Jasmine St

       Bigger is better. We moved into a duplex with an upstairs component. I finally got semi-private quarters. My Mother is the wheeler dealer of the family.  No one can resist her charming manners. I built a writers desk out of ply board that served for quite a few months. Simi lived next door. He is a retired priest who has a gay streak of friendliness. He enjoyed our all male family.

      The University was in the throes of change.  We wanted autonomy from LSU to simply become UNO which sounded way cooler. This bug tussle went on for sometime. The school was allowed to change the name to the University of New Orleans. This lasted a few years until LSU reclaimed the right to manage this sprawling campus under the LSU system of conquer and control. I was above all of this political intrigue. I simply wanted to play music and set up festivals for the music aficionados of New Orleans.

      I completed one semester and took off for Miami during the Christmas holiday by thumb. Florida in those days, harbored many travelers escaping winter.      The Gulf Stream Racetrack was the site of the Miami Pop Festival which brought the best rhythm and blues people from all over the country. That music scene was the most intense I had ever been a part of. 

    I hitched with Decky who knew Jerry Jeff Walker as a lover and friend. I followed this tiny woman seeing many art shows at the festival. Jerry Jeff held his performance in a theater along with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band making this special. I managed a backstage pass to meet these guys. I saw them before the performance. One of them was impeccably dressed as a Canadian Mountie.  I remember this because of the bright red of his jacket with gold buttons. I had never seen anything like it before. 

      Why these folks wear dark glasses is anybody's guess.  My assumption is to hide the heroin use. Jerry Jeff was of that kind then. His music was superb. We joined him later in Coconut Grove where he kept a rental throughout the winter. The festival was extraordinary because of the art that Miami produces. I returned to New Orleans and UNO.
       My window opened right on the roof on Jasmine St. I'd go outside on the roof rather than climb down the stairs through the gauntlet of family matters which would engulf my brothers. It gave me freedom to think creatively and record my thoughts on paper.   All that is lost having moved so many times. One man's junk is another man's treasure.  There are so few original thoughts in this world. 'There is nothing new under the sun' is another thought that negates inventiveness. 
     The Ecology Club was a new entity on campus in 1968.   My friends at the Ecology Club wanted to do something big with music.  We got permission to hold an event at the Student Union after hours. Nearly everyone participated in making this impromptu festival happen. 

     The nun who told us how to get the city permits was instrumental.  Crowd control and the acquisition of super trooper spotlights and other lighting from the drama department was essential. I joined the Ecology Club to gain some protection. Even though I was not officially enrolled but was waiting for a position to resume my studies after a healing hiatus.  Psychological damage takes a long time to heal.     

     They gave me a desk in a back hallway of the Union. The Festival became something larger than intended. We had thousands of people attending. We subsequently moved to Camp Leroy Johnson to hold the first Earth Day Celebration in history on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain as an annual rite of Spring.

         I discovered the next big thing. It was not paying the bills, though.  I had to work at a job so I could afford the tuition. My older brother Mike had the smarts and the math background to be given the free ride of scholarships through the educational process. He was right with Doc Wieda. I was not so fortunate.
        My struggles were intense and not very productive with education then.  I hit the road for the Miami Pop Festival in the winter of 1968.  Florida was a scary police state.  You just never knew if they were going to stop you for a detailed examination only to let you go. Being from out of state is a risky business for music fans. Tribal music was taking root. The Conga drums became prominent in my life.
      The music festival held at the Gulf Stream Racetrack, was an eye opener. I saw things from the art world that were truly inspiring. The music was the best ever with acts like Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels, James Brown and the Famous Flames. There were so many others, all dressed to the nines.  Epic does not do it justice. Nor does the word awesome.

      I rode down the Gulf Coast with biologists who were doing a survey of the Everglades. We stopped at every roadkill and flock of birds so they could examine and document species they've never seen before. 

       They were from the Northeast so naturally this was exciting for them.  I was always hungry and thirsty so frequent feedings was the norm. These brothers predicted the demise of the Glades. They were not far off the mark.  Protection was essential at this point.  Preserving the waterways ultimately protected the Glades.

