Missing the Terrier

I'm not sleeping so good.

I know, the grammar stinks, but, so are my sleeping patterns.

I'm used to a 10lb body of white fur curled around my feet or stretched out along my legs or in my face, telling me she has to go out at 3A.

I lie in my bed, and can't quite fall into that deep sleep, because something is missing... the same way I didn't fall completely asleep until I heard the gate squeak.

When I was home in New Orleans, my mother came and picked the terrier up and took her back to her home. It was for the best, I told myself. I work freelance, and sometimes I'm here, and sometimes, I'm gone for 12 hours at a time.

The terrier would grieve when I left. She had no concept of time, and she would sit by the door even when I was in Utah, and we were at the Neebes' home, and wait.

I've been her 'pack' since she was a puppy and I rescued her from the pound in the Land of Utes... when I'd sworn I'd not have a dog again.

When we first moved to the Land of Utes, we had a dog... a funny mixed breed dog that was our delight. He, too, was a rescued dog, and fit right in with our odd group. He was protective, quiet, slept on his back, and loved us as a dog loves... completely. He moved when we did, adjusting to the new neighborhoods, always a runner, making himself known to the new houses and neighbors, who would know him before they knew us.

When playing fetch with snowballs one day, his tooth caught in a child's glove, ripped skin, the mom called the animal control and he was taken away.

Now, this animal control officer wasn't quite..... hhmmm.... decent is a word I'll use.

He followed his own set of rules on a regular basis. There was no need to take my dog. None. He had his shots and could have been held by me for the week necessary. But, take him he did... I could do nothing about it.

I was told I could pick him up in eight days, and during that time, I left messages.... messages no one returned. My visits saw no one there. Six days later, someone answered the phone...

"Hi, this is Quin. How's my dog?"

"Ummm...."

"My dog... how is he?"

"Ummmm....."

"Hello?"

"Ahhhh...ummmm..."

"You killed my dog, didn't you?"

"Do you want to talk to my boss? He's right here."

"Well, unless his name is Jesus Christ, and he can raise the fucking dead, he's no good to me, is he?"

Obviously, I wasn't too happy.

I spent the next two weeks in either the mayor or police chief's office or on the phone to them. We still remain on a first name basis. I couldn't sue, he wasn't a pure bred dog (unlike poor Blackie, may he rest in peace). The problem was, there was nothing in writing. No law on the books regarding this issue. He told me one list of days for hold, his immediate supervisor told me another amount of days that was shorter... in one meeting, it was an even shorter number of days.

"Yes, well, we checked, and it's a five day hold before we put them down." Hopeful smile.

Crickets.

"Next thing I know, you'll tell me the dog jumped up there and put the needle in himself."

By the time it was all over, and I had my slow, steady, calm way.... the man lost his job. I was one of many who had seen their dogs put down immorally, but, not illegally because there was no law broken. I just didn't shut up about it... ever.

Something I tend to do when I thin...know I'm right.

I pushed and pushed and now there is a new ordinance passed in our town, named after my dog. It sets dates and spells out what will happen if you don't come get your dog/cat. People have to sign and phone calls are made and everyone knows what will happen before the deed is done.

I feel good about that.

Flash forward a year.

The new animal control person is a friend of mine... she calls me.

"Don't you like Westies?"

"Yes, but, who can afford one?"

"I've got a six month old male here... with papers. You can have him... I put your name on him, and people want him, so, hurry up!"

TheInvestment and I drove over and there was the terrier. Dirty, ragged, long white coat, bright black eyes.

"Let's name him Baron von Wolfenstein", TheInvestment suggested, "or D".

I went with D.

Picking D up, I noticed D was missing the male parts a dog with a name like D needed.... no matter, she was named D and it stays with her even now.

The irony?

She belonged to the former officer, and a year to the day he put my old dog down, I adopted his unwanted dog.

Kinda sweet.

Now, I sit in my living room/bedroom/kitchen/dining room/foyer/hallway/guest room/sun room/den and I am alone for the first time in five years.

