Lover, I’ve missed the comfort of this air.
So heavy, so rich–worn and expired.
We’ve left the sun, both kissed the dark.
Our bond was of fire, grown cold, but still left smoking.
Seize your heart, fight life’s duels.
Love’s never enough, the curse of fools.
Strike back, no guilt, the blaze again will be rebuilt.
Half truths and vicious lies will all be told.
Unchained, turned loose,
In full fury, long forewarned,
Your treasured soul will be reborn.
I had a wonderful time participating in Brian’s 3-Word Challenge and was so thrilled to see my characters (especially Steven), get a little limelight. 🙂
Guest Writer: Anne Marie Andrus
The Three Words: chicory, humidity, decadence
The Result: “Under the Square”
Trickles of murky water danced with shadows and fractures on the underground walls. Flickering candles twisted wilted blooms and innocent stone angels into a jungle of goblins.
“If you’re still fussing, you should have started earlier.” A redhead flashed through the arched doorway and scowled at his watch. “This place will never be anything but a tomb, disguised as our courtyard.”
“Like the desolate streets above us, masquerading as our city?” A man in a tuxedo slicked his mohawk straight up, and adjusted his bow tie. “I thought you said rebirth was near, Lord Steven.”
“It’s so close, I can taste it. You’ve followed my instructions to the final detail?”
“Haven’t I always, sir?”
“As much as humanly possible, I guess.” Steven pointed to a steaming carafe. “Pour.”
The man’s shoulders slumped. “What am…
View original post 487 more words
Times of grief and battle
Two souls laid to rest
Separate, once as human
Eternal sisters, joined at last
Sorcha stepped off the streetcar, into the leafy tunnel of Washington Ave. “How did you get the cemetery opened after dark?”
“I know the family who owns that restaurant.” Steven pointed at crisp green and white awnings. “They have pull with the mayor, and I’m sure he’s six drinks deep in the back bar.”
“He’ll want six more when he sees the overtime bill.” A sea of blue uniforms parted in front of her. “You found so many musicians.”
“All in town for a new Jazz festival. Could be an annual event, if it catches on. Twelve cent martinis didn’t hurt, either.”
“Our friends both had proper funerals?” Sorcha followed him under the arched gate, into the city of the dead.
“Respectable, but not nearly what they deserved. This city can do better.” Steven’s footsteps crunched along the candle-lit walkway. He plucked bills from the pocket of his black blazer and traded them for an armful of roses, placing flowers at each crypt and reserving the lion’s share for the last tomb on the left. “My family. A tree with only dead branches.”
The breeze through budding magnolias and a distant saxophone punctuated a rare moment of silence.
“So,” Steven chose one rose from the bouquet. “You still want to see her?”
“The weeping angel?”
“Right this way.” Steven forced himself to walk like a human until he was cloaked in shadow. His secret key turned tumblers in the crypt door. A wave of his hand ushered Sorcha in.
“The angel is blindfolded.”
“Damn, I looked everywhere else for that thing.” He slipped his silk tie off the statue and pointed up to the skylight. The noise of debris being cleared away was followed by a handsome grin and flashing eyes. “I, or, we…you know. First time, right here.”
“That’s just…only you.” Sorcha squeezed his hand and turned her attention to the grieving angel, wilted across the altar. “She’s exquisite.”
“And heartbreaking.” Steven handed over the last rose. “I always bring a gift.”
Sorcha spun the flower in her hand and crouched in front of a lifeless face, marred by eternal tears. She puffed air from her lips and blew red dust off the bloom, leaving sapphire petals behind. Energy sizzled through her fingertips and surged into the stone.
Steven sat down hard on the marble floor. “I don’t believe it.”
Weathered veneer crumbled as the angel’s mouth turned up at the corners. Delicate hands grasped the rose from Sorcha’s palm before freezing again.
“Yes, you do believe it. Anything can happen in this town.” Sorcha dragged her friend back to his feet. “I hear the horn section getting restless.”
He flashed into the crescent moonlight. “Handkerchiefs?”
“Looks like half the city’s out here.” She handed him a square of snow-white silk.
