| A "Big Easy" Sunset
Posted: 7/1/2007 2:09:55 AM | Late one sultry summer evening I got stuck at the top of the highest bridge in New Orleans. Already late for a date, ill-tempered, sweating, my gauze sundress sticking to the cracked vinyl bucket seat of my fifteen-year-old Volkswagon Beetle, I certainly did not think that a massive traffic jam was a fortuitous occurrence--at least, not immediately. But I soon resigned myself to my predicament and ceased cursing the Fates that had placed me westbound on this particular stretch of I-10 (in the inside-lane of four, no less!) at this particular time. I opened the car doors to better catch the breeze, thankful that I was at the top of the bridge rather than stuck at the bottom, hemmed in by factories and shopping centers, choking on exhaust fumes; I began to look around and see what I had been able to only glimpse before.
Sitting atop the "High-rise" (as the locals call it), I could not see the Industrial Canal far below me or its locks leading south to the turbulent Mississippi River. I could, however, easily see north to Lake Ponchartrain. From this vantage point her shallow waters looked clear and pure, glistening in shades of blue, green, silver-gray; her white-capped surface teemed with watercraft of all sorts and sizes. Gulls and terns soared and swooped, chasing their dinners and each other, as children played and splashed near shore while their parents dined alfresco.
As I watched, a freighter left the salty waters of Pontchartrain (the land-locked remnant of an ancient bay) and entered the canal's brackish waters, which were iridescent with spilled fuels. Even this tattered giant, with her chipped, rusting paint and ragged pennants, was beautiful in her unexpected grace of movement. Farther out on the lake, speed-blurred "cigarette" boats buzzed around more leisurely-moving vessels; commercial fishers dragged their nets in search of shrimp and other delicacies. Sailing boats of all sizes tacked before the wind, sails billowing. The staid white sails of a sixty-foot ketch; a vibrant melange of red, white, blue, yellow, green in the sails of smaller boats; the occasional non-conformist purple or hot pink or other Day-Glo color, usually on a tiny Sunfish or Windsurfer: all combined to create a glory and grace I had never noticed before.
How could I, always whipping over the bridge at sixty-five-miles-an-hour, always in a hurry to get somewhere?
Looking south-southwest, toward the French Quarter, I could see the dying rays of the sun reflecting brightly off the gilded twin spires of St. Louis Cathedral. From there my eyes were drawn to the gleaming whiteness ofthe Superdome, huge and squat amidst the Central Business District's towering office buildings and hotels. Barely discernible between these two landmarks was the arching superstructure of the Greater New Orleans Bridge, largest of the only three bridges--in the entire metropolitan area--that cross the Mississippi, linking "Eastbank" to "Westbank."
Then, with the suddenness common in mid-summer, the sun set. The horizon flared blood-red and orange, crimson and magenta, looking like hungry flames licking at the city below. The vivid reds, yellows , and oranges gave way to delicate rose, misty mauve, lavender, lilac--all streaked with fuschia and violet; fluffy cumulus clouds high above the horizon seemed to be lit from within, glowing goldenly against the darkening indigo heavens. They formed an ethereal corona, fitting for a city so identified with saints--and sinners. Soon man-made lights began to glitter all over the city: fluorescent neon advertisements, pin-point house lights, harsh sodium vapor street lights, gentle gaslights--lights too numerous to count, twinkling across the face of my beloved city, like lights on a tree at Christmas.
Sitting atop the bridge, I stared in awe at the beauty so fortuitously revealed to me. I took a deep breath, drawing in the scents of New Orleans so familiar and dear to me: the fishy tang of salt air, honeysuckle, magnolias--even the miasma of the swamps. My senses awakened and aware, my soul soothed and calm, I shed all vestiges of anger and impatience. I got out of my car and joined an impromptu tailgate picnic of crawfish and jambalaya. Feeling reborn in spirit, I watched people around me dance to a lively zydeco tune and remembered, once again, why New Orleans is also called "The Big Easy."