      There is more awareness about environmental degradation because of people like these guys who take it upon themselves to document the destruction. This  gave credence to the environmental movement.  You must be careful. It has become a rallying cry for radicals and militants who disrespect all the efforts of genuine scientists.  
     Jasmine St. gave rise to my Guild thinking. There are many craftsmen in New Orleans who would benefit if they worked within a Guild. A Guild is an ancient organization. Craftsmen share information about their skills and tools. It is not a political organization.

         The media was obsessed with Vietnam.  I had my own affairs.  Paul McCartney opened Sea Saint Studios a few blocks away from our house. I got to see inside that operation just once.  The mafioso music groups wanted me back in the loop.  All I wanted was to make sandals like Bill Powell, the Englishman.
     Bill made his sandals in the French Quarter at 1212 Royal St.. He was loved by everyone. He taught men how to design and make all kinds of sandals. His designs were innovative and very Romanesque. I went with him a few times to select leather at the tannery. I learned as much as possible from him. I found out he was being deported because US Customs said they found marijuana under his fingernail as he returned from Mexico.  We had a farewell party for him. He looked strong and ready for the long flight back to England. I heard he was still making sandals. He is such a great soul and a ladies man. Nancy was wild about him. She cried real tears as he jumped in a cab for the ride to the airport on Veterans highway.
     I've seen some wild nights in New Orleans. I was uptown in the Garden District listening to music near Tulane U. at The Boot when a tall blond walks up crying croc tears.  I asked if she needed help. Her car had been robbed and everything was gone. She was from Australia. I felt badly for her. There was nothing I could do but call the police and let them handle it. What a shame on New Orleans.
         There were other times when being in the right place and the right time made all the difference to the outcome. Early intervention is the key to almost every dangerous situation that humans get into. Hank Hayley and I were designing music one night when we spied this guy fall over. Not knowing the situation, we went over to help him to his feet. Obviously drunk and disoriented made him a prime target for the street rats that prowl the shadows. We cleaned him up and gave him fluids. He sobered after about an hour. We oriented him to his hotel and set him loose to make a beeline to the front door. I wonder how other drunks survive.  
    One of the perks for me as a reviewer of music were the free records. These were sent directly to me to listen and enjoy by record companies. I'd choose the ones I liked and rated them for listening quality.  I was the first to hear Judy Collins records and every new Rock and Roll group taking the stage in those days.  These were extraordinary times for me.
     I was on the Riverwalk one night watching the river traffic as I usually did when I was at Jackson Square.  A Chinese freighter was making its way down river when suddenly it burst into flames after colliding with a fuel barge.  It started drifting into the Mississippi River Bridge abutments and was caught there as it burned. Seamen were jumping off the stern into the swift river. The flames reached higher and higher on the river bridge. The fire boat that protects the harbor, arrived to put out the flames. There was the loss of many lives that night on the Mississippi. In those days, accidents were a spectator sport.                 There was absolutely nothing I could do but watch. I am a card carrying member of the International Society of Gawkers presented to me in a small ceremony by the founder and president, Rick S.
     I went to many concerts then. On one Saturday night we heard Jimi Hendrix was going to play in City Park near the Merry-go-Round. Seeing him was awesome because of his command of himself and music.   He moved with such grace and dignity that we admired. Of course he was high. The music was higher.   On the same bill was Procol Harem which was an astounding treat for the know nothings of New Orleans. Rick and I knew though how special this was.  We were solidly Gawking at the Gawkers.
        The French Quarter was now super hip with boutiques all over with that charming incense smell. This lets you know you are among friends trying to make a living selling whatever. All the girls were buying hip clothes. You wanted to show them you were hip as well.  He had to fit the bill to get a date with these high class girls. They had nothing going on but clothes and boy toys.
        My girlfriend at that time was Sandy. We met at Kingsley House Camp and hung out during our time together  There was alot going on with many adventures in the sailing canoe. Sandy had those Twiggy eyes she used to flash at me during staff meetings. I had no chance except to submit to her charms. That was one of the greatest summers of my life.
      I was a man of many hats in those days, both literally and figuratively.  My all time favorite was a wide brimmed plantation hat that had the distinctive paisley cloth hat band.   When you get into straw hats you find out about how they are made. The very best come from a region close to Panama but in Columbia on a river made of fine silal that is grown by the Indians and woven underwater for the most part.  These hats are the softest and most durable Panama hat you can own. You can roll it up and stick it in your back pocket and it will pop back into the shape it was first woven in.  Its waterproof too. It is such a joy to have a genuine Panama hat that will last a lifetime. Nowadays, they are made in many styles for the hip elite to the traditional wide brimmed style so popular with men out in the sun like deckhands on fishing boats. 

