DAD AND GOD AT MARDI GRAS
My father, a lovable farm boy with 12 siblings, from upstate New York, had calm blue eyes that sought mine whenever he uttered one of his “sayings” such as, “Patty, there are always three sides to every story─theirs, yours, and the truth which usually lies somewhere in the middle.” Or “Life is simply profound and profoundly simple.” And my favorite, “Remember, Patty, the glass is always half full.”
Dad imagined himself to be a folk humorist in the style of his hero Will Rogers. As a child I was fascinated with Dad’s words though their meanings escaped me. As I grew older and life happened, that changed.
Daddy was a working man, a banjo-playing Christian husband and father interested in everything the world had to offer. He augmented his eighth-grade education, obtained in a one-room schoolhouse, by reading two newspapers daily and every book Zane Gray and Louie L’Amour ever wrote. I am surprised how often memories of Dad and his “sayings” flood my soul at odd moments as I go about my retired life. Such rushes of reverie happened to me last week in New Orleans, a city with a split personality disorder. That week harbors some of the best days of my life. I’ll let you identify for yourself, dear reader, which day was the best day of my best week with Dad.
Humans have a dual nature; the lighter and darker sides of our character. New Orleans has a similar nature. It has multiple faces and comes by its nickname, The Big Easy, readily.
The year-round humid climate, the succulent foods, the incessant beat of zydeco and Cajun melodies coupled with the soul of Dixieland and jazz, and the French and Spanish architecture are all strong influences. The rolling Mississippi River with its resulting estuaries, swamps and lakes, contributes a rhythmic flow. And the food! The power of gluttony has a strong pull when you are inhaling aromas of Creole shrimp, red beans and rice, jambalaya, and steamed crawdads.
I am struck by Dad’s “theirs, yours, and the truth” image of life each time I return to Naw’lins. When my oldest daughter’s family was stationed at the Navy base there, I became familiar with the lighter side of the city’s image: the zoo, aquarium, museums, and historic buildings in the Garden District. I also witnessed the darker side: the high crime rate, too many crumbling public schools, lingering racial issues, and the one-dimensional, tawdry image of Mardi Gras projected by the media.
In my mind last week, Dad accompanied me as we passed Preservation Hall and stopped to listen to a banjo player strumming a rousing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Together we joined the crowds on St. Charles Avenue and Canal Street shouting, “Hey, Mister! Throw me something,” and chuckled as revelers scrambled to catch the “throws” along the parade route. Dad grinned at the heavily-sequined band uniforms on high school students strutting with pride down the streets on Fat Tuesday.
On this year’s trip I drove a different route to Harvey, a suburb of New Orleans. I passed an abandoned synagogue. There it sat, a forlorn Jewish sanctuary hemmed into its muggy ghetto by dilapidated warehouses; its broken windows and boarded doorways barred entry. Yet the Yiddish characters intact on its facade proclaimed faithfulness to Messiah.
I stayed in a hotel on the West Bank of the Mississippi because I was familiar with the area and knew it to be safe. From there I shuttled each day from my hotel to the ferry station at Algiers Point. It was a twelve-minute ride across Ol’ Man River to the station behind the Spanish Plaza a few short blocks from the French Quarter.
For the next few days I witnessed Dad’s “glass-half-empty-half-full” phenomenon.
When I arrived in Harvey, the welcome sign on the marquee of my hotel stated PRAYER WORKS. The Gideon Bible in my room was opened to Mark 2:17, “I have come to call not the righteous, but sinners.” I realized guests who would be overindulging in a wide variety of “fun” every night this week had a Bible in their rooms, too, probably opened to the same verse.
In the middle of Bourbon Street the next morning, thick boisterous crowds swung in both directions. A man of fifty wearing a plaid, cotton, short-sleeved shirt handed me a pamphlet. It said JESUS LOVES YOU. Following the example of The Man he represented, who had extended Himself to the lame, the sick, and the blind, the worker in the vineyard of Bourbon Street offered a brochure to a woman dressed in an outrageous costume. She received it with a smile, which he returned.
