New Orleans 1994

Others may disagree, but I believe there are only four cities in the United States: New Orleans, San Francisco, San Antonio, and all the rest.

The Big Three are unique with vivid personalities. Their mystique is made up of much more than San Francisco's cute cable cars or San Antonio's magnificent River Walk or New Orleans' trendy French Quarter. These cities have soul. They speak to our innermost feelings. No one who has visited them remains detached. They capture your imagination in the same way Edinburgh, Kathmandu, or Stockholm do.

Other U.S. cities may be more beautiful or possess a bigger economic punch or have a combination of noteworthy features that surpasses New Orleans, San Antonio, and San Francisco. But, when compared to the Big Three, they are generic, Anglo-Saxon villages. Their bland sameness evokes little response, either positive or negative.

So, I was pleased and happy when I learned that the sons and daughters of the seven Ousley sisters — Evelyn Bailey, Lucille Sofge, Merle Shepherd, Norma Jean Beddingfield, Ann Hoadley, Frances Johnson, and Sharon Kling — had planned a reunion in New Orleans for August 11 through 15, 1994. I have visited New Orleans on about five occasions in my lifetime. I've always looked forward to returning.

Our nieces and nephews made the arrangements. All Frances and I had to do was get there.

At 8:45 am on August 11, we boarded Continental Flight 1536. From a standing stop, lift-off took thirty seconds, and 65 minutes later, we touched down at New Orleans International Airport. A long walk from the gate to the baggage claim area and a short bus ride to Hertz, and we drove away to the Hotel Provincial at 1024 Rue Chartres.

In spite of a spiffy, computer-generated set of directions and Frances' help, I took several wrong turns. Eventually, we found the hotel and registered.

The Hotel Provincial is composed of several independent but connected structures, none of which is more than four stories high. A bronze plaque just outside the main entrance recorded its history. 150 years ago, a wealthy family lived in the main building. Later, it became an ice house and served the community in that capacity for many years. Today, with three recently acquired adjacent buildings, it is used as a hotel.

The desk clerk told us that our room (number 103) wouldn't be ready until 3:00 pm. While waiting, we decided to go for a walk to get our bearings. The hotel's advertisements said that we were near the French Market, Jackson Square, and Decatur Street. Exiting the hotel on Chartres Street, we walked one-half block east, turned right (south) onto St. Philip Street. We ate lunch at the intersection of St. Philip and Decatur, catercorner to the old French Market. Long ago, farmers sold their produce here to the people living in the French Quarter. Now, it is a large flea market, although some produce is still sold.

We browsed. If you want primitive African jewelry, sold by primitive Africans, or garish "Tec"-shirts, or dried alligator heads, or Asian brass junk, this is your place.

We continued our walk to Jackson Square. In the order and discipline of its layout, the French Quarter or Vieux Carre reminds me of colonial Williamsburg, Virginia. The arrow-straight streets intersecting at ninety-degree angles have the sense of order and logic that the eighteenth century was noted for.

Unlike Williamsburg, the buildings are true 18th and 19th century and not reproductions. The houses were constructed to be lived in. They have served that purpose for over a hundred and fifty years. The tallest buildings are no more than four stories, with the majority being one or two stories. The buildings snuggle against each other. Sometimes, there is a narrow (4 feet) alleyway between them. Facing the street, they are built up to the sidewalk. Usually, each house has a hidden, inner courtyard. The purpose was to give lovely Creole ladies access to open skies while shielding them from the town's passing eyes. I suspect the open, inner courtyards provided much-needed ventilation in the days before AC.

Today, the buildings of the French Quarter contain every component of a modern American city. There are distinctive restaurants, museums, libraries, striptease joints, gay bars, hotels, churches, hundreds of different shops, and yet, it is much closer in feel to a Mediterranean village than a Gulf Coast town. There is a human scale to the layout that tells us it was planned by people who understood the joy of being alive. They had time for each other. The streets, being narrow (20 feet usually) and intimate, invite strolling and conversation.

Walking the streets is like being a bit player in a Fellini movie. It is easy to distinguish the locals from tourists. Locals glide along, heads down, close to the buildings on the shady side of the street. On the sunny side, tourists amble about in wide-eyed fascination.

Here are young boys and girls wearing bizarre hairdos and makeup and dressed in leather and metal chains. Here are Southern matrons in long dresses and proper shoes looking like they have been dressed by their mothers. Here, little, old ladies from the mid-west in baggy shorts and tennis shoes waddle along with god-awful kangaroo pouches strapped around their middle. Their sour-faced husbands walk beside them wearing shorts and "gimme" caps with black leather loafers and sagging black socks.

There is no code of behavior. I guess that is why they call New Orleans, "The Big Easy". Do your own thing. Go with the flow. Personal freedom elevated to anarchy.