“It’s a long walk to the cathedral. The other half will join us along the way.” Steven took his place behind the brass band. A snap of his fingers sent somber notes wailing into night. “Let’s make history. “
To The Second Line…
Usually I agonize over my blog posts to make them perfect, lyrical masterpieces. In these days leading up to the 10-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, all the pretty words have abandoned me.
Should I talk about it at all? Being quiet might be easier…but it feels wrong. I need to say something.
Those scary hours are jumbled in my head, fuzzy memories that still feel like yesterday. I was home in New Jersey, working nights and following the storm on every TV in the Intensive Care Unit. Most of my family was in New Orleans for Tulane move-in and a convention at the Superdome. I fell asleep the next morning relieved that they had all evacuated—caught one of the last planes out or took their rental car and drove east.
I woke to catastrophic images that are still seared in my mind. Precious life, love and history, stolen by the flood.
In the heartbreaking days afterward, I learned a lot about people I thought I knew. Very few “friends” here shared my grief. Some of the stupid comments I heard….
      “Why do you care about a city thousands of miles away? Isn’t everything that flooded a slum anyway? Can’t you just vacation somewhere else? Who builds a city below sea-level?”
And then, the most idiotic comment of them all…
“I think New Orleans needs to go bye-bye.”
In my entire life, I’ve never been so close to punching someone in the face.
Plenty of people shook my faith in human nature, but others lifted and restored it. Our friend Carol, drove a food truck around the parishes for weeks, feeding workers, recovery volunteers, and local residents just trying to survive. If we never told you, Carol, we are so very proud and thankful for your effort.
So, my husband Scott and I aren’t New Orleans residents. Yet.  We may have fallen in love on vacation—so many do. For Scott it was 40+ years ago—getting up early and ordering coffee at Morning Call for his family. For me it was 20 years ago—whatever was in the air for my first breath, never let go. He wanted to rebuild with his hands. I wished I could help evacuate patients from the hospitals. We didn’t lose our home to the storm, but we felt sickeningly powerless and disconnected. How could we ever give back to a city that’s brought us such joy? Give back enough?
We went back the summer after the storm—before the cruise ships came back—while a lot of the restaurants and shops were still closed. We talked to every person, bought whatever caught our eye–enough to share with everyone at home. We ate every breakfast at the Old Coffeepot on St. Peter St., because not much else was open and their omelettes are awesome. We searched for the shop that sold ceramic houses I collect and an artist that was my mother-in-law’s favorite. We rejoiced when we found them both.
If we ever complain that “the Quarter is so crowded”, we stop and remember when it was a ghost town and how desperately empty those streets felt without the music. Now, we embrace the crowds and (most of) the foolishness, because the alternative is unthinkable. Every chance we get, we introduce new people to New Orleans, bring them with us to visit and watch their eyes light up when they start to get “it”. That mission will go on forever.
I wrote Monsters and Angels as a distraction for my mind after Sandy caused so much destruction in New Jersey, but I set it in New Orleans.  My characters live there, my heart is there, my visits are more frequent—every few months. When it’s time to leave, Scott needs to pry my fingers off the airplane door so they can close it.
Last week, I heard Trombone Shorty play at a little theater in New Jersey. From the Preservation Hall Jazz Band’s first song until the second line that closed the show, I let myself be spirited away. During one amazingly long note Shorty played…it went on for minutes…many, many minutes…it occurred to me. The first time I stepped onto New Orleans soil, I heard that note. Felt it in my soul. It started like a whisper, swelled into a symphony, flickered and almost died once—but it’s growing stronger again, every day.
One stirring, haunting, magically endless note.
So Anne Marie, tell me about Monsters and Angels in one sentence.
How about one picture?
“We don’t choose who we love.”
            -Sorcha Alden
Tonight I had the pleasure of visiting a historic, French Quarter residence to interview Sorcha B. Alden,  a 2015 nominee for the “Light Up Every Room” award. A career nurse, Sorcha was born September 3, 1916 and has cared for patients around the world in her quest to relieve suffering and celebrate every precious moment of life. She currently resides in New Orleans, Louisiana.
Ms. Alden, congratulation on your nomination!
Thank you for traveling so far for to interview me.
I know you’re from New York City, were you born there?
Yes, at St. Margaret’s Hospital in Hell’s Kitchen.
What prompted you to move so far south?