No little clicks of nails on the floor. No sometimes 'talking' a terrier will do. No terrier.

She's content, it seems. She talks quite a bit, which says she's unsteady as to where she is... she knows my mother, who is thrilled to have her, and feeds her and walks her and sleeps with her and calls me all the time to thank me for this wonderful gift. And she means it.

Yes, she'll settle in and be okay eventually.

I have to wonder, though, will I?

The Bus

I haven't ridden a bus to go shopping since I was a little girl, and I'd go with one of my MaMaw's to either Desiard Street in Monroe or downtown to Canal Street in New Orleans.

Today, I took the bus to do my shopping here on Staten Island. It's how you get around if you don't have a car.

You know, a car? That thing I sold?

It was an interesting journey down the main thoroughfare..... people get on, people get off, the same as on the train, only without the screaming crazy people. One guy was yelling at the bus stop... not at anyone, at the bus stop itself.

The driver just didn't open the door.

I miss the crazy people sitting there telling you about God and Martians and how George Bush really is going to save this country. I kept telling Mr. Cheney he really should find his Secret Service guys and stop grassroot stomping for his boss. It was too late.

He almost had ne believing in the Martians, though.

You cruise by a wealth of beauty shops at one point.... they sit in competition across the road from each other, both fully packed with patrons. The smell of chemical processing agents filled the air, and I noticed everyone's hair starting to curl and lighten up as we sat at a light.

Italian restaurants abound. Big ones, small ones, Mom and Pop size, something that you could put my extended family into, and have room for a few extra people. If you put your hand, you can be sure it will come back tasting of garlic.

There was the cleaners who proudly pronounced: We are a FRENCH Cleaner. Why do I believe if I go in, I'd be greeted with a sneer? "I don't really want your filthy laundry. I spit on your laundry.... it's what gives it that special sheen."

Everything imaginable is there, from autobody shops, to pool stores (where I can get the kit to fix my bed) to funeral homes. There is even a KMart, be still my heart.

I now live in suburbia....New York City style.

Who rides the bus?

A man who was quite large in every way but his feet. He had itty bitty feet encased in nice black shoes that were well kept. He read the Egyptian News, shaking his head and working his worry beads.

A couple.... both tiny. She had a scarf on, and he was meticulous. His pants crease would slice cheese. He had a beautifully groomed white mustache, and a dapper beret set just...so. He bowed slightly to his wife when he seated her, then stood over her while he was in the aisle. He didn't bend physically, you had the impression he was surrounding her being, however. That he was there for her. She'd look up and smile, and he would beam. When they left, he stepped back, took her hand to help her rise, and walked behind her, then somehow slipped ahead to help her down.

It was lovely to watch.

There were a number of women in their 60's with plastic sacks like mine, talking amongst themselves. I heard the stories of children and grandchildren. Of rent control and how crime is rising, how one group of teenagers is suddenly smoking marijuana outside on the stoop. Tsk's are heard.

A lone voice spoke up, "But, I like the smell."

Silence.

They all break into laughter.

A older woman gets on in a tight dress and her long hair is bleached blonde over grey, pulled up in the front, and hanging to her waist in the back... someone told her once she looked good in that hairstyle long ago, and she's never forgotten the compliment. She had on a gold lame belt and high heels. Her eyebrows are drawn on, highly arched... giving her a coy, surprised look. My check is in the mail? Her rouge falls into her deep wrinkles. Her jewelry clanks and claps together as she sways with the bus. When she looks in the mirror before she walks out, she sees a beautiful young woman, long ash blonde hair flowing down.... and she smiles.

A teenage girl and her grandmother... "No, NO Nana, I'm fine standing. You sit." irritable voice...the woman reaches up, and touches this girl's face, and for a moment, you feel this connection between them before the girl moves away, back into her teenage self.

The young mother and her son. He sits and winks at me and I wink back. We play the game until my stop, when I struggle up the hill with my 47 sacks of stuff.

