with his Father, the one about whom Hack told the visitors and citizens of New Orleans, I believe, every day in the French Quarter.

My husband and I had talked about returning to New Orleans. We talked with my distant cousin Mike at my mother's funeral this past March. We told him about how much we loved the city and missed it. There is a place in our hearts that calls New Orleans home. Cousin Mike, before parting, smiled at us kindly and said, "I've got to go take care of your city." So in this year of loss in my life, I grieve the loss of my mother, who I think was in some ways too good for this world. I grieve the loss of life in the bombings of London, a city my mother and I visited together in the summer of 1999. And I grieve the loss of the spirit, the beauty and the magic of New Orleans. I know that we will all be alright, in the end. But as the Bible says in Ecclesiastes, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." And now, I think, is the time for tears.