Initially, for a job, but New Orleans gets under your skin. I felt the ground shake when I stepped off the train in 1935…I didn’t realize it then, but I was home.
What inspired you to become a nurse?
My mother, Adelaide Alden. She passed away when I was 21 years old. My life’s path has been about honoring her legacy.
You don’t look a day over 22…what’s your secret?
I may have found the fountain of youth, but it’s cost me everything.
Who has been the most influential person in your incredible journey and why?
Dr. Raimond Banitierre. He taught me how to stare adversity in the face and cherish every gift I was given. Balancing love and duty was his greatest strength.
Have you ever been in love?
Once. Well…yes, just once.
Are you married?
In my heart, I am. Officially, my husband and I are separated. It’s complicated.
What are you most passionate about?
Preserving the dignity of people at the end of their lives. Treasuring our ancestors and their memories.
What makes you angry?
Seeing people disrespected because they’re different. Acceptance is the key to survival.
What makes you strong?
The unwavering support of my family and friends.
What character trait do you most admire in others?
Vicious loyalty.
One more hard question…what was the most important day of your life?
New Year’s Day, 1955. I faced my fears and won back New Orleans for the Banitierres and Aldens.
Now, let’s have some fun. What’s your favorite drink?
The Garnet Martini. It won’t be on the drink menu, but any New Orleans bartender worth their salt can mix it.
Favorite musician?
Band—Volbeat. Musician—Lady Gaga or Meatloaf. Depends on my mood.
Your favorite color?
Sapphire.
Favorite vacation spot?
Scotland. The Isle of Skye.
What holiday do you look forward to each year?
Halloween…and Christmas. I love to decorate for both.
If you could give a piece of advice to future generations, what would it be?
 Strength to forgive your enemies, vision to see power in diversity, and the courage to lead will pave the road for a brilliant future.
 
Even thousands of miles away, hints bombard the senses, every minute of every day.
The burst of fresh coffee’s aroma, and the knowledge that it won’t be perfect.
A wall of air so steamy, it’s worn like soggy paper.
Silent fog, swirling, devouring all in its path without remorse.
Snippets of jazz, riding on a veiled wind.
The fleeting whiff of a long forgotten candle.
Whispers of spirits hidden in the midnight rain.
In her sultry voice, New Orleans is always calling us home.
Empty? Maybe.
Silent? Never.
Hands on the clock crawl to that moment when day gives way to sultry dusk and all souls stir in their tombs, destined for midnight’s wicked frenzy.
This air buzzes with history’s notes—flashy keyboards and wailing horns. Floor boards creak underfoot, worn thin by musicians and their dancers, nobles and their courts.
Dazzling lights of royalty fell dark only once, born again amidst sapphire flame and victory bells.
Every chance I get, I sneak in, close my eyes and remember the devilry and decadence, incense and absinthe. Precious memories of brothers and sisters, fast friends and young lovers, chasing their dreams and tempting fate in the Golden Age.
We got away with all of it…
S
Most yearn for heartwrenching, final goodbyes and lament lost salvation. Given the choice of reconciliation or compassion, most choose the dream…the illusion…damn the consequences and the blessing of swift tragedy.
While the front door is for the thrill seekers, the exit ramp is a journey reserved for the strongest of a chosen few. Against all common sense, I’ve opted for that gruesome path, over and over again. Much more than a job, it’s a calling.
Someday, somewhere, the bells will ring with reward—as pure as summer rain, constant as eternal soul, smooth as blended notes and rich with big harmony.
“Once you’ve visited New Orleans, the rest of your life will be spent planning to return.
That is…if you ever leave at all.”
I’m a life-long New Jersey resident, but I find bits and pieces of New Orleans everywhere I go.
One twinkle of fine crystal, whiff of incense or wail of a late-night saxophone, and I’m in the Vieux Carre. Standing on the crooked curb, hiding under balconies to dodge raindrops, or running my hands over walls that have witnessed centuries of Crescent history.
Last night we visited Frenchtown, NJ and the marvelous studio of our friends, Linda and Stefan Bright. One look at the chandelier medallion and I discovered the NOLA connection there too.
Thank you for a delicious dinner and a fantastic night of catching up!
Always remember, it’s never too early for Abita Amber in a go-cup.
Monsters & Angels 