Chapter One

New Orleans, the French quarter, born in the heart of Dixie Land Music.  Want to have “When the Saints Go Marching In” played as people leave my funeral.  Shrimp Creole, French baguettes, and Eggs Benedict still on my favorites list.

Memories, when still in a crib around the age of three, looking out the window of the Pontalba Apartments on Jackson Square and seeing my parents walking away under the street lights. Feeling terrified, not knowing the doors between the next apartment were open so they could listen if I cried.

Early criminal instinct killed when Mom found a toy watch I stole from my friend’s house. The spanking wasn’t so bad but returning it along with my favorite doll did the trick.

 Still remember the music and excitement of sitting on my dad’s shoulders catching beads thrown from the Mardi Gras floats.

 Happy times sailing my sailboat on a long narrow pond. It always capsized before reaching the end. But I could not be consoled at five when we were moving to St. Louis on a train, so we sailed it out into the dark waters of Lake Pontchartrain. I didn’t care if it would make some other child happy when they found it. 

But I have good memories of return trips to visit dad’s family and as an adult revisiting the Quarter including Pat O’Brien’s Bar and going to the large cathedral looking Catholic Church near Tulane that my grandfather built.

On one return trip as an adult, I was standing on Bourbon Street in the Quarter at night. This was some years after my conversion to a relationship with Jesus as the expression of God’s unconditional love, rather than a particular religion. I stood there enjoying watching very varied people and places. On the corner was a crowded bar open to the street with loud jazz flooding the area. Next to it were some transvestites in beautiful gowns on a balcony inviting people in for a show.  In front of that building there was a preacher giving out religious tracts and urging people to repent. Next to him were some small black boys dancing for coins.  On the opposite corner at a safe distance was a group of tourists sort of glued to each other for safety, suggesting maybe a group of Baptist Sunday school teachers in New Orleans for a convention. A steady mix of very varied people poured down the middle of the street. There were solid looking tourists in Bermuda shorts with cameras hanging around their necks, college students carrying Pat O‘Brien’s Hurricane glasses. and even a couple of priests coming through from St. Louis Cathedral on Jackson Square. I experienced a strong and wonderful sense of being part of God’s motley crew; all of us loved just as we were.