I'm not sure I'll like the bus as much as I do the train.... no welcoming rush of air, no crazy people... but, I get to look deep into a tree and see that first leaf turning. I know other leaves are going to heed the call, and swiftly go the same path. I have trees and plants and green everywhere here, and I like that quite a bit.

Besides, there is always the ferry to take me to the trains... and I'm loving me my ferry.

Am I Back?

Train to go anywhere? Check.

Statue of Liberty? Check.

First time back underground to travel, is there a crazy person, dressed in red, yelling at everyone on the other platform, "GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!!! DIS HERE IS 'MERICA! YOU PEOPLE ALL CAUSED PROBLEMS!!! (here, she throws an empty coffee cup)I GOT MY WAR PAINT ON YOU COCKSUCKERS!! (please note, she's not Native American) I'M IN RED, 'CAUSE I GOT MY WAR PAINT ON MUTHERFUCKERS!! FUCK ALL OF YOU!" Check

Everyone on my platform carry on with their own business? Check

First announcement I hear "The R train is running slower than usual (we've been waiting 20 minutes). The W train, however, is on time. (The W train has been sitting there for 14 of those 20 minutes.. it moves forward, then back into place). Check.

First stop Chinatown, where I am asked in quick progression, "Do you want to buy watch/purse/movie? Check

The scent and taste of Chinatown? Check

Buy what I need from the dollar store on Mulberry? Check

Lunch with C from a falafel cart on the street? Check

Eight million people, walking as fast as they can, cell phones to their ears, giving me things to listen to, people to watch, stories to tell? Check



Yeah, I'm back.

You Unpack 16 Boxes, and What Do You Get?

A lot of crap.

I only had one broken item.. my favourite teapot.... English in origin, something I've had for ages and ages.. and the handle broke.

I have coffee, coffee cups, a coffee pot... and nothing to boil water in.

I have stainless and knives, and no plates.

I have a topsheet, but, no bottom one.

My pillows are in Brooklyn.

I brought four lamps.... I've no idea why, aside from the fact I like them.

I have my beautiful pottery HRH bought me from the local ceramics teacher. ALL of my old purses; I don't carry a purse in New York. Shoes, boots, four coats, magnets, two alarm clocks, my feather bed, books, dvd's (I don't have a TV) odds and ends... things to make this place a home.

Tomorrow, I take the Ferry into Manhattan.... I promise not to sing. I have curtains to buy, hangers, something to put my clothes in, and the WeatherGuy thinks I should buy a microwave, since I bought microwave food and have nothing to cook it in.

He's amusing, considering I can't carry a microwave home.

I mean, really.

I should have shipped one, I packed everything else.

New to New

Flying anywhere is never a simple task for me.

This time was no different. Oh, I arrived on time, my shrimp po'boy, purchased by Aunt A, and put into my willing hands, placed into my computer bag. I checked my luggage, for the first time ever, placing my jewelry and all of my important papers into the hands of airline employees. Not such a good idea.

The flight was going to be late getting into Atlanta, did I want to take an earlier flight, and go directly into LaGuardia?

No. I had no way of getting home.

I stayed with my current plan, I had a ride, I knew what was going on, and I could work with a 35 minute window. I'd grown up seeing OJ Simpson fly through airports. Of course, I no longer buy black leather gloves or nor would I purchase a white SUV, but, I could move through an airport with the speed of light.

This is, of course, if one's plane isn't left on the tarmac for 20 of those 35 minutes.

And, if one isn't in Terminal E, and has to go to Terminal B.

And, if the Delta rep doesn't tell one that the gate is still B6, and that sure, they know she is coming, and all is well.

And the gate is now B23..... at the OTHER end of the terminal.

And, well, I gave it up.

Re-booked on a flight leaving 48 minutes later, coffee and starting to smell a bit, even wrapped up in two layers of newspaper po'boy, in hand, I rode the train to my new gate on D Terminal.

The Atlanta airport and I became close.

