As a freshman in college during the 60s I joined a precision marching group called the Fusileers. The college I attended required two years of ROTC and the national paranoia concerning Vietnam hadn’t yet begun to set in. Besides, we got to do some neat things like take trips to Mardi Gras and march in parades.
In 1965 I went with the Fusileers to New Orleans to march in the Venus Parade. Although I did not know it at the time, Venus is one of the older Krewes, or carnival clubs. Our group spent the night at Jackson Barracks, an old army post on the Mississippi River named after Andy Jackson.
The night before the parade most of us left the barracks on foot in groups of five or six and made our way toward Bourbon Street. My group stopped at a neighborhood bar and drank Regal Beer for twelve cents a glass and sampled the gumbo. We made it to Bourbon Street around dark.
Much time has passed since then and even the best memories fade. As I remember it, open containers of alcohol were legal. I bought a fifth of Early Times at a drug store a block or so from Bourbon Street. Most of us got separated in the throngs of people crowding the French Quarter. John T, the last member of the Fusileers that I’d arrived in the Quarter with disappeared down Conti, towing a college girl he’d just met.
I found my own college girl but we were separated in the massive crowd pushing shoulder-to-shoulder in two directions, up and down Bourbon Street — though not before a jealous suitor sucker-punched me and broke my only pair of glasses. Somehow I made it back to Jackson Barracks before the midnight curfew and stayed up all night reading the Terry Southern classic Candy.
Mardi Gras that year was my first taste of Carnival, crazy and surreal, and I lapped it up, maybe because I viewed it through tired, near-sighted, hung-over eyes. Even though my feet hurt like hell after the seven mile parade that lasted six hours or so I would gladly have done it again. Soon after the trip, things got worse in Vietnam.
John T dropped out of school, was drafted, sent to Vietnam and dead within the year - one of the war’s many victims. I didn’t sign up for a third year of ROTC and quickly forgot my childhood dreams of becoming a soldier. I had my face rubbed in my childhood dreams when I was drafted shortly after graduation and I quickly learned the truth about the old saying, “don’t wish too hard for anything. It might come true.”
Gondwana
Showing posts with label french quarter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label french quarter. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Strange Encumbrance
I was in my last semester of graduate school at the University of Arkansas and still married to my first wife Gail. Our best friends, Toni and Terrence went with us to Chalmette to celebrate Mardi Gras. Terrence was an animal husbandry major and we spent a day and night in Ferriday, Louisiana where Gail's father was the supervisor of a large cattle ranch. We enjoyed a personal tour of the ranch and some of Ms Lili's gumbo before heading to Chalmette.
Gail had four sisters and two brothers. Each regaled us with drinks, dinners and frivolity, leading up to Mardi Gras Day. That Tuesday morning we awoke early and headed downtown. Drinking on the street was legal and we began imbibing by ten in the morning. We watched every parade we could get to, and along the way, we continued drinking.
We tried to pace ourselves, eating hot dogs and gumbo from various street vendors. All we really succeeded in doing was sobering ourselves for an awkward moment before plunging back into the depths of drunkenness. Somewhere around ten that night, we finally stumbled to the car and headed north to Fayetteville.
When we reached Jackson, Mississippi, we stopped at a Denny's for breakfast. My stomach felt like hell, but still slightly better than my head. We reached Fayetteville at six the next morning, hardly time for a shower before I had to take a final test at eight.
Do not ask me how, but I aced the test, perhaps the best score I ever had in grad school. A few months later, Gail and I moved to Oklahoma City and never saw Toni and Terrence again.
I have never really thought much about that Mardi Gras, my lost friendship and failed marriage. Maybe it is because youth is a strange encumbrance whose weight you never really feel until long after Father Time finally removes it.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Gail had four sisters and two brothers. Each regaled us with drinks, dinners and frivolity, leading up to Mardi Gras Day. That Tuesday morning we awoke early and headed downtown. Drinking on the street was legal and we began imbibing by ten in the morning. We watched every parade we could get to, and along the way, we continued drinking.
We tried to pace ourselves, eating hot dogs and gumbo from various street vendors. All we really succeeded in doing was sobering ourselves for an awkward moment before plunging back into the depths of drunkenness. Somewhere around ten that night, we finally stumbled to the car and headed north to Fayetteville.