      Jasmine St. was in the general area of Gentilly Ridge supporting the only road to the coast called Hwy 90. All that has changed with the advent of the new causeway bridges crossing Lake Pontchartrain.

      One day, during the British music invasion I was car pooling with Dave V when, who pulls up alongside us but Chad & Jeremy. It took us a few seconds to realize who they were.  The limo they were riding in gave us the clue. Such an interesting day since we were trying to make it in music with the same sort of folksy ballads they were singing. We were amateurs and always will be amateurs. 

Albert

      After our whirlwind trip to the West Coast we moved back into Edna's duplex on 2466 South Caliborne.  This is my step Grandmother we called Mamare who tore up all my childhood photos in a fit of rage. This was because good Catholics did not divorce but soldiered on in a bad marriage. 

        We lived there for awhile.  My half brother Duke and I were almost the same age to the day minus one year. Duke is the favorite of Edna because he is blood related. She fawned over him. Our birthdays were huge affairs celebrated at the same time.         

    This is the essence of Cajuns of French extraction from Quebec. They intermarried with German immigrants.  Read Longfellow to gain insight about the great displacement of French Canadians.

      The big attraction at Mamare's  were all the fruit trees in her backyard.  My Mother began canning pears for the winter. This is where she got her raw ingredients.  The pears were cooked down with sugar then it was figs and mulberries all made by hand.

     Our favorite was the mulberry tree which we would strip bare of fruit consuming as we climbed. May the purple lipped live forever.
     Albert found us play fighting in the backyard. I was winning. In those days, everything was hung on clotheslines propped up by long poles. He chose that moment for a training session for Duke. He took down the poles and gave one to each of us. He then started showing his only son how to defend himself with me as the foil. In effect, I had to fight both of them with this slender pole.  Talk about learn quickly. This was not a game... it was deadly serious. Welcome to the family in New Orleans. I was tilting windmills just like Don Quiote.

     Eventually, Edna came around to accepting us.  The damage was done though.  All one can do is carry on until you can escape. It was another 13 years before I could leave this insanity.  

     It was hard times for us. Albert Jr. eventually became my step father.  I finally got over all the life changes I went through and accepted my Mother's choice in a mate.

    I missed my real Dad so much.  I would cry myself to sleep thinking how betrayed I was not to be with him even though he was a flaming drunk and womanizer with two wives. Alex was still my father no matter what. 

     The Seawall with stairs leading down to the water at Lake Ponchartrain was my favorite retreat. The Mardi Gras fountain is where we would take our dates to watch the submarine races at the Lake. 

   The Westend Marina had a watermelon stand we would go to as a family. These melons were transported by boat from the growers across the lake. All that is gone now. The remains are still there but the vibe has changed.

       I rode the train from Chicago through the swamplands just outside of the Big Easy. This is the original City of New Orleans train that makes its way south through gator country. It pitches back and forth as it rambles on. I saw a huge black gator sunning himself as all cold blooded reptiles do.

      At Lake Mireaux, I saw the skinning of giant catfish. The skinner nails the head to a vertical board after making an incision around the girth. He the grabs the loose skin with two pillars and pulls down strongly.  The skin just peals off.

    This track was the only road during the Civil War. It was captured and recaptured many times. It was used to transport the Confederates to the battlefields with all the equipment that goes with them to the front. 

   Very few realize how important the railroad was to the South. The war brought the South to deaths door.  Nearly every Southern family lost members during the war.

The Right Side or the Sewerside

I'm on the sewerside of life. 

Like a turd floating down the tube

Being treated ever so rude

Like a log in the River

It makes me shiver

To the Swamp of Disrepairing.  

 Looking for light

 Saved from caring. 

I'm on the Sewerside of Life

 No one knows the troubles I've seen

 Or the bowls that I have cleaned.

Or the stinks that I smelled

Waking up again 

In the strangest of Hells. 

