Death & New Orleans
A few weeks ago, I was in New Orleans to celebrate a friend’s birthday. The city seemed to be full of funereal fun. Seriously. The tourist shops were stocked with voodoo dolls, death masks, and skeletons. Everywhere you turned there were signs of decadent decay. Above ground mausoleums—crumbling and creepy. And all the ghost tours. It seemed as if some poor soul had died a violent death on every corner. I guess that’s what happens when a city is situated below sea level. People are macabre.
1987?
But it wasn’t until I separated from my traveling companions that I began to remember. New Orleans was where I’d vacationed with Richard, my first partner, some 30 years earlier. He was a 2nd-year ophthalmology resident at Henry Ford Hospital at the time. A year later, after graduating from his residency, obtaining board-certification and landing his first job, he became ill. He died of AIDS in July of 1989. He was only 33 years old.
Startled by the recall
As I walked around the gift shops, I slowly remembered. The pink and purple masks we’d bought that hung on the wall of our first apartment. Our breakfast at Brennan’s when Richard introduced me to Bananas Foster. His delight in Cafe Du Monde and the deep-fried beignets covered in confectionary sugar. We were together again as I examined the handicrafts and listened to the live music in Jackson Square.
I wish my refrigerator was spanking new. Perfectly clean with all my favorite foods lined up on shelves that sparkled. Labels facing front so that you can read them. Tupperware neatly stacked. No crumbs or wet spots anywhere.
Years ago, a wise family friend shared with me the phrase, save it for good. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. But I knew from the tone of her voice and facial expression, that saving it for good was not a great idea.
Gee, it’s awfully hard to find a handyman or handywoman these days. Someone affordable, who can provide electrical, carpentry and plumbing services. I’ve searched, asked neighbors and friends. No one seems to have a recommendation. How can that be? Meanwhile, doctors, lawyers, and financial planners seem to be everywhere. Always advertising their services. You can hardly turn around without tripping over them.
Everyone knows Phoenix is hot in the summer. That’s when most Phoenicians plan their vacations. But for those who stay and want to leave the house in the afternoon, there’s the air-conditioned restaurant, a trip to the supermarket, or a walk through a shopping mall. And yes. There’s the movie theater.
On July 4th, friends invited us over to learn how to play Mahjong.
I’ve been driving Jeff’s new car. A Lincoln MKC. And much to my surprise, the whole thing is push button. The entire shift mechanism is gone. You have to literally point and touch your way to park, reverse and drive. Great for keeping your mind agile.
I’ve just taken an Aleve to calm the pain in my left thumb that an orthopedic surgeon pronounced as arthritis. Damn him!
Some people are obsessed with weather. Thunderstorms, tornadoes, sleet and hail. A simple snowstorm becomes a nor’easter. Millions without power. At least that’s how reporters ramp up the story. But living in Phoenix, we don’t have much weather. It’s generally sunny and pleasant most of the year—until it isn’t. Then it’s still sunny and hot. Did I say hot? I mean really hot.