I handed over the shrimp po'boy to be once again put on ice, and settled into my once again by myself seats and off we went into the wild blue yonder.

Realise, when I left New Orleans to go to New York, my luggage was going to North Carolina and Tennessee. I found this out upon arrival.

My car was there, I was there, my luggage was on it's own trip.

It was kindly delivered by Delta at 4AM.

4. A. M.

No gifts for me from said luggage, just drunken ID tags and zipped lips as to why it had taken it's own trips.

My new flat is....small. I'm getting used to it....slowly. My 15 boxes are to arrive today, which will help. In them I have a french coffee press, coffee and chicory, cups... and no pot to boil water. Go figure.

I bought a new, smaller aerobed. It fits into my 'bedroom'. I was pushing it in, and suddenly, it caught on a small bit of sharp wood, ripping a hole in it. As it slowly deflated, I lay in the middle, humming "Nearer My God to Thee".

Duct tape has created a temporary solution to my personal Titanic disaster, I have a towel for right now, one pillow and a blanket until the nice UPS guy shows up.

I'm in walking distance of the Staten Island train which takes me to the ferry which takes me to Bowling Green and there I am, back in Manhattan!

Once I unpack 15 boxes and do the "Why in the hell did I pack that?", I'll be ready to find a TV, sort out a sofa, and get moving back into the life here.

My first call was from K, who woke me up yesterday with "Welcome home"

Yep, I'm home. Now, if I can figure out how to keep Titanic from leaking air in the middle of the night....

Quin in the Big Easy, III

Things you see and do when you are back home.

Lovebugs~ How could I forget lovebugs? They swarm this time of year, settling in your hair, the bushes, filling the air like black soot... sacrificing themselves like miniature kamikaze pilots on the fronts of cars and trucks everywhere, lost in their lust. You swat and move your hand in front of you, and spray the front of your car when it rains to remove their squished little bodies... squished, yes...but, smiling in their death.


Cannolis~THE best dessert in the world. A pastry tube filled with flavoured cheeses and dipped in chopped pistachios. from Brocato's on N. Carrollton's. They are worth every calorie filled bite. Nothing was better as a child or as an adult than to see that string wrapped box with the Brocato's name on the top. Sure, you can find them frozen in some stores... but, it's the fun of seeing them fill the tube and dip the end that makes up the joy of eating the pastry with a nice hot cup of coffee and chicory.

Coffee and chicory~New Orleans in a cup. Strong, black, something you won't find anywhere else. You have it with cream (evaporated milk) and sugar. To try it without, well, you are a tourist or stupid. You have it in the morning, in the afternoon and at night. As a child, you have coffee milk, 3/4 milk, 1/4 coffee with lots of sugar. I started having this in a bottle. I think it's why I can drink coffee and go off to sleep with no problem. You never end a meal without your coffee and chicory. CDM is found everywhere for around $2.50 a pound. I will be getting it in my care packages.

French Bread~Sure, you can find it in every city, but, it doesn't have the crisp crust or the soft insides you find in New Orleans bread. It's the humidity, the altitude, the brick ovens... all of it combined make this bread you use to smear butter on and then dunk in your coffee (see above) or hollow out to put your red beans and rice into (see below). You make po'boys out of this staple in the kitchen, and when it's stale the next day, you make lost bread or bread pudding.

Red Beans and Rice~This means it's Monday in New Orleans. Back in the day, women put this dish on when they started their laundry. You had to soak the beans, then cook them all day with a ham hock and sausage and some spices, and so, it was the perfect thing to cook while you boiled and washed and rinsed and hung and ironed the family laundry. Today, most restaurants, especially those in the Quarter, offer this on their menu on Monday. I grew up with it being cooked on Monday, and it's what I had today, along with some french bread and butter.

