My fluffies are a complete and utter joy. For one thing, they are ridiculously cute. I mean it, they are really cute. Secondly, they are full of energy and personality. The little one is a ball of life. She loves everyone on sight and would happily spend hours licking your face if you let her. My bigger girl is a little more leery. She sits back and watches and only enters the action when she feels comfortable.
Friday night my nephew and I decided to take them to Galveston. We waited and arrived after 6 in the evening. We kept them on leashes as we walked to the water. We slowly stepped into an inch or two of water to see how the dogs would react. They walked cautiously into the warm water. The larger one stopped and then dropped exposing her entire stomach to the warm water. By the time the little one followed suit she was rolling and drenching herself in water and dirty sand. The little one tried, but wasn't so pleased.
From that moment on my big girl couldn't get enough. She ran and chased waves and seagulls. Her head nearly spun off turning to catch everything. Her usually silent tail wagged away. Her sister chased behind not wanting to miss the fun, but still not managing to catch any of it. We managed an hour then had to leave. The ride home was extremely gritty, but wonderful. The fluffies were exhausted and we were so glad they had a great time.
They've been moping for the last 2 days. I just realized its because my nephew is gone. The girls had gotten used to having him around to play with them. I took them for a walk around 8 tonight hoping the weather would have sufficiently cooled. I was wrong. I hadn't gone a block when the sweat came in. The girls were breathing heavy by block 2. Still we managed to do our regular walk.
A couple of blocks from our house I noted someone walking towards us. I stared at him trying to figure him out. He was in long pants and a heavy flannel shirt. I figure he was a homeless person as he carried the requisite various plastic bags, but I wasn't sure he wasn't just walking from the nearby store. His face was so red, in the twilight and distance I really couldn't tell, but it almost looked like it was painted. I watched closely, looked down at the girls and when I looked up he was gone. I looked around, but couldn't see him. As I passed an empty house I peeked down the driveway and saw a movement. The guy was standing behind the house waiting for me to pass. He ducked behind the house when he saw me looking. I walked a ways then turned to see if he had emerged. There was no movement. As the girls and I walked on I kept looking back, but never saw him again. I wonder if he's living in the empty house.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Do You Know What It Means...
I was folding clothes this morning when I noted a name on the back of a T-Shirt. I obviously borrowed it from my sister in New Orleans, it was a Cancer Run Shirt boasting Irma Thomas as a sponsor. Suddenly I was washed in nostalgia.
If you've not heard Irma Thomas' music you are sadly missing one of the greatest joys of life. Her recorded music has won Grammy's. However, I've yet to hear a recording that properly captures the smokey, velvet and amazing texture her voice produces at her live shows. Quite simply, she is - The Best.
A dozen or so years ago I was in New Orleans for Jazz Fest when my sister noted in the paper that Irma was playing at her club called The Lion's Den. My sister informed us it was in a rather rough part of town and she had never been, but always wanted to go. My sister-in-law from Maryland had some of Irma's music and begged us to go. When we drove up to the place, we all paused. It seemed to define the word "Dive." Nestled behind a pawn shop, across from a police precinct, it was dark and dingy. You had to walk under a carport through a back door that was dimly lit. A gentleman was grilling sausage on a small pit and greeted us as we walked up. It was clear, we were the only white people for miles. My brother, who is indeed mighty white mutters, "I've a bad feeling this will be a re-enactment of the scene in Animal House." He knew there was no hope of leaving. His wife was determined and his sisters were just as gung ho, so we entered and paid the cover charge.
The place was filled with old, peeling tables and a mix of chairs. A small spot of floor was clear in front of the stage. As we claimed a table and got drinks we asked about the food grilling. The bartender confirmed it was for sale and just so happened to mention the gentleman grilling was the King of Zulu. My sister and I gasped. We ran back to my brother and his wife to tell them the news. They looked at us with blank stares. For God's sake - Louis Armstrong was once the King of Zulu!
Like complete geeky groupies, we somehow made excuses to go outside and check on the barbecue to speak to the guy. We laughed at his jokes and generally made fools of ourselves, so star-struck were we. Then we went back inside and got ready for the show.
There are no words to describe to utter perfection of the evening. The club was tiny, the stage was never more than 20 feet away from you. You sat in comfortable chairs with the air conditioners running full force. You had drinks and a restroom near. And then you hear the voice of a Goddess. A gentleman escorts Irma in as she sings her way to the stage. Her band was great, horns blowing, bass ripping. The room erupted into hoots and clapping and we knew it was a moment for the books.