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I wrote this about fifteen years ago, four or five years after moving back to Ohio, and just recently ran across it again. I'm in a nostalgic mood and thought I'd dip a toe into this forum and post it. Hope you liked it. | |
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| A Big Easy Sunset
Posted: 7/6/2007 7:20:36 PM | Thanks to those who've taken the time to read my story (ies). If I'd thought at the time of my initial post, I'd have titled the thread differently and I'd have invited readers to leave their comments.
Please feel free to do so.
I love to write and I'm trying to decide if there is a possibility that I could earn a living-- or even just supplemental income--from writing, so hearing some constructive feedback would be appreciated. Feel free to tell me it sucked, too, if that's what you feel, but please don't do so unless you also take the time to tell me why it sucked.
Thanks.
The next is also something I wrote a while ago. I spent the day chasing my grandsons (4 and 2) and thoughts of my parents and grandparents were chasing me all day....so I dug this out to post and honor their memories. Hope you enjoy it.
Grumbling Grandma
I often say that my grandmother was not happy unless she was miserable. Of course, I am being facetious when I say this--she could also be happy even if she was merely irritated. Grandma Ralph had a complaint for every occasion: if it was raining, then the creek was sure to flood, we children would never be out from underfoot, her tomatoes were sure to drown in all this water; if it was a bright, cloudless day, then there was sure to be a grass fire, we children would suffer sunstroke if we did not wear our sunhats, her tomatoes were sure to wilt in all this heat.
You could say that Grandma was an equal-opportunity grumbler--sooner or later she would complain about everyone and everything. Nothing was inconsequential enough to escape her attention; no one was above or beneath reproach. She could turn a virtue into a vice faster than anyone I have ever met and every oppotunity masked a disaster waiting to happen. Grandma reveled in her infirmities, endlessly cataloguing her aches and pains to one and all. Whenever Grandma thought we were discounting her litanies of woes we would hear her most famous refrain: "You'll be sorry when I'm dead and gone. You'll miss me then!"
One long series of complaints, and the consequences thereof, has attained the status of family legend: My mother had spent the better part of a beautiful spring day driving Grandma around town on various errands, her three small daughters (ages six, five, and three) in the rear of the station wagon, squabbling as children are wont to do, especially when comfined to a small area. And as mothers are also wont to do, Mom ignored our bickering (except for the more outrageous outbursts) even when Grandma ceased her generic complaining and commenced to castigate Mom for her inability to control our behavior. After all she had raised eight children--not just three--and hers had never acted this way; her children had known better than to misbehave; what could you expect when you spared the rod and spoiled the child?
Mom, being the eldest of Grandma's eight children, knew how selective Grandma's memory was being; even so, she never said a word in her own defense, never pointed out that she could not reach us in the back of the station wagon and stay on the road at the same time. (Of course, wewere fully aware of that fact and knew how far we could push before Mom would pull over to the side of the road!) She just drove Grandma home, pulled into her parents' driveway, got out of the car, went to the just-budding apple trees lining the drive, and pulled a slender branch from one low-hanging limb. Switch in hand, Mom ordered her first-born (me) and her second-born (Jackie, eleven months my junior) from the car.
"You wanted to fight, now fight!"
"No, Mom, we love each other now, see?" we said tearfully as we hugged. "We don't want to fight, we love each other!"
Swish! Down came that switch against our legs. "Fight, damn it! You wanted to fight, now's your chance--fight!" Swish--smack--hop! Swish--smack--hop!
Grandma was apoplectic: "You're crazy! Stop that! I've raised a crazy woman! Diana, what do you think you're doing? You're crazy!"
It was a long time before Grandma complained about our behavior again, at least when my mother was within earshot. The switching stopped in a matter of a few moments, but this oft-told anecdote is still lovingly and humorously recounted over forty years later.
Even with all her complaints, my grandmother, the matriarch of our large extended family, was loved dearly. Most of us realized that two major forces were behind her complaining: as she aged and was necessarily relegated to a more passive position in the family, she was afraid that if she did not make noise she would be forgotten and alone; also at work was a superstitious belief that you should never count your blessings aloud--to do so might tempt the fates to take your riches from you. From an early age I realized that Grandma loved her family and was proud of our accomplishments even when she fussed and told us how we could have done better. Grumbling was just part of her nature and I accepted that part of her.
Grandma was right. She is missed. | |
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