March in New Orleans is one of the most beautiful times of year. The azaleas explode all over town, my irises just keep bursting into purple, and the oak trees look dusted with teeny green leaf buds--amazing to see those hundred-year-old trees as fresh as a yearling. The weather, too, is simply gorgeous: in the mid 70s with clear skies and breezes, the air dry and the shade actually cooling. All too soon, the temps will creep into the 80s and 90s and stay there until fall--so for now, here's to spring.
Here's a poem I wrote a while back about early-budding azaleas, ones that opened far too soon, it seemed to me, Northerner that I am.
Azaleas
Tiny explosions of fuchsia flowers
bloom, unafraid, in January.
A magical day in the sun, the rain’s caress,
and the azaleas think they’re safe.
Better to curb passion, to protect their petals;
frost could arrive any day.
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Comments
Do they have Azalea tours in NOLA? I loved doing the tours in Houston, which included Bayou Bend, the Ima Hogg estate--amazing gardens. http://tinyurl.com/27gn9u
I think there are garden tours, both at historical houses and sometimes in private homes in the Garden District or the French Quarter. I'm often tempted to do those, but feel weird about gawking at rich people's stuff--then again, how often do I get to gawk at rich people's stuff?
Rated
She had grown up in a New Orleans housing project shamefully named Desire. Desire had been constructed in an isolated area northwest of greater New Orleans, bordered by industrial canals and railroad tracks. Pinch often recounted her nights as a young child lying on the floor under a matted blanket listening to gunshots in the night. Desire had been built in the late 40s over the Hideaway Club where Fats Domino had played his first gigs. Pinch swore she could hear Fats sing “My Blue Heaven” just for her. As Pinch’s childhood tumbled forward, she learned survival skills. By the age of twelve, she had tried just about every street drug going and stole to keep from going hungry, acquiring the nickname Pinch. She would have been doomed to a child’s death but for the help of an aged aunt. Pinch pulled herself up, finished high school, and made it through college by working sometimes two shifts as a housekeeper in seedy hotels that bordered the Ninth Ward. A city auditor once asked her why she hadn’t worked in the Lafayette Square District or the famous 625 St. Charles suites. “You could have paid for a Ph.D. with the tips alone.” And she replied: “Well, I guess ‘dis sista just feeling mo’ secure wid da brothers. Ozanam Inn be my place, homeless peoples and all.” Then she rubbed his arm. The poor guy broke out in a sweat, brushed his thinning hair back with an aged-spotted trembling hand, and looked at me for intervention. Later I asked Pinch why she’d stuck it to the auditor; she shrugged her shoulders and replied: “I guess just every once and a while I have to remind myself where I come from. Pride has many forms, love.” Pinch had overcome. She was the bravest person I ever knew.
Elijah Rising