Super Bowl Sunday

          Super Bowl Sunday morning everyone in the Louisiana house awoke with a smile, anticipating the big game. We all found a way to stay busy.  We women set about grating chocolate for the chocolate fountain, chopping onions for pico de gallo, mashing avocados for guacamole and stuffing jalapenos. We set out the decorations—Saints banners, glittery fleur de lis pendants, Mardi Gras beads, and a cake that looked just like a Saints football helmet. As the guests arrived, the standard greeting was “Who Dat?!” New Orleans’ new anthem, “Black and Gold,” boomed all through the house as we geared up for the kick-off.

            The game started with everyone’s eyes riveted to the movie theater sized screen. We were all loading our plates with crawfish, oysters, barbecued ribs, steaks, sausage, spaghetti and meatballs while keeping one eye on the game as the Saints took on the Colts.  

Then someone brought one of the family dogs in injured. Indy had been run over by a golf cart. While the game played, we called the emergency animal hospital, and loaded Indy into the back of an SUV. Our hostess, Dawn, left with him at the end of the first quarter. She got back at the end of half time. Indy would stay overnight where the vets could keep an eye on him. He had a broken vertebrae.

 We added prayers for Indy to prayers for the Saints. Then came the gutsy onside kick. Jumping, screaming, high fives, and hugs filled the house. It was a hard fought game, but we breathed easier in the second half. After one of the Saints touchdowns, we cranked up “Black and Gold” on the sound system so loud, it blew the fuses for the big screen! Someone yelled, “Look, there’s a TV upstairs!” We stampeded up into the loft and crowded around an average sized screen. Our focus on the game continued up there until the big screen started up again.

When it looked like the Saints had the game locked up, we all exhaled until late in the fourth quarter when the nanny told Dawn (who is a nurse) that she felt sick—chest pain, shortness of breath, numbness in her left arm. We called 911 and two ambulances and a fire engine arrived. As the EMT’s loaded Maria into one of the ambulances, our host, Lee persuaded the EMT’s from the other ambulance to hold up a Saints jersey and pose for a picture. Maria also smiled and waved as she left. Only in Louisiana!

After the final seconds ticked off and the Saints’ victory was history at 31-17, after we’d cheered, hugged, dance and screamed, we went the emergency room to check on Maria. The doctors said she didn’t have a heart attack, just too much tequila and Tabasco sauce. We said our good-byes since we were leaving early in the morning. On the way home Dawn quipped, “I guess it’s not a party unless someone ends up in the emergency room.”

At home we watched the party on Bourbon Street. People were wild with jubilation. The police sitting atop horses had smiles on their faces as they watched the crowd. Every once in awhile a hand would come up out of the crowd and stroke the horses’ noses.

On our way to the airport the following morning, lines of people circled the buildings of New Orleans’ Times Picayune hoping to get copies of this historic edition of the newspaper. Cars and people lined the streets near the airport, waiting to greet Drews Brees, and the Super Bowl Champions when they got home.

We flew the long way home—through Philadelphia—the only free mileage flights we could find back to Seattle. I proudly wore my Saints t-shirt and Mardi Gras beads. Every Saints fan boarding our flights acknowledged me with at least a knowing smile and at most a rousing “Who Dat?!” It seemed like everyone across the country was a Saints fan for Super Bowl XLIV, February 7, 2010.

Let the Good Times Roll!

Standing on the curb waiting for to be picked up, the familiar breeze laced with gulf air blew past carload after carload of family and friends greeting each other with smiles and hugs, that “Naw’lins” accent bouncing around in my head once again.

               My husband and I had returned on a whim and free airline mileage. Neither of us was born in Louisiana, but both of us consider it one of our four homes. Louisiana is where we met. LSU is where we got married in a small campus chapel. It’s also where we made friends that became our second families.

               That Louisiana family is who pulled up at the airport to embrace us, decorate us with shiny purple, green, and gold Mardi Gras beads, and then swear us into the “Who Dat Nation” as we barreled across Lake Pontchartrain. They filled us in on the thousands of male fans who dressed up in drag to fulfill a vow of Buddy Diliberto, the late, New Orleans sportscaster who famously declared he'd wear a dress if the Saints ever made it to the Super Bowl. After 43 long years, the Saints were Super Bowl-bound. We learned the words to “Black and Gold” blasting from the SUV speakers, and before we even got “home,” we stopped to buy Saints’ Super Bowl t-shirts, temporary tattoos, and jewelry.

