January, 2009

On Tuesday, I picked up an assignment to feature a restored 1830s Creole townhouse for the homes magazine, due next Friday. I met the owner, Mary, at her home Thursday morning. I rang the bell (an actual bell-shaped bell to the left of the door) and Mary opened the shutters and let me into the first room: a parlor with eggshell walls and a turquoise, exposed beam ceiling. No hallways in a Creole house. No AC or heat either, so the coat stayed on (it was 48 degrees outside!).

She gave the tour, spewing out terms that went straight through my ears to my hand and into my notebook: baroque, gros rouge, mochaware. The house has been renovated to reflect its early days (1830s-40s). Every decoration and piece of furniture is either mid 19th century or could have been. I made little stars next to things as we walked around, bookmarks for what to ask about later. Walking up the stairs to see the second half of the house, I realized 80% of my notes were starred and stopped listening. Instead, I wrote what I saw and even snapped a few pictures with my point and shoot. The things that stand out are probably worth noting and can be asked about when I’m in a better position to write it down and ask follow-up questions to get the details.

Downstairs in the much warmer kitchen, Mary put pots of coffee and milk on the tiny circa-1930 Magic Chef stove. We talked for over an hour about the house, her previous marriage, living overseas, her cats that were taken after Katrina. We sipped café au lait in between stories and when my ceramic bowl was empty, it felt time to go.

I typed my notes into a Word Doc, entering them chronologically as taken and arranging them as I went. There are several entry points – how she acquired the house, her favorite room, Katrina… Surprisingly, the details I took down aren’t as essential as I thought. I got the stories during two hours of conversation; the details I need will only take a short phone call.

People ask what I do all day. I cook, clean house and hunt for stories. And I drink a lot of coffee in between, usually at a different place than the time before. Each day starts with the Times-Picayune and cold-brewed coffee. I read looking for unanswered questions. I check out events listings. I run errands and take a different way home. I eat out and talk with the waiter. When I go out, I eavesdrop. All those old-school reporter strategies.

Last night I met Charlie. I should say Charlie met me because, thanks to Facebook and MySpace, I knew where Charlie was from, that he was a Rochester alum and that he plays in a couple of bands in New Orleans. I also knew his jazz band was playing at a bar in the French Quarter Monday night. The introduction was mildly embarassing (“so, how’d you know I was here?”), but we had a good laugh about my stalker/journalist skills and exchanged info.

I’m new in town and I’m a journalist. I’m looking for friends and I’m looking for stories. Good stories start with people. I might not have stories yet, but I’m adding people every day.

One of those people is the editor of the local homes magazine. I took an assignment from her today, a feature about a house in the Bywater neighborhood. No hard-hitting investigative journalism here, but it’s a start and, as something new for me, a challenge.

“Crazy people like to be in the company of others like them — whether that’s locked up or free. I’m telling you know, I’m crazy about Jesus.” – Rev. Quentin Moody

I went to mass this morning. (I’ll give you a second to take that in.)

At last year’s True/False Film Festival in Columbia, Swiss director Peter Entell presented Shake the Devil Off, his documentary about a New Orleans Catholic church’s struggle to remain open after Hurricane Katrina forced the archdiocese to close and consolidate parishes. St. Augustine Church is rich with historical value: built 1834, first African-American Catholic parish in the U.S., home of the Tomb of the Unknown Slave, spiritual center of black Tremé neighborhood, the birthplace of jazz. The multicultural congregation is known for its uplifting choir and jazz services, when local musicians drop in.

“Crazy people like to be in the company of others like them — whether that’s locked up or free. I’m telling you know, I’m crazy about Jesus.” – Rev. Quentin Moody

I went to mass this morning. (I’ll give you a second to take that in.)

Tomb of the Unknown Slave

After resisting the church with letters and, eventually, a 19-day sit-in protest, St. Augustine’s was allowed to stay — provided they meet 12 benchmarks in 18 months. The charismatic Father LeDoux was reassigned in Texas, but the church progressed.

At the end of this morning’s service, Father Moody announced they had met all requirements. They will stay. Just a few weeks ago, the archdiocese closed two churches, saying it lacked the resources to staff the small parishes located a mile apart. They’re still meeting outside the buildings and petitioned the Vatican.

Knowing what St. Augustine has been through, I’m glad they rode this wave out. Knowing the diocese of New Orleans is in trouble, I wonder if they will survive the next.

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