Texas

      I retired from Mayo Clinic after 8 yrs of ridiculous service.  I started for Texas on a cold day in May hoping to complete the drive without the car blowing up on me. She is a tough 1999 SAAB 95 sedan bulletproof in every way.  I bought her from a dealer in the north. 

    This SAAB was built in Canada and had all the winter gear one would need for those icy and treacherous roads. I would drive from dawn til dusk in the great push southward finding a safe parking spot at Walmart.  They allow overnight parking. I'd sleep all curled up on the backseat with my pee bottle handy for

 those night time relievers that are so essential.

       As I crossed into Kansas, I could see weather developing. Storm clouds gathered in the distance. As darkness fell, the winds lashed out with all their fury. The windshield wipers could not keep up with the amount of water being blown around.     

      It was time to pull over. I parked under an overpass and prepared to rest. The radio crackled with a report of a twister nearby. There was a sudden whoosh as the thing swept over the roadway on top of the overpass. The car shook violently and moved around as the wind lifted the two ton behemoth for a moment.  There was no one around since the roadway had been cleared by the sensible State Police. No damage at all. I started her up again and drove into the next town which proved to be safer.

    My destination was my brother's ranch in Chappell Hill. He was allowing me a few weeks to get organized and find work.  This was not my idea at all.  I did not want to work in healthcare since the only thing I really gained was enough capital to travel.    

      When you let the dog loose he runs for awhile. I was a dog on the loose with many ideas of where to go. I stayed at Mike's for nearly three months working at various things that needed doing.

      The old man was living on the ranch since he lost the fishing camp to Katrina. My mother was in the Brenham nursing home. I would go visit her a few times a week until I had to leave. Another hurricane was forming in the Gulf.  It was directly offshore. I only had a few hours to get out of town before IKE made his presence known.  It tore things up pretty good at the ranch. That was the last time I saw the old man. While we were spreading the tar roof on the milking parlor he gamely climbed the ladder to have a look at the work being done. 

      Mike eventually drove him to El Paso and the VA retirement center.  He said he was scared.   It does not have to be scary. Three meals a day. Plenty of fellowship and pretty nurses to ogle makes it a delightful occasion for most.   I hope he adjusted.    I won't see him again. He just won't remember me. I worked in many nursing homes to know exactly what goes on and how patients are treated. He will be fine.     

       The reason Mike did this was because his legs were turning black. This is caused by improper diet.with the ultimate culprit being scurvy the lack of vitamin C.   When a friend can't take care of himself the compassionate thing to do is get them help.   First you take them to the emergency room for evaluation and a solution to immediate problems then the social worker makes an appearance.  She tries to figure out where to place your friend. It could be in a home-like environment or a nursing home with skilled nursing to supervise his recovery or demise. 

   I drove to Austin to let the storm blow itself out. I continued my long drive to San Diego and finally the ocean. The interstate 8 leads you directly to the Pacific Ocean.  Once you see this beautiful sight your mind can relax and smell the salt air which in itself is invigorating. 

     There a few hostels that are always full so plan ahead and make some sort of reservation or you will be scrambling for shelter like the many homeless.  This is the grim reality of the coastal cities especially a navy town like SD. All those PTSD people come to SD to survive. Unless you have a excellent retirement plan of some value you are probably destined for the same fate.
         Many choose Hawaii simply because it is warmer.  Even that is filled with challenges and awkward false starts. At least you can swim everyday in the ocean and watch the sunsets.  The rest of the time is pure survival. Food is expensive. 

     The Chinese have the cheapest foods. Transportation is also cheap. You can ride the circle island bus for just one dollar and an adventure of a lifetime. I chose to go to sea and the South Pacific which in retrospect was the very best of ideas.

       My hand was still broken but I could function at a reduced level. The charm of the islands will never leave you. You will always want to return even though you know it won't be the same. There is nothing more powerful than a sunset in the South Pacific to set the imagination aflame.