               Five hours later, we’d pulled up chairs in a family café for my favorite “back in Louisiana” ritual—feasting on spicy fried shrimp—either straight up or dressed in a po’boy, along with a cold, long-necked bottle of beer. John and our friends slurped down oysters on the half shell. We caught up on our lives and relived old times, with “who dats” from all over the restaurant randomly punctuating our laughter.

               A Mardi Gras parade rolled slowly past the front plate glass windows, loud and raucous. The waitress bustled by and asked if I’d like a go-cup for my beer to take out front to watch the parade. I answered “No.” I wanted my hands free. Between shrimp and hush puppies, I ran out onto the sidewalk to yell, “Throw me something Mista!” both hands raised high in the air—a skill learned in college that has never appeared on my resume—to catch those shiny beads.

               A high school band stalled in front of us, the drumline pounding out a Mardi Gras beat while the rest of the band gyrated, instruments held up high. And there I was, dancing in a Louisiana street once again, as I had decades before. The floats cruised by, masked men slinging strings of beads out to the crowd.  A little guy held up high in his mom’s arms pointed up with amazement at strings of beads caught in a leafless tree. He grinned and nodded in agreement when I commented that it was decorated like a Christmas tree.

               Late into the night, I caught beads, ate shrimp, laughed, danced, and sang. I celebrated being a citizen of the “Who Dat” nation, sharing in the pre-game excitement that had taken over bringing back the free and easy exuberance that had been a part of New Orleans pre-Katrina. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Laura Stark is decorating her house with Mardi Gras beads and cooking shrimp gumbo. She can be reached at lkstark@yahoo.com.

Road Trip

          161-512-167-18-90-26-195-270. No, that’s not the mysterious numeric sequence from “Lost” or the Fibonacci code. It’s the numeric sequence of highways I take when I drive across the state to WSU where my kids are students. That’s where I was headed, so I loaded my car up with croissants, paper towels, and toilet paper from Costco, home-baked New York Crumb cake, odds and ends that they’d forgotten to take, and a shopping bag of goodies from a roommate’s mom. I packed my own bag, and made sure to load my I-Pod with music (especially an updated Zumba playlist) to keep me awake. Last, I stopped at the library to check out some audio books.

            There’s nothing like a road trip to lift my mood. Even though I was eastbound, the first song on my Road Songs playlist was “Southbound” by The Allman Brothers. It chugged along as I cruised along and merged onto Highway 18.

Up in Snoqualmie Pass I turned the music off so I could appreciate the view. So many times before, I cut the music off up there to fully concentrate on the road while driving through what seemed like a washing machine of rain. I was lucky this time, the temperature was 34°, no snow or rain, so I relaxed and soaked in the beauty.

In Ellensburg I stuck with our family’s tradition. I stopped and ate at McDonalds. It’s uncanny how many times we’ve run into people we know in that particular McDonalds in the center of Washington state. Once it was our cousins from Hawaii who called out to me. They were on their way to drop their kids off at the University of Idaho! But on this trip, no chance meetings, just a few minutes to eat,  stretch my legs, and text John and the kids that I was almost halfway to Pullman.

Why was I on this almost epic 5-1/2 hour, 300-mile journey that included city driving, mountain driving, and two-lanes-through-farmland driving? I was on my way to attend the Washington State University School of Music Festival of Contemporary Art Music Student Convocation. Both Johnny and Sarah were listed in the program. Johnny, the Music Composition major, composed two short pieces for piano. Sarah, the Music Performance major, was the pianist who performed them.

Throughout their childhoods, they watched each other perform at recitals and school music programs, but February 4, 2010 was a highpoint on their musical road. Sarah took the stage and adjusted the bench at the Fazioli grand piano as we all waited expectantly for the first notes. Johnny had confided beforehand that it was much more nerve-wracking to be performing than to be sitting in the audience as he was. She took a deep breath, and began playing the pieces with her exceptionally perceptive musicality. How had he heard all this in his head? How had he written it all down? After the last note was played, Sarah stood gracefully amidst the clapping, and extended her hand to acknowledge the composer, her big brother, searching for him in the audience. He rose from his seat and bowed to her and the audience.

The next day, I stopped to fill my car’s gas tank up for the return trip. I smiled. My heart was still full from Sarah and Johnny’s performance. That has lasted for the entire trip home and beyond.