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.