I worked in New Orleans during the summer of 1968 and had many adventures, and misadventures, during that time. I lived in Arabi, a community between Chalmette and the Lower 9th Ward. Known for its rampant organized gambling that continued until the 1950s, Arabi barely survived Hurricanes Rita and Katrina.
I resided in the bottom story of a two-storied wood-frame house, just across the street from a Catholic convent. Nuns that went into the convent never came out again, cloistered for life. My little apartment had no air conditioning and reeked of decades of mold and mildew. Oh, and did I mention the cockroaches?
I had a car, my green ’67 Ford Mustang, but usually took the bus to work. Gas was not expensive then, or the issue. New Orleans drivers were simply the worst I had ever encountered, at least on this side of the border from Mexico, that is. I usually walked the quarter-mile from my apartment to the bus stop where I would catch the bus to Canal.
I spent a lot of time that summer taking in the nightlife of one of the wildest cities in the world and often catnapped on my way to work, and on my way home. I awoke once at the bus terminal in Arabi to the sight of a young black man pointing a pistol directly at me, and the woman sitting beside me. Everyone else had already escaped through the side door. I grabbed the woman and pulled her down behind the seat, knowing that a ricochet would still get us if he fired the pistol.
He did not get the chance, two men tackling him from behind and wrestling the weapon from his grasp. I walked home that night never learning the reason for the pistol brandishing and too young to realize that I had likely narrowly escaped death.
My brother, also a geology student, got a job with the same company as me before the summer ended. He kept the shabby apartment after I left to return to college. He married a girl that worked with us. They are still married, have four kids and a few grandkids now.
No life remained in the little town when Marilyn and I visited shortly after Katrina’s devastation, only signs posted by construction companies offering to raze abandoned houses. The convent across the street where I once lived remained, and I have always wondered if the cloistered nuns had abandoned their posts, or stayed to face the wrath of an angry god.
I resided in the bottom story of a two-storied wood-frame house, just across the street from a Catholic convent. Nuns that went into the convent never came out again, cloistered for life. My little apartment had no air conditioning and reeked of decades of mold and mildew. Oh, and did I mention the cockroaches?
I had a car, my green ’67 Ford Mustang, but usually took the bus to work. Gas was not expensive then, or the issue. New Orleans drivers were simply the worst I had ever encountered, at least on this side of the border from Mexico, that is. I usually walked the quarter-mile from my apartment to the bus stop where I would catch the bus to Canal.
I spent a lot of time that summer taking in the nightlife of one of the wildest cities in the world and often catnapped on my way to work, and on my way home. I awoke once at the bus terminal in Arabi to the sight of a young black man pointing a pistol directly at me, and the woman sitting beside me. Everyone else had already escaped through the side door. I grabbed the woman and pulled her down behind the seat, knowing that a ricochet would still get us if he fired the pistol.
He did not get the chance, two men tackling him from behind and wrestling the weapon from his grasp. I walked home that night never learning the reason for the pistol brandishing and too young to realize that I had likely narrowly escaped death.
My brother, also a geology student, got a job with the same company as me before the summer ended. He kept the shabby apartment after I left to return to college. He married a girl that worked with us. They are still married, have four kids and a few grandkids now.
No life remained in the little town when Marilyn and I visited shortly after Katrina’s devastation, only signs posted by construction companies offering to raze abandoned houses. The convent across the street where I once lived remained, and I have always wondered if the cloistered nuns had abandoned their posts, or stayed to face the wrath of an angry god.
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