THANKS AGAIN

Louisiana; I wouldn’t want to live here but it’s a wonderful place to come and enjoy. I come, enjoy, whenever I can. Yesterday, New Orleans, I went to the French Quarter early, before stores opened, while sleeping derelicts used their belongings as pillows on park benches, before they dissolved into the city. Sometimes I eat early but not so hungry, I walked. Vendors were setting up their booths at French Market, every ethnic possibility, every language known to me; unfolding tables and lugging tubs of trinkets, made in China, wood carvings and brass effigies from Asia and things I can’t imagine anybody buying but then, what do I know? Too early to spend money; I walked. The transition from night people to day people comes easy as the wind changing direction. Tourists are easy to spot and they start replacing the indigent and destitute. The dregs of this culture sleep on the streets; nobody wants them in the neighborhoods, police leave them alone here and together, there is safety in numbers. But the Day People were taking over and everybody has money. Isn’t it interesting how that works? 

I knew I’d be ready for an early lunch so that became my purpose. I’d never ridden the trolly, like ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’, green trolly. They run along St. Charles Ave. from Bourbon Street out to Carrollton Ave; I wanted to do that. LaMadeleine’s is a restaurant, where St. Charles ends and I like the food there. At the trolly stop I met a man and his preteen daughter who schooled me on the trolly line and transfer system. I got a $3 day pass and sat behind the operator. Both ends of the trolly are the front; at the end of the line the driver simply moves to the controls at the other end and the seat backs flop across to face the other forward. It takes both hands on various levers and switches to run the trolly, not unlike the Wizard Of Oz trying to keep the curtain closed and the thunder rolling. Two sets of tracks occupy the median with cars passing in opposite directions every few minutes. Lurching, clacking and thumping, stopping at cross streets with the hum of electric motors and the hot, humid air; you are enveloped in the slow, southern culture of Stanley & Stella Kowalski. 

LaMadeleine’s is on the corner where St. Charles dead ends into the levee and the tracks turn onto Carrollton Ave. Fresh baked bread and butter are set out as you please and coffee refills are likewise, serve yourself. Breakfast is served all day and the bakery is stocked with sweet, irresistible things. A half hour and a breakfast croissant later, I headed back outside to the trolly stop. It was noon and my timing had been perfect. There were things to do in the Quarter and the ride back would pass by Tulane, Audubon Park and Zoo, Loyola University and through the Garden District with its antebellum mansions and heavy laden Live Oaks; their huge, low hanging, long reaching branches nearly touching the ground. I’d seen it all on the ride out and knew it would be just as rewarding on the return. 

Old Live Oaks have character that other trees do not. Where the trunk meets the ground, it rolls and folds upon itself with humps and lumps that speak to me of Tolkien’s ‘Lord of The Rings.’ Next to the sidewalk an old Live Oak tree grew up and over the street. I heard a voice call out but didn’t think it was for me. Then it came again; “Sir . . .” Half sitting, half leaning on the convoluted tree trunk, an old, black man was trying to get my attention. He was terribly, unnaturally thin. In tattered white pants and a blue t-shirt, he leaned toward me on his cane. He wanted a handout. “I haven’t eaten yet today. I’m homeless and I’d appreciate anything you can manage.” I had already turned down two panhandlers in the Quarter and was trying to rationalize a ‘No’ to him as well. But his voice was convincingly weak and his physical distress was not something you could fake. “If you can,” he said, “I’ll spend it on lunch.” I gave him a $5 and he thanked me, twice. He sat in the shade while I waited at the trolly stop across the tracks. As the trolly approached, he began to collect himself in an effort to get to his feet. It was agonizing to watch. As I got on the car he was shuffling his way across the tracks. I sat in the first seat and watched as he struggled to raise himself up into the car. I got up, offered him my hand and he took it. He put his $1.25 into the money slot and took his receipt. There were no seats left so I pointed him to mine. Across the isle a lady motioned to me; she scooted and made a space next to her. Other than the awesome Live Oaks, the ride back was uneventful. The other side of Napoleon Ave., the old man began his getting up. We stopped. I steadied him, handed him his cane as he had to step down backwards off the step. Looking out the window, he had crossed the tracks, turned to look at me, waved and nodded what I took to be a genuine ‘Thank’s again.’ 

Mid-day on Bourbon St. is mostly about lunch and taxi cabs. Later they will block it off for pedestrian traffic and strip shows will be the rule. I drop down a block to Royal St. then Charters St., working back to Jackson Square. A young, heavily tattoo’d, healthy looking panhandler wanted $20 and I shook my head. He asked, “How about $4?” I told him I was ‘Panhandled’ out for the day. He thanked me and moved on. Even though the sky was blue and clouds were white, thunder rolled nearby. Then it boomed again. I ducked into an air conditioned tourist trap and bought a t-shirt. It was on my list of things to do; a black shirt with white lettering - “Jesus loves you, but the rest of us think you’re an asshole.” 

Latrobe Park is a small alcove on Decatur St. Overhanging trees and comfortable benches makes it a prime sleeping spot for homeless at night and for tourists to rest in the heat of the day. An outdoor restaurant at the top of the steps hosts a 4 or 5 piece band every day, a great place to hang out. I sat down in the shade and dozed off, barely hearing the band. Shortly, I felt the gentle splatter of rain drops making their way down, dripping off the lower leaves. The sky had turned dark and rain droops pelting the walk grew from dark specks to nickel size signatures. I headed across the street, sampled pecan pralines at the candy store and then into French Market, the flea market where I had been first thing in the morning. It rained hard, just like it had in February when I was here for Mardi Gras. People bunched under cover while the wind blown spray felt good, coming in under the roof. I looked at everything twice but there was nothing I couldn’t live without. Spices used to be a good buy there but are terribly over priced now. Better to buy them at the grocery store than in the French Quarter. 

I was tired, needed a place to sit down but benches were full and food stalls didn’t want you on a stool if you weren’t going to order. On the leeward side of the Market I found a spot on the concrete, next to a steel roof support. It was only a foot or so from water dripping off the roof, running down to the curb but I sat down, leaned against the beam and closed my eyes. When I opened them my legs and feet were numb, the water had advanced but I was still comfortably dry in an occasional, thin, cool overspray. I walked off my aches, visited a few antique shops and junk stores and it was time for my ride to pick me up. The day panned out much like other days I’ve spent in the Quarter. Still, it was special. My mother always told me, “This is the day the Lord has given us.” In that reminder was an unspoken admonition: “Don’t waste the day. It’s the only one you have.” I didn’t assimilate her religion but I love her insight. I don’t think gratitude needs to be qualified by one god or another. I am grateful for every day and I try to make each one count. The old man on the trolly and the young, tattoo’d guy both inform me that my charmed life is more about Karma and timing than it is about me or my decisions. Miester Eckhart was a 13th Century mystic, remembered as a progressive cleric and for an enduring quote. He said, "If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough." Thank you and thanks again. I offer up my thanks unaddressed. It’s not important I know who to thank, only that I understand. I get better than I deserve and I am grateful.