new orleans

Jazz and Taxes

/ Lori McLeese / 5 Comments

I have been known to procrastinate. One of my first jobs was as a writer for the local newspaper and there was a thrill of turning something great in, right at the deadline. There is one major exception to my habit of procrastination. Taxes. I relish filing my taxes as soon as possible. I sat down this weekend, determined to have all the requisite paperwork to the accountants by Monday. This year, however, I had two sets of taxes to prepare. Mine, and my parents’. I probably should have done mine first. But for some reason, I didn’t.

As I worked through the organizer my Dad’s accountant sent me, questions stabbed me.

“Change in marital status?” Yes, J deceased in April 2019; S widowed in April 2019.

“Sale of residence?” Yes, after my Mom could no longer live on her own.

“Medical receipts?” So. Many. Medical. Receipts. As I organized them by month, the painful memory of each individual receipt overwhelmed me. Trips to the Emergency Department. Prescriptions in the hospital pharmacy. Waiting at the cancer center pharmacy. Trip after trip after trip to the local CVS, filling prescriptions for drugs that didn’t work.

I couldn’t breathe. I was back in 2019, back hoping that each proposed treatment would allow Dad to continue to live the life he wanted to. Not aware that he would leave us so soon. Gullible and believing him when he said that he would get better. And then I was sad. So incredibly sad that he wasn’t able to live the life he wanted to for as long as he wanted to. That he’s no longer here.

************

A friend invited me to join her for a special Fat Tuesday dinner tonight. The restaurant was serving special New Orleans cuisine and a jazz band played throughout dinner. Gold, green, and purple beads hung from the fixtures. She talked about going to New Orleans with her brother, and how he went to bed so early and they didn’t get to experience the late night jazz New Orleans is famous for. And just like that, I was overwhelmed with memories of my first trip to New Orleans.

I had just graduated from college and Dad said we should take a trip, just the two of us. I suggested New Orleans, and he booked everything. We saw all the historical sites during the day, and at night we ate great food and listened to so. much. music. I’d suggest going to one more bar to hear one more band, and he was always up for it. Our agreement was we could stay out as late as I wanted, but we had to be up at 8 am (ouch) the next morning to tackle the historical sites.

As I listened to the band tonight, I know that I’m forgetting parts of the trip. I so desperately want to remember every detail. When I returned home, I pulled out a box of pictures from that time (back when we still printed pictures from a roll of film at the local drug store) and looked for a picture of us from that trip. I couldn’t find any of us together. There were pictures he took of me, and pictures I took of him, but we hadn’t had the foresight to ask someone to take one of us together. And then I was sad again.

 

 

Bourbon Street Beckons

/ Lori McLeese / 3 Comments

“Titties. Ass. Beer.” The barker saw me walking with the five guys. “You can come too, lady.” Southern hospitality. Nothing like it.

Walking down Bourbon Street

Walking down Bourbon Street

We walked into a bar advertising a ridiculous special. 3 drinks for the price of 1? 5 for the price of 3? I can’t remember. Beau walked up to the bartender. “Could you make us 5 of the most ridiculous tourist drinks possible?” Her reply? “Double?” Why, of course. Minutes later we had stadium cups full of sweetness, in all colors of the rainbow.

A Rainbow of Tourist Beverages

A Rainbow of Tourist Beverages

At one intersection, sipping our ridiculous tourist drinks, we glance to the right, greeted by a looming shadow of Christ. It appeared as though he was coming back from the dead to haunt the revelers on Bourbon Street.

Christ over Bourbon Street

Christ over Bourbon Street

With half an hour before our dinner reservation, we decided the most prudent course of action would be to order beignets and cafe au laits, of course, at Cafe du Monde. We sat down, placed our order, and moments later were greeted by steaming pillows of fried goodness dusted with powdered sugar. A fresh beignet is like a taste of heaven. The powdered sugar simply melts in your mouth, along with the steamy hot fried dough. Ahhhhhh.

Beignets and Cafe au Lait

Beignets and Cafe au Lait

We made our way to Arnaud’s and were seated in the Jazz Bistro. The trio approached each table, taking requests, or, in our case, playing their favorites. After performing Hallelujah I Love Her So for us, complete with spinning bass and knocking, they moved on to the next table, embarking on What a Wonderful World.

Hallelujah I Love Her So

Hallelujah I Love Her So

Our dinners came, full on New Orleans style – alligator sausage, frogs’ legs, fish with crab, gumbo. Completely stuffed, we insisted we couldn’t have dessert. Until we saw the flames at the nearby table. Bananas foster? Why, yes, please.

Bananas Foster. And Flames.

Bananas Foster. And Flames.

All in all, a remarkable, memorable, evening on Bourbon Street.

Team Social Takes Bourbon Street

Team Social Takes Bourbon Street

The Near and the Far

/ Lori McLeese / 1 Comment

I told the cab driver, “We need to make two stops. One at the Verizon store, then the second at a house on Napoleon Ave.” The taxi driver nodded and started off. While Justin was inside the Verizon store, I told the taxi driver the exact address of the house: 2203 Napoleon Avenue, cross street Loyola. “Cross street Loyola? That’s not possible; that’s far away.” I shrugged. “Maybe. It could be far away. That’s the address I have.” “No, it must be close by.” I questioned his logic. Theoretically, a destination could be far away from the airport.

Justin came back to the cab and we set off once again. We came to West Napoleon. We cruised up and down. The cab driver stopped. “West Napoleon, right?” “No, I think it’s just Napoleon. Cross street Loyola.” “No, Loyola is too far away.” Once again, I wondered why he thought we couldn’t be staying at an address far away from the airport.

“Okay. Let me call my co-worker.”

“Hey, Mike, where is the house? On Napoleon, or West Napoleon?” “Umm. I think Napoleon. Let me check.” Wait. Wait. Wait. “Yep, Napoleon, cross street Loyola.” I conveyed this information to the cab driver. Exasperated, he said, “But that’s so far away! You didn’t tell me that.”

In my head, I thought, “You’re a cab driver. I thought that I could give you an address and you would take us there.” Externally I said, “Could you please take us there?”

More exasperated, “I gave you the near-by fare. That was to here. The address you’re telling me is far away. That’s the far-away fare.” I thought for a moment. “Could you please take us there? We’ll pay the far-away fare.”

He thought for a moment. “Okay.”

We arrived at our destination. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought you were going near, so I told you the near-by price, but you were really going far.”

I’ve never had a taxi driver explain the fare in near-by or far-away terms, and was simply happy we arrived safe and sound.