Our guide book listed over thirty-seven places of interest in the ninety block area of the French Quarter. We looked at many. I won't recount their history, except to say that a terrible fire in 1788 and another one in 1794 destroyed all but two of the original French buildings. Most of the existing buildings were constructed from 1795 through 1900.

We returned to the Provincial at 3:30 p.m. and checked in. Our room had a distinct French-country feel — well, as I would imagine a French-country house, never having seen one except in pictures! There was a canopied bed, an old armoir, floral wallpaper, and a "Casablanca"-type ceiling fan that turned ever so slowly. It was cozy. Other than a Toshiba telephone, the only hint of modern was a plastic tub whose bottom flexed when you stood to shower. Frances hated it; she said it reminded her of standing in a small boat.

Later, back at the hotel and getting hungry, we decided it would be impractical to get everyone together for dinner. We broke up into small groups, each going their own way. Monk and Norma Jean, Evelyn and Lamar, and Frances and I found ourselves at a small Greek restaurant. This was not a memorable dining experience.

We saw Allison (33) Anderson, who told us that others were in Ann (Ousley) Hoadley's suite. We followed her there. Imagine our surprise to find a full-blown party in progress! Lucille (Ousley) and Tom Sofge, Norma Jean (Ousley) and Monk Beddingfield, Evelyn (Ousley) and Lamar Bailey, Sharon (Ousley) Kling with Peter (14 yrs), Rebecca (8 yrs), and Danny (20 yrs) Kling all talking at once! Little Hannah (2 yrs) and Noah (8 months) Anderson were there also. What a happy baby Noah is! He looks like Winston Churchill, but then, all babies resemble the Honorable Mr. Churchill.

After greeting everyone and getting caught up with the latest, Evelyn, Lucile, Norma Jean, Lenorae (15) Atter, Tom, Monk, Frances, and I walked to Jackson Square. We stopped for beignets, pronounced (ben-yays), and coffee at Cafe du Monde. A beignet is a puffed-up square of chewy fried dough that you sprinkle with powdered sugar from the shaker on the table. The coffee is half hot milk and half jet-black coffee brewed with a tad of ground, roasted chicory root. It will pop your eyes open after one tiny sip.

The Cafe du Monde is a marvelous people-watching place. The cafe is the gateway to the French Market that extends in old, colonnaded buildings several blocks along the river. Since the cafe is open 24 hours a day, every day except Christmas, what you see depends upon the time of day. The cafe really isn't much, but it has charm and community that make it one of my favorite spots in the Quarter.

Later, back at the hotel and getting hungry, we decided it would be impractical to get everyone together for dinner. We broke up into small groups, each going their own way. Monk and Norma Jean, Evelyn and Lamar, and Frances and I found ourselves at a small Greek restaurant. This was not a memorable dining experience.

On Friday, August 12, 1994, Frances arranged a Gray Line tour of the city. Fifteen in our reunion group elected to go. They were Sharon, Rebecca, and Peter Kling; Helen, Mike, Brittany, and Lenorae Atter; Lucile and Tom; Evelyn and Lamar; Norma Jean and Monk; and Frances and me. Other sightseers joined us. There were about thirty on the tour. We traveled in a large, interstate-type bus that was comfortable. We drove along Decatur Street by Jackson Square. Our guide, Ray Bing, said that initially, it was a parade ground used for military drills. In 1848, it was renamed to honor General Jackson's 1815 victory over the British during the War of 1812.

As our tour continued, Ray told us how the invention of the steam paddle wheeler in 1806 led to a booming economy in New Orleans by 1812. The Mississippi River opened the interior of the U.S. to cheap and easy resupply by water from New Orleans. The city blossomed with wealth.

We visited a cemetery. 300 years ago, the original settlers found that their dead, buried in wooden coffins, floated to the surface after heavy rains. They tried everything from weighing them down with heavy rocks to covering the coffins with cement slabs to keep them underground. Nothing worked because New Orleans is below sea level. Eventually, they hit upon a solution in above-ground vaults.

Families purchased a plot and constructed a vault out of brick. As family members died, they were placed in the vault. It was sealed. To reduce the potential for disease, the citizens passed a law that required the vaults be sealed for a year and one day.

When another member of the family passed away and assuming that the family vault had been sealed for longer than a year, the vault was opened. The remains from a previous burial were put in a paper sack and placed in the bottom of the vault. The recently deceased—in a wooden coffin—was put on a shelf in the vault. In due course, it too would decay and be put in a paper bag and dropped in the bottom. Eventually, the remains in the bottom of the vault would return to dust. In this way, hundreds of people would find their resting place in the same small family vault. This system was efficient; it saved real estate for better purposes. The people of New Orleans use the same methods today.

