Mardi Gras season ended much too soon because I have more stories to tell. This one could probably last until next year but I may as well tell it while I am thinking about it. This story happened more than thirty years ago and my memories are not getting any clearer as time goes on.
I was still married to my first wife Gail at the time. Gail and her family were from Chalmette, the town down St. Bernard Highway from New Orleans that was all but devastated by Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. Gail had two brothers and five sisters. Her sister Mertie was married to a wealthy drilling contractor named Bobby.
There are many Krewes, or clubs, that celebrate Mardi Gras. They range in size from very large to very small, and they come and go based on many different socio-economic reasons. They all have one thing in common: a king and a queen that serve for only one Mardi Gras season.
Rex is one of the oldest and largest Krewes and rumor has it that the king only becomes so after donating a million dollars to the organization. I don’t know if this is true, but I did know one of the former kings of Rex and he was a very rich man.
My brother-in-law Bobby was also wealthy, although not nearly wealthy enough to reign over Rex. Lucky for him, there was a Krewe, not quite as famous or large, of which he did become king. Thirty some years ago, Bobby and Mertie were crowned king and queen of the Krewe of Arabi. Bobby lauded the position over everyone in the family and to hear him tell it, he may as well have been King of Saudi Arabia instead of the Krewe of Arabi.
While not as expensive to attain as King of Rex, being King of Arabi did not come without a price. Bobby, according to family rumor, had paid fifty thousand dollars for the privilege of serving as king. His costume cost twelve thousand dollars, his wife Mertie’s twenty five thousand. They had a son and daughter and each of their costumes cost more than five thousand dollars.
Bobby and his immediate family rode on the King’s float during the Arabi parade and threw thousands of dollars worth of beads, doubloons and various premium throws to the adoring masses gathered along the parade route. Bobby also bought thousands of dollars worth of alcoholic beverages served at the Arabi Ball. Being sister and brother-in-law, Gail and I had the privilege of sitting at the King’s table and drinking his whiskey.
While nowhere as regal or elegant as the Rex Ball, the Arabi Ball was still quite an affair. Bobby was drunk as a skunk, dressed in full costume and mask, and waving his kingly scepter like a royal fool. As the night progressed, he began knighting the male members of his entourage. When my turn arrived, I came close to losing an ear in the process.
Bobby did not like me very much, but in deference to Gail’s father, he was civil to me when he was sober. The problem was, his sobriety was an unusual occurrence and the night of the Arabi Ball, he was anything but. He didn’t even acknowledge my presence as I knelt before him, awaiting knighthood.
The large ballroom was dark, music of a live orchestra loud, along with the noise of restless revelers. No one except Bobby and I realized that instead of the normal knighting, he had struck me with the sword hard enough to knock off my mask and put a bloody gash in my scalp.
Okay, I was also drunk having consumed a goodly amount of Bobby’s bourbon. Acting as if nothing outside the ordinary had happened, he simply wheeled around on his throne and continued reveling.
Yes, Bobby was drunk, the large ballroom dark and noisy. My own mind, and my body, was impaired. I really do not know if he struck me in malice or simply let fly a misjudged blow because of his drunken stupor. Quickly forgetting the incident, I cleaned the blood off my head in the bathroom and returned to the raucous party.
That was more than thirty years ago. I am no longer a member of the family, nor, do I believe, is Bobby. There was no permanent damage done from Bobby’s blow - intentional or not. Every knight must face a little adversity, and hey, I am Sir Eric, Knight of Arabi.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Showing posts with label mardi gras. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mardi gras. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Prince of Arabi
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.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Marching in the Venus Parade
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
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
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
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Fun Junkies
Happy Super Tuesday to all you political junkies and happy Fat Tuesday to all of you fun junkies. Politics affects all of our lives and I watch what's happening with the same interest as any other concerned citizen. Still, when it comes to being a junkie I fall into the latter category more than the former.
Many other cities celebrate the pre-Lenten season with both festivities and frivolities. Most prominent, other than the Big Easy is Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. Much of the year's income for many of Rio’s inhabitants is the direct result of Carnival Season. Fat Tuesday is always the day before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. Because this date, like Easter, is governed by the moon's cycles, it occurs on a different date every year. This year, it is on February 5th, the earliest it has been in twenty years.
An official in Rio wants the date for Carnival to be on the same day every year. This is because the earlier the event occurs, the less revenue it generates. My close friend and fellow author r. r. Bryan, himself a devout Catholic, assures me that this will never happen. r. r. wrote All the Angels and Saints, a novel about a Catholic missionary in Guatemala.
While a devout Catholic, r. r. is also a fun junkie who lived in and around New Orleans for many years. His son Matt (whose birthday is today, incidentally - he as waited for this day all his life!) didn't believe it when we told him that crowds were often packed so tightly on Bourbon Street during times past that you could literally raise your feet off the pavement and remain suspended in the air.
I find it hard to believe that today is the third Fat Tuesday celebration in New Orleans since the devastation brought by the monster hurricane season of 2005. While far from full recovery, NO is moving in the right direction. It was 84 degrees in the French Quarter today and I sit in front of the TV watching the early voting returns, I am wishing I was there instead of here.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Many other cities celebrate the pre-Lenten season with both festivities and frivolities. Most prominent, other than the Big Easy is Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. Much of the year's income for many of Rio’s inhabitants is the direct result of Carnival Season. Fat Tuesday is always the day before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. Because this date, like Easter, is governed by the moon's cycles, it occurs on a different date every year. This year, it is on February 5th, the earliest it has been in twenty years.
An official in Rio wants the date for Carnival to be on the same day every year. This is because the earlier the event occurs, the less revenue it generates. My close friend and fellow author r. r. Bryan, himself a devout Catholic, assures me that this will never happen. r. r. wrote All the Angels and Saints, a novel about a Catholic missionary in Guatemala.
While a devout Catholic, r. r. is also a fun junkie who lived in and around New Orleans for many years. His son Matt (whose birthday is today, incidentally - he as waited for this day all his life!) didn't believe it when we told him that crowds were often packed so tightly on Bourbon Street during times past that you could literally raise your feet off the pavement and remain suspended in the air.
I find it hard to believe that today is the third Fat Tuesday celebration in New Orleans since the devastation brought by the monster hurricane season of 2005. While far from full recovery, NO is moving in the right direction. It was 84 degrees in the French Quarter today and I sit in front of the TV watching the early voting returns, I am wishing I was there instead of here.
http://www.ericwilder.com
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