Rest

Every morning I swear I'm going to get more sleep, and yet here I am at 1 AM.

I have even more incentive to go to bed than normal. The bed I've been talking about about for 3 years arrived this afternoon. (I always seem to mull over large purchases for a year or more before surprising everyone who's bored by the topic and actually doing it.) I've added fresh sheets, not quite as warm as flannel but as soft... Soon I'll crawl in and pull the sheets up to my chin and drift off into blessed sleep.

In the meantime, I'm keyed up over things that can't or won't be addressed tonight. I need to let it go for a few hours.

P.S. Yes, I do realize that I've already dropped my picture-a-day effort.

St. Patrick's Day Parade, Part II

St. Patrick's Day last week was anticlimactic, since we'd already celebrated the holiday several times by Tuesday. We celebrated for the second time on Saturday (the 14th), the day the Irish Channel parade petered out around our friends' house.

We woke early(-ish) and trekked off to a stranger's house for breakfast burritos. We sat in a darkened, candle-lit living room under a chandelier hung with green garters and white lace panties with shamrocks and tried to make ourselves heard over the snuffling of the host's dog (how do they sleep at night?). The bits and pieces I could hear were odd: "prison rodeo," "inmates compete," "poker chip glued to a bull's forehead," "surely the infirmary is preferable," ...

All the while, the rain came down. On the way home, I stripped off my shoes and rolled my pants. My attention was split between watching for stones on the sidewalk and observing the beginnings of the day's festivities, and I narrowly avoided stepping on a crawfish that had escaped a local barbeque and was making a run for the storm gutter.

The rain tapered off, and far off, the parade started. By the time it looped around to our vantage point, the paraders were drunk, tired, wet, and running out of tchotkes, but we still made out ok. I got enough beads that my neck felt the strain. Green garters, a beer in a green plastic bottle, a felt hat shaped like a beer mug, a stuffed frog, plastic cups,a bag, several cabbages (green and purple), and my favorite, a hot pickle in a plastic pouch.

They do know how to celebrate in New Orleans!

Lost Things

This weekend I lost a St. Patrick's Day earring and a comfortable illusion. Tonight, however, I'm reminded that there are much worse things to lose. Your life, like the soldiers I wrote about earlier. Or your son, as in The Changeling.

If you haven't seen it, The Changeling is the story of a mother whose kidnapped son is returned by the police many months later. The mother insists from the start that the boy is not her son, but the police, under intense media pressure, insist that they've solved the case. I haven't seen the rest and wouldn't want to spoil the ending, but the premise is heartbreaking.

Not as heartbreaking, however, as the story I heard recently on "This American Life" on NPR. Bobby Dunbar was another small boy who disappeared (in 1912) and was later "found" in the company of a drifter. Media reports of his reunion with the Dunbars varied. The article quotes were well-chosen for effect - the ones where the parents immediately recognized the child read like puff pieces, whereas the serious, news-like articles represented the parents' hesitation.

Tragically, another woman, Julia Anderson, stepped forward to claim the child. An unwed mother with several children by several fathers and without strong moral standing in the community, she lost her court case, and the boy was raised by the Dunbars. Imagine the agony of knowing where your kidnapped son is and not being able to take him home.

The tragedy is still echoing almost a century later. A Dunbar descendant found the old articles and began doing her own research. Against her family's wishes, she conducted DNA tests on her father and his putative cousin that proved Bobby Dunbar wasn't a Dunbar (and probably was Julia Anderson's son). Much of her family has disowned her.

Comparatively, I can't complain.

The Beltway Denuded

The original title for this post was "The Rape of the Beltway," but that seemed too strong. Not by much, though.

One of the things I've always loved about my area is how green it is. I've spent a fair amount of time looking out the window while flying into major airports, and my home airport is one of the "greenest." Instead of houses or strip malls or cloverleafs (a punny nod to St. Patrick's Day week), I'd see thousands of trees.

Now there's a massive road construction project under way to widen the roads and build toll lanes. This project involves massive clear-cutting. I cry for the trees and the environment, and I keep feeling lost in the changed landscape. Supposedly this will benefit us all in the long run, but at what cost?

Thank You

The local NPR station did a piece today on the people who meet the bodies of returning soldiers and carry them off the plane at Dover. Memorable comments included quotes about the respect inherent in remaining visibly emotionless, the power of the moment in which the soldier is returned to American soil, and the weight discrepancy between the caskets ("transfer cases") that contain entire bodies and those that don't. One man talked about knowing that a fellow Marine, a fallen Marine, would not be upset about his fate.

I cannot imagine joining the armed forces or accepting the possibility of death in the course of a day's work, but that makes me appreciate the sacrifice so much more. Sometimes understanding is unnecessary.

Thank you to all our servicemen and -women.

St. Patrick's Day Parade, Part I

I watched a St. Patrick's Day parade last night in the company of old friends and new. Two girlfriends and I are in New Orleans for a long weekend of food, talk, lots of walking, and St. Patrick's Day. We're staying with two long-time residents, friends of my friend, fitting into their lives and schedules as if I'd known them for years as well.

We arrived at a small bar just off Bourbon Street, all dressed in kelly green, and mingled with the regulars standing on the street. New Orleans doesn't have open container laws like most places, and there were shamrock-shaped tabletops bolted to the tops of the old horse hitching posts in front of the bar.

There was A.S., a New Orleans cop who retired 13 years ago. He shared the story of arresting the mayor's girlfriend for failure to adhere to the laws about displaying merchandise on Bourbon Street. He was very proud that the chief of police backed him up and that law and order triumphed over political maneuverings on that occasion. He built the bar inside and the shamrock tabletops.

There was H., the subject of several posts on a friend's blog, an oil rig worker, bouncer at a goth bar, crack addict, and dog walker extraordinaire.

There was A.N., the woman wearing the exact same dress as me. "We can't stand anywhere near her," I whispered to my friends. Shortly after, I was sucked into the openness and friendliness that is New Orleans near St. Patrick's Day (and maybe year-round). "Nice dress," I told her. We started to bond over the good deal we'd both gotten on the dress, then "Angie!!" I hear from my friend. It turns out she's someone we'd been talking about at lunch, a friend of our hostess. We ended up having pictures taken together in our matching dresses.

We talked. We drank. Best of all, we people-watched.

My favorite moment was when a drunk woman leapt atop one of the hitching posts and then launched herself onto a light post, dangling for a moment and then dropping to watch her boyfriend's clumsy attempts to do the same in the fading light. We watched with bated breath, expecting disaster at any moment. "Nothing good happens after 2AM," stated the drunk girl next to us, also waiting for someone to get impaled. "What time is it?" 6:54PM, honey. Time for you to go home.

And time for us to go home too, almost. But not until after the parade. Horse-drawn carriages with revelers throwing beads, people in large green hats, musicians with brass instruments and drums, and more men in kilts than I'd ever seen handing out fake roses in exchange for a kiss on the cheek. We all collected beads without having to "pay" for them, then, tired and happy and finally understanding the appeal of New Orleans, we headed home.

Missing the Deadline

Considering the time of day and the fact that I need to pack for a trip, it's looking less and less likely that I'm going to take/post a photo tonight.

I spent almost the entire day working on export documents for our legal department. How would you illustrate that anyway?

Although I haven't taken any pictures, I have spent plenty of time thinking about photography today. We've formed a coterie of would-be photographers at work who exchange tips in the hallway about things like step-down filters, 430EX vs. 580EX flashes, and remote shutter activation. A few of us enrolled in a composition seminar in a few weeks. Perhaps you'll see improvement in May's postings!