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spidersweb1My family decided, some months back, that they wanted to have a "New Orleans Memorial" evening to remember everything that was, and it would be most convenient to have it the day before Thanksgiving. At first, I thought it bordered on the ridiculous, but as I have processed the flood (pun intended) of emotion and information that has been the aftermath of this, I discovered this was a funeral I wanted to attend. I needed to pay my respects; I needed to honor the loss of the corruption and culture together.
In addition to the menu of:
Sazerac Cocktails
Oysters Foch a la Antoines
Shrimp Remoulade
Monkey Bay Chardonnay
Grits and Grillades
Francis Ford Coppola Claret
Pralines
Seven Hills Cab Sav
We also each read or recited our most pertinent and persistent memories of New Orleans... what had happened there, what it meant to us, what it represented... the first time my grandparents visited before being relocated there; the antiques store owner who told my parents, when they were still teenagers, that they would get married; the first time my sister and I were old enough to be embarrassed by my parents; the time my sister got arrested; the sense of life that I always felt, even in in a house up late at night when everyone else should have been asleep; and the first time I realized I could mourn the loss of a place as much as a person. We cried, we drank, we enjoyed good food and talked of what had likely been before our time, and what might be in the future.
And all the while, we played records of Dixieland Jazz, of Preservation Hall, of all the greats performers who were born against her bosom.
Our innocence has been lost; we can never have that again, but New Orleans will be there, old and new. She has not gone gracefully into that dark night, but has made sure that no one will ever forget her latest transformation.
For my good friend gone, I say a prayer. I look forward to the day when I can mutter, like a benediction, "Laissez les Bontemps Roulez."
Photography by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidlemur
In addition to the menu of:
Sazerac Cocktails
Oysters Foch a la Antoines
Shrimp Remoulade
Monkey Bay Chardonnay
Grits and Grillades
Francis Ford Coppola Claret
Pralines
Seven Hills Cab Sav
We also each read or recited our most pertinent and persistent memories of New Orleans... what had happened there, what it meant to us, what it represented... the first time my grandparents visited before being relocated there; the antiques store owner who told my parents, when they were still teenagers, that they would get married; the first time my sister and I were old enough to be embarrassed by my parents; the time my sister got arrested; the sense of life that I always felt, even in in a house up late at night when everyone else should have been asleep; and the first time I realized I could mourn the loss of a place as much as a person. We cried, we drank, we enjoyed good food and talked of what had likely been before our time, and what might be in the future.
And all the while, we played records of Dixieland Jazz, of Preservation Hall, of all the greats performers who were born against her bosom.
Our innocence has been lost; we can never have that again, but New Orleans will be there, old and new. She has not gone gracefully into that dark night, but has made sure that no one will ever forget her latest transformation.
For my good friend gone, I say a prayer. I look forward to the day when I can mutter, like a benediction, "Laissez les Bontemps Roulez."
Photography by rabidlemur