Barry

      It was during these times that I met Barry. He is the smartest person I have ever known.  He and his brother are excellent chess masters who were willing to teach the game to me. There were many Saturday mornings when I would go over to their house and have lunch served by one of the most cordial mothers in the world.   It was a short lived friendship.  His father took jobs all over the country so it was soon in the cards for Barry to move away. I wonder if he even remembers those great days we spent together.  I saw his name somewhere. Apparently, he is a doctor now in Shreveport Louisiana.
      I had two hamsters called Ham and Eggs. Along with turtles and a huge stamp collection. Having friends around was not a good incentive for me.  Our family was bound to be educated and well respected.   I was part of that expectation.   

     How soon those goals change simply because of all the pressure that was coming down on us.   The Vietnam war was raging and consuming many of the guys in school.  The ones who did manage to come home were badly wounded and disabled for the rest of their lives.

The Spitball Wars

     Capdau Junior High School was filled with many misadventures. In the afternoons usually the fifth or sixth period when the punishment would be lighter, we would start our campaign of spit balling. It would take us a few minutes to ready our shooters which consisted of palmed soda straws from the cafeteria and lots of paper. The paper contained chemicals that cause neurological problems we found out later.

    We started by chewing up paper and forming the spitball in our mouths. We would check for caliber, grading each carefully formed spit ball for continuity. The onslaught would commence as soon as the substitute teacher turned to write on the blackboard.         Substitutes were the most likely to just let it go, so we knew it was spitball day when a substitute showed up.

       We were merciless. Spit balls were stuck everywhere. No one was safe. We used a sawed off version that we could flip back in our mouths to secretly inflict damage on others.

      One of us took a shot at the blackboard. It went splat close to Mr Gillespie.  He knew what was happening but was powerless to stop it. He simply ignored this madness and continued to teach the willing. His classes were very good.  They were all about Louisiana history that most of us already knew growing up in Louisiana. We were just bored and ready for the outdoors. The sweltering classrooms made the class restless.  Our sanctuary was the woods that surrounded the Crescent City.

     My favorite getaway was City Park. This park is huge. It connects the Mississippi River with Lake Ponchatrain as a relief spillway much like the Bonne' Carrie Spillway. It could have been designed as a backup when the River threatened the city.       

     On Saturdays, I'd ride my bike to spend the day tromping through the unexplored Park areas. I was looking for wildlife. The Park holds so much wildlife that escapes the normal eye.

      I once found a injured Sparrow Hawk. She was such a beautiful bird of prey,  I nursed this injured bird feeding it raw hamburger.  I eventually gave it to Frank who was the troop wildlife specialist.
   One cold day, I was on the perimeter with the roadway nearby. A cop was passing by on the typical three wheeled motorcycle. He passed by.  In my haste, I threw him the bird in a spontaneous display of resentment. I thought he could not see me.  He suddenly wheeled around.  I spent a few hours in jail.  My Aunt Marion bailed me out. Respect authority is my suggestion.
     The giant Live Oaks planted by the French Founders of the city are incredible. They were a shipbuilders dream. These giants suffer greatly during the huge storms of hurricane season. Like all life, they recover quickly in these moist environs. 

    In New Orleans there is an unseen population living among these trees. These are the squirrel families of many generations. They love the acorns which the trees produce year round.  If you are fortunate enough to see one, try sitting in perfect stillness so they don't see you. Animals key on movement and the eyes. They are always busy burying acorns. This ensures that a few oak sprouts will grow. One can dig them up and take it to a new home if you know of a place big enough for the tree to grow to full stature. 

   The English and French built their ships from oak. Those trees are no more. An often overlooked reason for the War of 1812 was the English interest in the oak groves along the Mississippi.

       My Dad told me of hunting squirrels with slingshots in these great groves of the huge Parks of New Orleans in the 30's. They hid the little bodies inside a wheel they rolled to hide them from the cops. They stayed put as long as the tire kept rolling but once stopped they would fall out. Thus the incentive was to keep rolling so no one would get the wiser.  Kids do what they can to get away with their petty crimes.

     My Dad came from the Heckmann family. Our Great Grandmother we called Fat Mamare.  She was one hundred per cent French Cajon. The story goes that the family fled Nazi Germany through the Netherlands by ship.  They eventually came to New Orleans and opened shoe stores. 

       I have some famous relatives like Johnny Schumacher, the jockey who won the Kentucky Derby many years ago. The stories go on and on.

