It was August in New Orleans. By definition, that meant that not only was it hot and humid, but also altogether lacking in a breeze.
We’d been to Pres Hall the night before, and the huddled humanity inside that space practically fogged the windows with their water-logged breath. I was, myself, reluctant to breathe and contribute to the problem, but did so anyway out of force of habit.
We’d spent much of that day sheltered in place in our hotel, sometimes in our room, sometimes down at the bar, and briefly down at the nearlybutnotquiteashotastheair swimming pool.
Dusk came slowly in from the east, and we were out in time for long shadows to slide past us. We figured our best shot until the darkness was full would be the green space of Jackson Square, so we headed straight down Orleans from our hotel. We’d enjoy the fresh air and a little time out of the cave, then maybe some time at Molly’s or Tujague’s.
We hit the flagstones in front of the Cabildo with still a fair amount of light. The buskers were starting to pack up – time to move on to dinner or down the street, or maybe even a paying gig.
One man, though, lingered, and showed no signs of surrendering to the night.
His case said Blues by the Green or something like that, so I supposed he was a regular in front of Jackson Square. He finished up St. James Infirmary on his trumpet, and the notes had come out like a smoky molasses, deep and rich, with their own weight of seasonings and seasons. We got to rocking slowly in time. By the time the song was done with him and his horn, a number of my stresses had been shaken down to my feet, just sitting there on the stones to be dropped entirely.
He hit the end and couldn’t seem to decide whether to pack his horn away or do one more. He looked off to the west, down the street, where the sun was already hiding between Chartres and Royal.
He mopped his face and brought his horn back up to his lips. One more song, at least, though the dark was filling in all the empty spaces in the square already.
Summertime. I’d hear all the best arrangements and who knows how many covers. I expected we’d be bored and give a half-hearted round of applause and then to get on with our lives.
It started slowly. I was starting to think he’d forgotten where his entrance was, then the trumpet came to life. The mute came off the bell of the horn and he leaned back to let out all the notes and emotion he’d been saving up. He took us around one more time with the horn unleashed, then began to sing:
Summertime … and the livin' is easy …
Fish are jumpin' … and the cotton is high
Yo' daddy's rich … and yo' mama's good lookin' …
So hush little baby … don't you cry …
The words poured out slow and sweet, no hurries here, and anything that might have been in a hurry down inside of me, slowed. That’s one of the perpetual charisms of New Orleans, slowing those things down inside that might be in too much of a hurry.
He made it into the next verse as a horse carriage pulled up right at the corner of the Cabildo.
I suppose it was their routine – they probably did it every day rain or shine when they were both working – maybe they still do. I’d never seen it before, though, and haven’t seen it since.
When the busker finished the second verse of the song, trailing “With yo mama and daddy standin' bye …” into the dusk, the carriage driver took up the refrain himself.
Summertime … and the livin' is easy …
Fish are jumpin' … and the cotton is high
Yo' daddy's rich … and yo' mama's good lookin' …
So hush little baby … don't you cry …
And then they just passed the song back and forth, their own call and response. It felt like an hour – in the good way – but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.
When they finished their last round of verse, with the words tapering into the night, the busker went back to his horn and the driver gave his reins a shake, and the carriage turned toward the departing sun. By the time he was out of sight, the busker was packing his horn. We barely had time to tip him – generously – before he vanished as well.
That was years ago, and even now, when I’m in need of quiet and calm, I go back to that moment. It was just like in the movies, but it was better because it was real.
As I recall, we went on to Molly’s, but the rest of the evening is a blur because we were already intoxicated by Summertime.
I grew up in Pueblo, Colorado - a quietly hearty blue collar town just slightly removed from the slopes of the Rockies. At very least, I started to grow up there. When I was 14, we moved to Texarkana, Arkansas due to a change in my dad's job, then to Oklahoma City, then to Andrews, a small oil town out in West Texas.
I went to college in Denton, Texas, then moved to Fort Worth, where I've lived since.
I love Fort Worth. The people are good and decent and friendly, if a bit straight-laced. I feel at home here. Mostly.
Years after moving to Fort Worth, I had to go to Colorado Springs for a conference. I was looking forward to the return, and had planned an extra two days to drive the hour south and visit my hometown. I was ready to do some reconnecting. I hadn't been there in almost fifteen years.
What I wasn't ready for was something I experienced as the plane landed and we started taxi-ing to the gate. The best way I can think of to describe it, is to say that something in me that I hadn't even realized was tense had just relaxed. I was home, and at ease, in a way I hadn't imagined before.
Of course, at the end of the conference, I went back to my new home. I was home there, yes, but in a different way.
About fifteen years ago, I had to go to New Orleans on business. I'd never been before. I knew the history of the city, and respected its culture and music, but I was never particularly taken with the idea of a visit. The popular caricature of Bourbon Street, which admittedly, isn't always far off from the reality of Bourbon Street, stood astride the whole city for me like a colossus. It was all just drinking and flashing boobs - not that I'm intrinsically opposed to either, but if it's all I can imagine, then ... eh.
I landed and drove to my hotel close to the airport. The first thing I really remember about the trip was that, it was so humid that by the time I got to my hotel, just a couple of miles from the airport, I had condensation running down both the inside and the outside of my car windows. Heat, cold, defrost, wiping ... nothing availed me. I ended up having to drive with windows down to see where I was going. Born in the midwest, humidity and I don't get along. I hated the humidity of Texarkana and hated every trip I'd taken to Houston - which was many - because of the humidity. Things were starting with a deficit.
The next day, though, I finished with my business by lunch time and had the rest of the day until I caught my late afternoon flight out. My rule in an new city is to avoid the monuments and see the city from the streets, so that's what I did. I was prepared for a crassly commercialized street whose corporate sponsors were Bud and Miller Lite. I was ready for the human statue, for the "I can tell you where you got your shoes" guys, as well as the "Here's your free hat ... now about that donation ..." folks.
What I wasn't ready for was the feeling I had as I entered the bubble of the French Quarter. I parked in a lot on Rampart and went around the corner. By the time I got as far as Burgundy, I once again felt something in me relax - something I hadn't even realized was tense.
By the time I hit Bourbon, I was ready to overlook its shortcomings like one overlooks the shortcomings of friends (who, of course, return the favor). I wandered aimlessly, up and down streets, experiencing everything and nothing in particular. I was starving, so I had a burger at Yo Mama's, which has become a must-visit on every subsequent trip. I wandered Royal. I stopped at a handful of places, including Molly's at the Market, and the now-shuttered Flanagan's Pub. It was all spontaneous and all good.
By the time I walked out of the quarter four hours later, I'd taken in food and drink and art and curios and t-shirts and books and antiques and a thousand other things. I had breathed in centuries of history, of humanity and debauchery. From drunks to poets (not always separate things), the Quarter and the city had absorbed their essences for ages, slowly releasing them into the air like the mist over a lake on a cold morning.
I was converted. More than that, I was in love. I also felt at home. I say that a little more tentatively than the others because there's a very tangible difference between feeling at home and being at home. Having the feeling doesn't imply any investiture. Being the feeling involves rootedness and commitment. While I can see us possibly becoming residents at some point, any being at home would come after that. Until then, I'll remain a most-graciously, and often most-audaciously, welcomed guest, and for that I thank the New Orleanians.
I've since visited the city a dozen times, spending anywhere from three days to ten. I've expanded beyond the quarter, into Uptown, Back-a-town, Marigny, out Magazine, etc. My wife might not love the city quite as much as me, but she loves that I love it, and each time we visit, we find new, special places for food, drink, art, books, history .............