Our tour took us by Lake Pontchartrain's shore and through mid-city to uptown New Orleans. We traveled down St. Charles Avenue and saw how the white 25% of New Orleans' population lived. All the time, Ray regaled us with a running commentary on the fascinating history and mores of this unusual city. Our group had a wonderful time.

Friday evening, Monk and Norma Jean, Tom and Lucille, Lamar and Evelyn, and Frances and I ate dinner at La Madeline.

Preservation Hall

Afterwards, we went to Preservation Hall to hear authentic New Orleans Jazz. (The rumor is that Dixieland Jazz began here.) Monk said that we needed to be there early to be assured of a seat on one of the two or three benches. If not, you could sit on the floor (not recommended) or stand during the performance.

Preservation Hall at 726 St. Peter Street was a short walk from La Madeline. We arrived about 7:00 p.m. and began the line. Within minutes, people queued up behind us. There must have been 75 to 100. As we waited, Keith (38), Kathy (38), April (14), and Matthew (9) Beddingfield drove up and called out to us. They had just arrived from Nashville and were looking for the hotel. Keith said that he suspected that his dad (Monk) and mother (Norma Jean) would be at Preservation Hall.

We chatted with a couple in line behind us; they were from Albany, New York. Across the street on a second-story balcony, I noticed a large and beautiful Dalmatian. Soon, he raised his leg and began to pee. He continued for a full minute. I started laughing because, standing directly under the balcony on the sidewalk, was a man.

The man must have felt some drops. He held out his hand as if to test for rain. By now, our line of people was doubling up in laughter. The man stood there looking all about, trying to figure out what was so funny. The dog finished, swished his tail, and disappeared through a balcony door. My sides hurt, and tears came to my eyes.

About 8:00 p.m., a thin, old, white lady (in her seventies) walked up and commanded us to "Move back!" She unlocked the iron gate barring the opening to Preservation Hall. Her manner was imperial, almost disdainful, as she shooed us away. Others, presumably musicians, arrived and were let in. About 8:15 p.m., we paid $3.00 each and were admitted.

The Hall was a room about 40' by 20' in an old Creole building. Against the front wall (fronting on the street), there were two dingy windows, six broken-down chairs, four rusty fans, and an old rattletrap piano. The room filled quickly. Our party had seats. Soon, over 100 people crammed into this "hall." The air was stifling, even with the fans on high.

The band entered and introduced themselves. An elderly and emaciated white man played the trombone. Blacks handled the base fiddle, drums, clarinet, and trumpet. The thin, old, white woman played the piano. The music was from the heart. The notes blasted out in a pounding surge that had us tapping our feet. The music didn't have the mathematical precision of a Bach or the musicality of Mozart, but it did have soul. The instruments cried. The crowd loved it. There were some young girls from France sitting in front of us. They appeared mesmerized as they rocked back and forth to the beat. The band took a break at 10:30 p.m. We decided to leave. I was glad to get some fresh air. There was a line of people waiting to get in.

Back at the hotel, I turned in. Frances, Norma Jean, and Evelyn decided to wait in the courtyard for Norman (46), Becky (45), Bryan (15), and Brett (12) Bailey to arrive. The next morning, Frances told me that she stayed up until 1:30 a.m. chatting as the group grew and conversation kept going.

Early Saturday, August 13, Lucille and Tom and their daughter-in-law, Shula (43), and Frances and I set out to ride the St. Charles streetcar. This is a "must do" item for visitors. We boarded at the corner of Carondelet and Canal Street in the heart of the central business district. The car was full of locals. We stood hanging onto leather straps attached to a metal pipe running the length of the car.

Being a streetcar (powered by electricity), the electricity is supplied through a single overhead power line and grounded through the metal tracks. The cars — 35 total — were built in 1923 and '24 in High Point, North Carolina. The New Orleans Transit Authority has renovated the fleet several times, but they have maintained their character. For example, the original wooden seats are still in use. Yes, they are hard, but who cares.

One feels sealed up in modern conveyances with refrigerated and filtered air. By contrast, streetcars have an open, spacious feel. Their large windows let in the outside air. Swaying along at a sedate 20 MPH with air swirling around and hearing the various metallic shrieks punctuated by the loud ringing of the onboard bell, is a carnival-like experience. When the streetcar comes to a stop, it shudders like a dog shedding water. Then, all is silent. It is an eerie sensation. Starting off, steel wheels meet steel rails to produce a grinding, but smooth ride. We laughed. I took lots of photographs. I challenge anyone to ride the streetcars and not smile down deep.

In the vicinity of Lee Circle, we had seats. Sitting, you can see better. We passed beautiful and elegant mansions and many architecturally and historically significant buildings. For most of our journey, hundreds of live oaks watched us from each side of the street. Judging from their size, I would guess they were over 120 years old.