When we reached Jackson, Mississippi, we stopped at a Denny's for breakfast. My stomach felt like hell, but still slightly better than my head. We reached Fayetteville at six the next morning, hardly time for a shower before I had to take a final test at eight.
Do not ask me how, but I aced the test, perhaps the best score I ever had in grad school. A few months later, Gail and I moved to Oklahoma City and never saw Toni and Terrence again.
I have never really thought much about that Mardi Gras, my lost friendship and failed marriage. Maybe it is because youth is a strange encumbrance whose weight you never really feel until long after Father Time finally removes it.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Marie Laveau
Much like kissing the Blarney Stone, marking the grave of famous voodoo practitioner Marie Laveau with an X and leaving an offering of flowers or fruit is said to bring good luck.
Laveau, likely a composite of a mother and one of her fifteen daughters, practiced Voodoo, casting and removing spells, in New Orleans until her (their) death(s) around 1881. Voodoo, or the homegrown version hoodoo, is a composite of many religions, including African Vodoun, Catholicism and Protestant.
Laveau had a large following when she was alive and led frenzied revels on the banks of St. John’s Bayou on the night of St. John’s Eve. St. John’s Eve coincides loosely with the first day of summer and Marie’s voodoo practice derived from ancient pagan rituals held on the same night. St. John the Baptist is revered by practitioners of Vodoun as well as Catholics.
During her lifetime Laveau was well known in New Orleans, around the world and was both revered and feared. No one is positive where Laveau is buried, but many believe it is somewhere in the St. Louis Cemetery #1, perhaps at the tomb most often credited as hers. Tourists and followers continue to visit the grave, leaving offerings and X marks, even in the face of stiff fines if caught.
Some say Marie's supposed tomb is the second-most visited gravesite in the country, behind only Elvis Presley's. From the red exes marked all over the grave, this is likely a true statement.
Laveau, likely a composite of a mother and one of her fifteen daughters, practiced Voodoo, casting and removing spells, in New Orleans until her (their) death(s) around 1881. Voodoo, or the homegrown version hoodoo, is a composite of many religions, including African Vodoun, Catholicism and Protestant.
Laveau had a large following when she was alive and led frenzied revels on the banks of St. John’s Bayou on the night of St. John’s Eve. St. John’s Eve coincides loosely with the first day of summer and Marie’s voodoo practice derived from ancient pagan rituals held on the same night. St. John the Baptist is revered by practitioners of Vodoun as well as Catholics.
During her lifetime Laveau was well known in New Orleans, around the world and was both revered and feared. No one is positive where Laveau is buried, but many believe it is somewhere in the St. Louis Cemetery #1, perhaps at the tomb most often credited as hers. Tourists and followers continue to visit the grave, leaving offerings and X marks, even in the face of stiff fines if caught.
Some say Marie's supposed tomb is the second-most visited gravesite in the country, behind only Elvis Presley's. From the red exes marked all over the grave, this is likely a true statement.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Same Mistake Twice
The domestic oil industry is populated by many types of people, both male and female, but it is safe to say that none of them could ever remotely be considered saints. During my tenure in the business, I have met many of its denizens but the most colorful of all was a person named Harold (not his real name). Harold, an OJT geophysist that had found a billion (I'm not exaggerating!) barrel oil field in Nigeria for Mobil Oil. He was quite seriously, one of smartest persons I have ever met. Unfortunately, he had a larcenous side.
Anne and I had a company in bankruptcy when Harold showed up on our doorstep, his own oil Company and 1600 acre Texas ranch in foreclosure. He parked his old Mercury (the only vehicle he had left) in our driveway and proceeded to move into our spare bedroom where he stayed for about two months.
During the time that he lived with us, Harold drank every drop of liquor in the house, became engaged to a woman he somehow met in the interim, and talked to our creditor's committee, telling them we were incompetent and needed to be removed as debtors-in-possession. When I heard what he had done, I hung him out the second story window by his heel, threatening to let go.
"I don't really care how you treat people that you don't know, but Anne and I are your friends. You shouldn't treat us like marks."
My actions must have had an effect because Harold never again treated me, or Anne, like a mark. He did talk the owner of an OKC mud company into starting an oil company and hiring him as president. The long-time mud company owner died a pauper after Harold had sucked off every penny he had.
