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“In memory, everything seems to happen to music.”
~Tennessee Williams

Saturday’s panels were wonderful, as always. Everything about the festival seemed to run like a well-oiled machine, from the pride they take in beginning every event on time to having every post manned. If, for an instant, someone seemed unable to answer a question, Karissa Kary would come to the rescue. For years, we’ve watched this play out. She is in high demand– yet somehow manages to be accessible– absolute grace under pressure without fail.

If Friday had been a memorial of the heart, then Saturday was a joy-filled celebration of life. We spent substantial time in Miss Kathryn’s courtyard.

We listened to music of every imaginable style. Three second-lines passed by, one after another, and just about the time the music seemed to stop, a stau materialized (I learned that word from my granddaughter. It’s German for traffic jam. She teaches me all kinds of random information). A joyful Gospel song rose from the street below. I Smile played in its entirety, reminding me of everything I already knew and when traffic moved on, one last second-line came passing by.

There is no place I’d rather spend a Saturday night than on Frenchmen Street with My Favorite Michael at d.b.a. listening to John Boutte. Michael first introduced me to John when d.b.a. sponsored his performance (with Uptown Okra) at French Quarter Fest in 2002. I will never tire of listening to that man sing. This is the voice I crave when I want to feast my senses.

On Sunday, we had a lunch date at Stanley.

Eggs Stella for Breezy.

Eggs Stanley for me.

Breaux Bridge Benedict for Michael.

I thought back to six weeks post-K to the days of ham sandwiches on his front porch when we were ready to take a break from mold.  When daylight ended and we’d head to Frenchmen Street to grill before curfew.  And it felt so good to be right here, right now, with two of my favorite people eating the kind of food I’ll never cook at home.

We went through the day with no agenda. This was a time to let the pieces fall where they may– people taking priority, last meal falling right behind.

Port of Call won. So did the Thunder as we watched them win against Portland on the t.v., Jim Morrison’s voice providing background music as Roadhouse Blues played on the jukebox.

If I had my way, I’d snap my fingers and be home at the end of the last day. None of that dreaded transition. Every bit of anticipation and longing shifts the opposite direction and I’m more than ready to see my loved ones, get back to my sweet home, and sleep in my own Downy-fresh sheets. 

So here we are. For now, we surround ourselves with all these new books, work a six-on-one-off vampire schedule, and play outside with amazing little people every chance we get. We’ll busy ourselves with Gnome and Fairie Gardens and before we know it, that familiar longing will set in once again–the kind that can only be satisfied where the moisture-to-air ratio is just so– and we’ll head back again to the place we call our home-away-from-home.

Next stop: Words and Music.

 ”Make voyages. Attempt them. There’s nothing else.”

~Tennessee Williams