On this ride, you can see a real-life replica of Tara, Scarlett O'Hara's family home in "Gone With The Wind." Who cares that it was copied from MGM's 1940 movie set? Strangely, this house fits into a metropolitan setting. It doesn't need acres of lawn to set off its beauty.

We got off at the end of the line at the intersection of St. Charles and Carrollton Avenue. Across the street is the one-and-only Camellia Grill. This hamburger joint is famous for old-fashioned counter service and marvelous hamburgers, club sandwiches, and pecan pie. Since the Camellia Grill is near Loyola and Tulane Universities, many college students eat there. We had a long (45 minutes) wait to get in. Seating is limited to the counters; I would guess only about twenty-five people can be seated at one time. While waiting, we chatted with a couple from Baton Rouge who were visiting with their daughter. The mother told us she went to school at Loyola and had many "burgers" at the Grill.

During this outing, I got to know Shula better. Born in Iraq, raised in Israel, and educated in the U.S., I found her charming and fascinating. Now that the Israelis and Palestinians are getting together, I asked her what she thought was the prospect for long-term peace. Without batting an eye, she said, "Not good." Hallelujah! Here is a person who speaks their truth simply without telling you what they think you want to hear.

A typical American response would have been some pollyannish, politically correct nonsense like, "I'm so encouraged...we're on the verge of a major breakthrough...at long last the Palestinians and Israelis are talking—really talking—to each other." It seems to me that everyone is running for political office. They must choose their words carefully to avoid offending some group. I found Shula's comments refreshingly candid.

After eating, we boarded another streetcar and returned to the central business district ...where we began the day. We walked back to the hotel and cleaned up for dinner. Rene Olivier had arranged for the group to have dinner at "Ralph and Kacoo's" at 519 Toulouse in the Quarter.

Before dinner, we gathered in the hospitality suite for a group picture. Curtis James and Rene struggled to place us so that all would be included in the picture.

Norman Bailey (46) and I talked about the automobile business. It's good, surprisingly so. Listening to Norman, I realized once again what a wonderful personality he has. He could carry on a conversation with a deaf-mute. If I didn't despise politicians so much, I would urge him to go into politics.

Phil Bailey (38) and I discussed land and the economy in Meridian. Phil usually surprises me with his opinions. He is open-minded. And, I have found him to be generous in his opinions of others, even politicians. I enjoy his company.

Dan Kling and I talked about the situation in Haiti. Dan has been working hard for the Army in logistic support for our forces. Dan said the armed forces are all "purple suiters" (a combination of Army green, Navy, and Air Force blues) now that the Army, Navy, and Air Force are operating as combined forces. Dan's comments were fascinating. I wish we had more time to talk.

David Sofge (43) and I discussed Janet Reno (The Clinton Administration's Attorney General). David said that he thought she was a person of integrity, although he might not agree with some of her positions. I said that I'd never forgive her for sending tanks against some harmless religious fanatics in the Branch Dividian fiasco at Waco. The ATF and FBI gave us a fresh look at Nazi Gestapo tactics of WW II.

As we talked, I recalled another conversation we had in Miami in 1966. Fran, Rod, David, and I were on our way to the Canal Zone. We had a stop-over in Miami and stayed with Tom and Lucille. David was about 16. We had a lively discussion about Vietnam. He was an intelligent and perceptive young man then, and the years haven't changed him.

Eric (14), David and Shula's son, reminds me of David when he was about that age. He has the same bright curiosity, focus, and intensity.

We had a grand time sharing a marvelous dinner. Matt, Jodi's boyfriend from Birmingham, impressed us by going around the table calling everyone by name. This was quite a feat since he had never met the people before.

Waiting for our food to be served, the young ladies formed a circle and played a game called "What can you do, Prunella?" One would step into the center and perform a dance step that the others would imitate, and so on until all had a turn.

After dinner, we walked five blocks to the restaurant. Since we had a large group, the restaurant put us in a separate room. "Ralph and Kacoo's" features Cajun cooking. They have a wonderful crab gumbo, trout meuniere, fried shrimp, and other delicious varieties of sautéed fish. The Cajun theme is followed with a fishing boat in the bar and other nostalgic artifacts placed everywhere.

With our meal finished, we said our goodbyes, knowing that some would be leaving in the morning. Curtis had talked about another activity, but I'm not sure what it was.

Sunday morning, August 14, 1994, families departed at different times. Fran and I drove to the airport and returned to Houston.

On the flight back, I had time to reflect on the past thirty-plus years knowing the Ousley family. Arthur and Elsie Ousley deserve our gratitude for the daughters they raised and the standards of love, compassion, and sharing they set.

Time passes quickly. Familiar things change often.

Family reunions help us remember who we are and where we come from. They give us something to hold onto and share.

The most special thing is to see how much the young people appreciate the get-togethers and work to make them a success. May we have many more!