Flora and Fauna~It took a year, but, it's green again. Bushes, flowers, trees, grass, azaleas, huge oak trees with spanish moss hanging down....it's green, red, yellow, purple, yellow, orange... every colour you can imagine here. Add to it cranes wading in the swamps and hummingbirds and mockingbirds and bluebirds and you are surrounded by life. A nice change from the dry flatland of Utah and the stark concrete canyon lands of New York. I know you can find things there, but, here, I only open the front door...


Bugs~Big ones, small ones, middle sized ones. Bugs you don't want to ever see again in your life. Roaches the size of toaster ovens. They fly. They talk to you. Bugs that walk on water, and they aren't even Christian. Bugs that climb over fences and go though solid walls to get to you. Spiders that make webs that catch Boy when he runs through the jungle to escape the bad guys. They laugh at pesticides. DDT? Please. They cut their eyeteeth on DDT. I don't like the bugs, and, it's why I always tap my shoes before I put them on (ever squish a roach with your toes? I have) and always put my cups and glasses open end down. We once gave my Uncle G a cup with a ceramic roach on the bottom. Oh, how we loved giving that to people with coffee in it... to see their faces as the little ceramic head would slowly appear on the side of the cup, and they'd realise it was a roach. How we'd laugh as they screamed!

Deaf Family~All of my family is deaf, except for me. Therefore, they all speak at FULL VOLUME. Even their spouses, who have grown deaf from osmosis. At the end of four days, I, too, SPEAK AT FULL VOLUME.

The Saints~Brought New Orleans back from a deep depression by going almost all the way to the Super Bowl last year. Are slowly driving them back to one by going 0-3 this year. Still, we loves our Saints.

Mardi Gras~Except for 1977, when the police went on strike, has been around since Noah. Almost all of my male cousins and their sons are in Krewe's. Mardi Gras throws abound in these households. Mardi Gras was far different when I was little; we costumed and treated it with reverence. Now, you get throws for showing your bits. I'm pretty sure I'd get them for keeping mine covered. People wore great costumes, and then, as now, the French Quarter gave the best shows.




Bayous~Nearby is Bayou Liberty. We take it with the boat, and go slowly though the backwater to Lake Pontchartrain. You pass over Irish Bayou to get here to Slidell. There is a camp (a fishing place) on Irish Bayou... the huge surge from Katrina didn't take all of the camps out... and my favourite one, the Castle, is still there. They are slimy, full of cedar trees, the every present spanish moss, snakes, turtles, and the occasional alligator. They stretch from New Orleans down south to the Gulf.... and make up much of our culture.

Mosquitoes~Nasty flying bugs that love the taste of Quin. I am allergic to these beasts, and swell up where they bite me. Currently, I have 10 bites on each foot, and I absently scratch the top of one foot with the heel of the other, reminding me I also need a pedicure.

Bread Pudding~Made from left over french bread, you mix it with cream, eggs, raisins, sugar and bake it. Then, you pour a sauce made from whiskey, butter and sugar. Then, you eat it. Can't get much simpler.

Seafood~Crawfish, shrimp, crabs (both hard and softshelled), snapper, catfish, oysters in every way. You fry, boil, saute.... have it in salads, main courses, on a po'boy. Dip it in sauces, eat them without. Peeled, eaten on newspaper, with a cold beer and/or sweet tea.... it's all good.

Family~Hearing my name said in that accent. Knowing they've known me forever, and love me anyway. My cousins and their spouses and their kids and what they are doing and how easily I fall back into my place here. And my Aunt A.... she's always there.

There is so much more I'm not thinking of, stuff I'll think of later as my Aunt A walks around fussing right now. Tomorrow, I'm going from one New to another.

But, that's a different tale....I'll get to it later.

Quin in the Big Easy, II (click on photos for detail)

Seeing New Orleans in her current state is akin to catching your Great-Aunt Mamie, whom you've always seen dressed to the nines, in her underwear.

Here is a woman you've known all your life, who is gracious, generous... and one that you know has a bit of a naughty past that the other relatives gossip about. The one who always has on her finery, her flashy jewelry she's received from old lovers, a laugh that is deep and husky from too many cigarettes and whisky, the one with that past... but, she's got this big heart and she danced with you when you were a little girl, and she told you about sex and didn't make it scary.