The road to Philmont Scout Ranch is paved with disillusionment

      Joining the Scouts was life changing for me. I became a Scout eager to consume everything related to Scouting  I rose through the ranks from Den Chief to Patrol Leader to Assistant Senior Patrol Leader to Senior Patrol Leader then finally Assistant Scoutmaster. I advanced in rank although a few merit badges short of Eagle. I will be a Life Scout forever.  ❤️

    It was my dream to make the trip to Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico.  It was a dream too far. At that age everything is pulling you in all directions. The cost was prohibitive since there was no way to make money except by slaving away at a pitiful excuse for work.  Even that would not have provided the basic cost to Philmont.

       I was invited to go on a road trip to Seattle by the Buck family. That gave me a taste of a history as we toured.  I was such a Cowpoke fan. Only later, I learned that most cowboys were outlaws. Uncle Ralph gave me a book about Cowboys of the old West.
      I settled for a life of poverty and labor like any good Southern boy. I was determined to suceed like my older brother. I became a student at the University of New Orleans because I thought it would help me achieve my goals. It did not. I was interested in other things besides a Science discipline which is the only way to find work in the oil industry. I was not a smart boy just a writer and a poet. Calculus was my downfall. Volume estimates are essential in the oil field    

       My brother had the smarts to become a geologist for the oil companies based in New Orleans. Hard work was not my strength. Injured oilfield roustabouts were all over the place. The University was a candy store with endless choices that never make you happy.  Outside of school, things were pulling at me like girlfriends and music.

       The war in Vietnam was the biggest obstacle I faced . The draft was waiting to cart me off to war.  If you fall below the 2.2 point in the grading system, you are draftable.  When I took the physical my eyes kept me out the draft.   I was given a 4F deferment. Hallelujah I'm a bum again.
      R.R. Eckart was our Scoutmaster. He worked as a lead geologist which gave him time to be the Scoutmaster of Troop 87. I learned a lot from this man.  His leadership was immpeccible, well planned and spontaneous. His family supported everything he did concerning the nurturing of young Scouts. He was an outstanding Methodist and parent.  He once went charging through our encampment screaming at the top of his lungs carrying our troop banner. We joined  him since he was going somewhere.  It did not matter where since he was leading. It could have been a Civil War movie for all the drama created. I introduced my older brother to him since he was becoming a geologist. Networking is the way to go.  I got Duke to join the BSA.

        We camped in a Forest Reserve with many logging skidpaths and slash piles to hide behind. We were playing war games. We divided into teams. It soon got out of hand.  Scouts were making spears and setting traps. We were living out the Lord of the Flies. The running was exhausting. What we experienced that day was how it feels to go to war. Lucky no one got hurt. Tempers were flaring and things got testy. Darkness quelled the anger.  Soon we were back to scouting, getting ready for dinner over the open coals of a well built fire.
      Our weekend camping trips were educational. We set up our camp in the backwaters of the Gulf Coast of short leaf pine and boggy swamps. The fishing was good in these bogs. The frogs set forth with a mighty chorus of croaks and grunts as the sun sets on our Southern paradise. We found carnivorous plants such as the sun dew and pitcher plant native to America. How they got to the Gulf Coast from South Carolina is anyone's guess.  They were growing in the seldom visited backwaters of our coastline, in all their sticky glory.       

        We tried everything to make ourselves immune from poison ivy. We heard that you could eat a leaf of poison ivy wrapped in bread to stimulate the immune response. This is ancient Indian lore.  It works to some degree.  

    We perfected campfire cookery by pre-packaging our dinners in aluminum foil. All we had to do was toss it in the coals of the evening fire. We never washed a pan or opened a can out in the wilderness. The coffee pot was always hot. This was the welcome sign to visitors who wanted to know us. Scouts are that friendly.
     The mosquitoes were horrendous. Some of the ways to get relief was to build a smoky fire then smother it with Spanish moss. Soon though, the mosquitoes would be all over you looking for that special place to drill. The richer scouts bought repellent which soon washes off with sweat. The Indians caked mud all over their body which was a fine solution. Who wants to be that dirty all the time?  We struggled on with this huge problem.  We discovered jungle hammocks with mosquito netting. After all, you get to lay down. You still have interesting conversations with your buddies.  In the evening when the onshore winds blew, it took most of the mozzies down to the ground. We were safe for awhile.