In nearby Metarie another evening, a teenage girl and boy handed me prayer cards reminding me GOD HAS FORGIVEN YOU. I remembered my Lord forgave the criminal hanging next to Him on Calvary. Life is profoundly simple and simply profound, Dad uttered softly in my ear.
I am certain I wandered the streets each day with prostitutes and sinners, and I acknowledged I am one of them. I am a doubter and a sinner, too, daily balancing my personal good and evil natures. I walked with them, they walked with me, and Dad and God walked along with us.
One morning in the center of an intersection a burly, barrel-chested man held a huge placard high above the throng: JESUS ACCEPTS SINNERS. I heard Dad whisper again. The truth is usually somewhere in the middle. This man was standing in the middle.
Once a day Dad and I ate beignet and drank cafe au lait at the Cafe du Monde. The waiters there wear paper hats with the restaurant’s logo inscribed on them. I asked one, “How do I get a hat like yours to take home with me?” He replied, “All you have to do is ask.” His answer had a familiar ring to it. Life is profoundly simple. Right again, Dad.
Early one morning I joined other hotel guests on a shuttle bus headed to the ferry station. We were the proverbial motley crew. Two twenty-something males already seated ─ their necks resplendent with last night’s shiny beads─ wore last night’s wrinkled clothes. Two teenage females boarded; one in torn fishnet stockings beneath her dark mini skirt sported a purple pageboy wig, the other in an orange tank top inside a long black jacket wore pink hair twisted into a weird braid. Both had arms adorned with risqué tattoos. There was a Eurasian couple in their thirties and me, a scrutinizing retiree from the foothills of the Ozarks. All of us God’s children.
We reached the ferry station and joined others inside. I struck up a conversation with the Eurasian couple. The waiting area was a concrete tunnel with narrow benches attached to one side of a metal stanchion. Tall banks of windows offered a clear view of downtown New Orleans across the river. Rising from the skyline was the magnificent architecture of the St. Louis Cathedral. As I focused on the incredible view I realized a group of about 30 people were entering behind us.
Then I heard it. It came from out of nowhere. A rich baritone singing “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty…” One by one, other voices joined his. By verse two, my voice was swept along with theirs. I glanced left then right. I was not the only one who had joined the impromptu choir. We moved from verse to verse. The volume rose. The emotional intensity increased. The observer in me collected those around me.
In this multi-generational crowd some tapped their feet to the rhythm of the music, some diverted their eyes any direction they could away from the singers in embarrassment. The floor vibrated in harmony with the spontaneous concert. A businessman in a black suit grew annoyed, separated himself from everyone. Yet a group of men in baseball caps stood entranced with the scene.
Several children walked closer to read the words on the back of the navy blue tee shirts the singers were wearing. Others dismissed the music altogether and continued reading their morning newspaper. A few paced the trembling floor nervously. Life is simply profound.
The young woman with the purple pageboy drew closer to her friend in the orange-tank top. A strange mix of melancholy and defensiveness encamped in both their faces. They hugged each other for comfort and reassurance.
That song ended. “Jesus Is the Lord We Serve” began. The tempo and the clapping increased with each verse. A man in his sixties, wearing a jester hat in traditional Mardi Gras colors stood next to an anorexic girl in a purple suit, strands of beads covering her flat chest. Quietly the gate at the end of the tunnel slid open allowing us access to the approaching ferry. Travelers on the incoming boat heard the music and added their voices and hands to the swelling sound. Embarking and disembarking crowds passed each other singing, clapping, smiling. The glass is half full, Dad.
I hurried forward to catch up with the singers climbing to the upper decks. They were students from a Bible College in New Orleans. Between songs, their leader explained aloud that their curriculum required as many hours of practical ministry as it does of classroom study. They come to the Vieux Carre every Friday and Saturday to minister. The baritone soloist today was Thor, a former cocaine addict, who walked into the college one day off the streets of the French Quarter and is currently finishing his senior year. In my heart I felt Dad smile.
What, Dad? Oh, I agree. God loves crowds so he came to Mardi Gras to be with His people.
“I am so happy you and I can be here together, Patty,” Dad said. “This is the best trip we’ve ever taken. Thanks for bringing me along.”
My pleasure, Dad. And you’re right, “Life is simply profound and profoundly simple.”