Sure, you know she doesn't pay traffic tickets, and some of her furniture fell off the back of a truck...and she can be mean at times. She can give with one hand and take away with the other, and her perfume is Tweed, smelly on everyone else, but, it fits her to a 'T'... she's that great, Great-Aunt, the one who combed your hair and pinched your cheeks, you could try on her diamonds and her minks and parade around, who had the house on Burgundy (pronounced BAgundy in New Orleans) in the Quarter and would let you sip a Brandy Alexander at Christmas when no one was looking.

You haven't seen her in a few years, you walk in the house to surprise her and there she is, in her drawers, a girdle and a bra with 14 hooks. No dusting powder on her neck and shoulders, no rouge on her cheeks, not a single piece of jewelry on.... her dress is no where in sight, and she's looking her age. Her hair isn't done up in it's usual style; it's half down, and she's not used that purple shampoo, so, the yellow is showing a bit in the white. Her lips are thin, something you don't notice when her red lipstick is on. She looks...old, tired, kinda broken.

Then, she smiles, and says, "Boo, what cho doing here?" and that voice, with it's kinda Irish channel accent, kinda Cajun, kinda Garden District, kinda Brooklyn, with it's hint of Sicilian and German and Creole and Black and all the people who make up the City comes at you. She straightens up, and pulls on her slip, it's silk sliding over her girdle. "Boo, you were to call me first. And, you know to knock before you come into a lady's boudoir!"

She wears a dress of FEMA blue. Her house is FEMA trailer white. There is a big X on the front door now, showing someone checked to see who was there, if anyone was dead, and when the bodies were removed. The shotgun house, that stood for 150 years is tattered and torn, and the house you played in all of your childhood has been torn down.

Acres of pine trees are dead, waiting to fall with gravity. People can't afford to pay to have them cut down, so, they sit and wait for them to fall. Huge trees, 40 feet tall sit and wait, each one would be $1,000 or so to be cut and cleared. When the city is finally settling property taxes at the real rate, when you find yourself paying $2000 a year on a house you used to pay $200 a year on, and that house is water damaged, and you struggle between the insurance company that says it's hurricane damaged and FEMA who tells you it's water damage, no matter the water came from a broken levee, a levee that was not built to hold back a surge that big... you can't afford to have the trees cut.

People are depressed. They sit on damaged porches and look at the weeds grow. Mold takes hold so fast, you don't realise it's there until you turn around. The heat and humidity here is not like it is in New York. There is no welcoming breeze off an ocean or the East River. The air sits, hot and heavy, and you swelter. I can hear my hair curl when I step outside, and I long for the air conditioned coolness of a home or a car.

The French Quarter remains pristine. The aeons old stench of piss is gone. So are the tourists.

Like your Great-Aunt Mamie, though, the city will get herself dressed, and put on her good dress, and those earbobs.... her necklace that settles in the folds of her neck. Her Cody Red lipstick will be put on with care, rouge applied after she pats her face with a nice loose powder. She'll put her handkerchief in her pocketbook, look around, pick up her keys and say, "Boo, let's take the streetcar downtown."

And, you'll see it's all okay again. She survived, and she can take on anything, and carry on. She's New Orleans. FEMA, Bush, red tape, all of it can't hold her on her knees forever.

She's New Orleans, and the scent of the river and the port and seafood and cannoli and red beans and rice on a Monday... of coffee and chicory with beignets from Cafe du Monde, and eventually of stale piss.... the sounds of street blues singers, of shouts and calls from the stalls in the French Market, the streets that are close to 300 years old, a city that is considered separate from the state it is part of because of the uniqueness that has created it; crime, corruption, Mardi Gras, great food, love of all that is big and loud and good...of all that is this city, the love of it's citizens for this place... she'll come back.

And y'all come down, and ride a streetcar downtown. They'll be glad to have you here.