As she sang she invited the audience to tell her what they wanted to hear. And there was no waiting - if you asked her politely and she could do it - you heard it in a mere minute or two. The performance was in the moment. She was flawless, that voice wrapping you and taking you on a ride so smooth and magnetic. She ended her first set with her Second Line medley. We danced and waved our napkins, graciously signed by the lady, above our heads, swaying to the beat.
We went back several times over the years, not nearly as much as I would have liked. For one thing, the club wasn't opened much, just a handful of times Irma was in town and ready to play. Another problem was the fact it had to coincide with my infrequent visits to the Crescent City. The last time I saw Irma play it wasn't at the Lion's Den. By that time TBK had washed the club away with most of the city. It was the first Jazz Fest after TBK. My sister and I sat in our chairs as rain came down on a packed field. Irma came out and the crowd went wild. As she sang, the rain washed away our bitterness and anger and we celebrated all we loved about that great city. There were more famous names who performed that Jazz Fest, but no one bigger or better in our book.
As I folded the shirt and looked at her name this morning, I thought of all those memories. And suddenly, I really did know what it means to miss New Orleans.
If you've not heard Irma Thomas' music you are sadly missing one of the greatest joys of life. Her recorded music has won Grammy's. However, I've yet to hear a recording that properly captures the smokey, velvet and amazing texture her voice produces at her live shows. Quite simply, she is - The Best.
A dozen or so years ago I was in New Orleans for Jazz Fest when my sister noted in the paper that Irma was playing at her club called The Lion's Den. My sister informed us it was in a rather rough part of town and she had never been, but always wanted to go. My sister-in-law from Maryland had some of Irma's music and begged us to go. When we drove up to the place, we all paused. It seemed to define the word "Dive." Nestled behind a pawn shop, across from a police precinct, it was dark and dingy. You had to walk under a carport through a back door that was dimly lit. A gentleman was grilling sausage on a small pit and greeted us as we walked up. It was clear, we were the only white people for miles. My brother, who is indeed mighty white mutters, "I've a bad feeling this will be a re-enactment of the scene in Animal House." He knew there was no hope of leaving. His wife was determined and his sisters were just as gung ho, so we entered and paid the cover charge.
The place was filled with old, peeling tables and a mix of chairs. A small spot of floor was clear in front of the stage. As we claimed a table and got drinks we asked about the food grilling. The bartender confirmed it was for sale and just so happened to mention the gentleman grilling was the King of Zulu. My sister and I gasped. We ran back to my brother and his wife to tell them the news. They looked at us with blank stares. For God's sake - Louis Armstrong was once the King of Zulu!
Like complete geeky groupies, we somehow made excuses to go outside and check on the barbecue to speak to the guy. We laughed at his jokes and generally made fools of ourselves, so star-struck were we. Then we went back inside and got ready for the show.
There are no words to describe to utter perfection of the evening. The club was tiny, the stage was never more than 20 feet away from you. You sat in comfortable chairs with the air conditioners running full force. You had drinks and a restroom near. And then you hear the voice of a Goddess. A gentleman escorts Irma in as she sings her way to the stage. Her band was great, horns blowing, bass ripping. The room erupted into hoots and clapping and we knew it was a moment for the books.
As she sang she invited the audience to tell her what they wanted to hear. And there was no waiting - if you asked her politely and she could do it - you heard it in a mere minute or two. The performance was in the moment. She was flawless, that voice wrapping you and taking you on a ride so smooth and magnetic. She ended her first set with her Second Line medley. We danced and waved our napkins, graciously signed by the lady, above our heads, swaying to the beat.
We went back several times over the years, not nearly as much as I would have liked. For one thing, the club wasn't opened much, just a handful of times Irma was in town and ready to play. Another problem was the fact it had to coincide with my infrequent visits to the Crescent City. The last time I saw Irma play it wasn't at the Lion's Den. By that time TBK had washed the club away with most of the city. It was the first Jazz Fest after TBK. My sister and I sat in our chairs as rain came down on a packed field. Irma came out and the crowd went wild. As she sang, the rain washed away our bitterness and anger and we celebrated all we loved about that great city. There were more famous names who performed that Jazz Fest, but no one bigger or better in our book.
As I folded the shirt and looked at her name this morning, I thought of all those memories. And suddenly, I really did know what it means to miss New Orleans.
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