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Her father grew up in the Irish Channel, and she grew up on Magazine. My dad has a drawl that's not exactly southern, but not really Cajun, either. He grew up off Carrolton. My favorite was my great aunt Maddie. She lived in Broadmoor, I think. She sounded like a cross between Maya Angelou and Oprah Winfrey, only older and a bit weaker and less polished. She was a classic New Orleanean. No one could have classified her. Her entire family was white, but she could have passed for white, black, mulatto, Creole, or Cajun--and according to family legend, did at various times. When I knew her she was in her 80s and 90s and I was just a kid, so I didn't know enough to realize how interesting she was. She was just the old wrinkled woman who prickled when she kissed my cheek, and smelled old-people funny. When she died, my parents found stashes of Kennedy memorablia, ranging from hundreds of dollars of Kennedy silver dollars stuffed in socks, to old newspapers from just after the assassination. I have one of those still. It's a Times Picayune, the Sunday edition, with a long write-up of Oswald's history, especially his time in New Orleans. The final line remarks that they were going to move him from the courthouse later that morning.
I wish with all my heart I had known how much I could have learned from her back then.
You say New Orleans culture is in the French Quarters, but my main memories of the city are playing on the sidewalks in Broadmoor, or of City Park, or Pontchartrain Beach, or the University area to visit our rich relatives (I forget the family connection). I remember broken sidewalks and cracked pavement and corner stores with wooden floors that smelled of constant humidity and dirt, and sold Barqs rootbeer and roast beef po'boys and Golden Flake potato chips. I remember Parkway Bakery when it was a broken down dive instead of a Yuppie bar. I remember riding along Hwy 90 back to Bay St. Louis, and lying on the rear window deck and watching the stars undisturbed by city lights, and being afraid of the swamp monsters of the stories, and the smell of vegetation and black swamp soil along the bayous and bays and lakes and Gulf.
And of course, I remember my parents driving down Bourbon Street and trying to make us hide our eyes when we got close to Canal. :)
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