Anyway, I got to thinking about Harold after my story about the Carousel Lounge in Shreveport. Harold, Anne and I had an adventure at the Carousel Lounge in New Orleans, at the Monteleone Hotel - an adventure instigated by Harold. Never drink at a rotating bar, is a rule that I had lived by for years, only to violate it some twenty years later.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Anne and I had a company in bankruptcy when Harold showed up on our doorstep, his own oil Company and 1600 acre Texas ranch in foreclosure. He parked his old Mercury (the only vehicle he had left) in our driveway and proceeded to move into our spare bedroom where he stayed for about two months.
During the time that he lived with us, Harold drank every drop of liquor in the house, became engaged to a woman he somehow met in the interim, and talked to our creditor's committee, telling them we were incompetent and needed to be removed as debtors-in-possession. When I heard what he had done, I hung him out the second story window by his heel, threatening to let go.
"I don't really care how you treat people that you don't know, but Anne and I are your friends. You shouldn't treat us like marks."
My actions must have had an effect because Harold never again treated me, or Anne, like a mark. He did talk the owner of an OKC mud company into starting an oil company and hiring him as president. The long-time mud company owner died a pauper after Harold had sucked off every penny he had.
Anyway, I got to thinking about Harold after my story about the Carousel Lounge in Shreveport. Harold, Anne and I had an adventure at the Carousel Lounge in New Orleans, at the Monteleone Hotel - an adventure instigated by Harold. Never drink at a rotating bar, is a rule that I had lived by for years, only to violate it some twenty years later.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Friday, March 07, 2008
Only the Good Die Young
I still remember my first trip to New Orleans. It was with my Dad's sister, Aunt Carmol. Carmol was a school teacher in New Orleans and she was quite a woman. When WWII broke out, she joined the Marines and served with them throughout the war. She was a liberated woman, even during a very un-liberated time in Louisiana. When New Orleans first integrated, it was at her school and she walked the children into the building every morning to insure their safety.
When I was eleven and my brother Jack thirteen, she took us to New Orleans for a visit, and a grand tour of everything cultural in the venerable old city. We stayed with her and her husband Tack. We didn't go alone. She also brought two very young north Louisiana school teachers. I can't remember their names but I will call them Sandra and Dolly.
Sandra and Dolly were as excited about their first visit to the Big Easy as Jack and I. They were both young and pretty and they flirted with Jack and me all the way to New Orleans. As best as I can remember, it was the first time that I fell (no, tumbled head over heals!) in love.
Aunt Carmol showed us the French Quarter, the zoo and the museums and we saw little of Sandra and Dolly during our visit. Before we left, however, we all took a night time excursion to the Lake Pontchartrain Amusement Park, Sandra was Jack's date, Dolly mine. The memory of riding through the Tunnel of Love with Dolly still remains as one of the all time highlights of my life.
Aunt Carmol died in her forties of a kidney disease that could have easily been cured today. I miss her but I feel that she is still somehow with me. Her early passing goes along with my theory that only the good die young, in which case I expect to live until a hundred-twenty, or so.
http://www.ericwilder.com
When I was eleven and my brother Jack thirteen, she took us to New Orleans for a visit, and a grand tour of everything cultural in the venerable old city. We stayed with her and her husband Tack. We didn't go alone. She also brought two very young north Louisiana school teachers. I can't remember their names but I will call them Sandra and Dolly.
Sandra and Dolly were as excited about their first visit to the Big Easy as Jack and I. They were both young and pretty and they flirted with Jack and me all the way to New Orleans. As best as I can remember, it was the first time that I fell (no, tumbled head over heals!) in love.
Aunt Carmol showed us the French Quarter, the zoo and the museums and we saw little of Sandra and Dolly during our visit. Before we left, however, we all took a night time excursion to the Lake Pontchartrain Amusement Park, Sandra was Jack's date, Dolly mine. The memory of riding through the Tunnel of Love with Dolly still remains as one of the all time highlights of my life.
Aunt Carmol died in her forties of a kidney disease that could have easily been cured today. I miss her but I feel that she is still somehow with me. Her early passing goes along with my theory that only the good die young, in which case I expect to live until a hundred-twenty, or so.
http://www.ericwilder.com
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