Thursday, July 19, 2012
12:30 PM walk to the Charbonnet Labat Glapion Funeral Home, one of the oldest African-American Funeral Homes in New Orleans at 1615 St. Philip St. The wake is from 10 AM until 5 PM sharp.
Food trucks line the street next to Tuba Fats Square at the corner of North Robertson and St. Philip Street, one block from the funeral home. Nothing much happens in this city without food being available in one form or another.
1:00 PM arrive at the funeral home. Groups of people are gathered outside, all manner of dress, from fashion to funk. This is not a desultory crowd. Second line parades have erupted day and night since Uncle Lionel died on July 8.
Following a line of, well, I won't say mourners, perhaps well-wishers is a better term, into the air conditioned comfort of the funeral home from the 90° heat and humidity, I stand in line to sign one of the two guest books, and enter the viewing room.
At the entrance to the viewing room, funeral directors announce firmly, “No cameras, No cell phones, No photos. Please respect the family's wishes.”
The Batiste family is occupying a small oasis of couches sofas and chairs in the center of the spacious room. Following the line I come to a lovely casket, lined in lustrous white silk–empty. Where is Uncle Lionel? Has he been cremated, I ask.
A fellow points to what I first believed is a mannequin leaning against an old time gas lit street lamp. “That's him right there,” the man points to the rail thin figure. My jaw drops. I've never seen anything like this but that's him all right.
Brown Fedora (one of Lionel's collection of stylish hats) cocked just so atop his head with wiry gray hair protruding underneath, tan linen jacket with a faint box print, pressed white shirt, yellow print tie with matching pocket square, light mocha trousers, trademark large gold watch draped over his right hand, large gold rings on his fingers, which grasp the top of a polished brown cane with a silver handle, he seems to be actually looking at us through his omnipresent dark glasses.
The Charbonnet Way/Tremé Way street signs attached to the old-fashioned streetlamp were the areas in which he grew up and from a young age began creating an identity that would flourish and expand for the rest of his life.
“I’m still the star of this show,” he seems to be saying…and he is.
On his left is a men's valet clothes hangar with uncle Lionel's Tremé brass band uniform, musicians hat with the Tremé name affixed above the bill. Next to that is his iconic bass drum topped with its cymbals and mallets and beside that a pair of his spiffy black and white spats. Never before in my experience has a dead man been so present at his own wake.
I wedge my way into a corner of the room next to the exit door about twenty feet from Uncle Lionel. The funeral home staff keeps everyone moving along and out the door but, with several Batiste family members clustered near me, I'm able to avoid being ordered to move and stay there from about 1 PM until 5 PM.
Standing near me is Lionel’s 86 year old sister Miriam Batiste Reed, who flew here from Virginia where she lives now to tend for her brother when he got sick.
Miriam was the youngest daughter of the late Alma Trepaignier-Batiste and "Original" Baby Doll of Lionel Batiste’s Dirty Dozen Kazoo family band (c.1930-1980.)
http://www.neworleanssocietyofdance.com/nobdl.php
“In the old days Lionel led the Mardi Gras parade in the Tremé. We were not welcome down at the parade on Canal Street. Lionel had the idea to have the Baby Dolls take up the position behind his kazoo band. I was on floats that he made for the parade. I was the original Baby Doll!”
“People used to call Lionel Mr. Treme and me Miss Tremé. He was a darling, darling man.”
“We are a jolly family, happy people. Mamma raised 11 healthy, jolly children. We would spend Sundays together from morning till night, and always welcomed others to join us. She taught us to speak Creole, she showed us the older dances, and kept us together. When we went to parties or clubs I would stand on my daddy's shoes to dance with him. Lionel looked just like my daddy. He taught me how to play the kazoo. ”
“When Lionel took sick we were at his side from sunrise to sunset. Charbonnet is our funeral home from way back. They would not do this for anyone else.”
A song titled “I Had A Woman And She Never Let Me Down" is piped through the sound system. “That was his song!” Miriam yells to me. Lionel is doing the vocals. All of a sudden, the volume is ratcheted up a few notches. This is not a wake, it's a party.
In 2005 during Katrina, Miriam was visiting in California. When she returned to the Lower 9th Ward her house had been covered in 20 feet of water.
John Porre (his mother's maiden name) Williams. John has had a tour in Iraq and spent time at Fort Hood where he found the pair of spats Lionel is wearing today plus the black and white pair placed beside him.
“Uncle Lionel's favorite shoes were Florsheim's with the butterfly wing tip and those spats.”
“So many big families grew up together around Saint Philip St. - the Andrews, the Fortunes, and the Batiste family. Lots of them turned out to be musicians or chefs, I'm a chef myself,” John says.
When people enter, they don't know what to expect and for the first few seconds are quiet. A few steps in the room and everything changes. In every part of the room, people are hugging, shaking hands - the mood is convivial.
I watch people arrive at Lionel's standing corpse, I guess is no other way to say it. A man stands, pauses briefly, looks Lionel in the eye, checks him out slowly head to toe, raises his right hand and gives a slow ceremonial salute.
Around 2 PM: A touching scene: Norman Batiste arrives, makes his way slowly to a place directly in front of his brother. No one would dispute they are brothers physically and sartorially. Amidst the spirited and animated behavior of the hundred people around him, Norman stands reflectively taking in his brother's presence.
For several minutes, his thoughtful contemplation is given wide berth, this is a poignant private moment, brother to brother. Slowly, other members of the family gather around Norman, forming a cluster of gathering grief. There are tears. There is an extraordinary sense of an extended family weathering a loss.
Loretta Batiste: “You know what his favorite dessert was? A bowl of ice cream topped with a slice of bread.When he lived over at the Lafitte project on Bayou Road before his wife died he'd call me up and ask me for it.”
The longer the afternoon wears on, the louder the volume of recorded brass band music becomes. If a stranger entered this room blindfolded, he or she would never guess they were in the midst of a wake.
I'll bet there is not a full house in the entire 6th Ward. Grandmothers and grandfathers, tots and toddlers, they are all here, and most of them seem to know one another, first names shouted out, hugs and handshakes, “Hey, baby!”
The well-disciplined funeral staff has their hands full keeping the line of visitors moving along. They are also on the lookout for anyone trying to sneak a photo since the family has asked for cameras and cell phones to be kept in our pockets.
Vignettes:
A tall kid with dreds down to his shoulders rocks back on his heels, a big grin spreading across his face, lookin’ good Uncle Lionel.
The stream of visitors is about 95% black, the whole 6th ward seems to have shown up. “Isn't that wonderful?” a woman says to me as she passes by me, as if leaving an especially lively party. And with that brass band music pumping away, she is.
A woman in a dress and high heels breaks into a second line shuffle directly in front of Lionel and grins up at him. I swear he grins back.
“Caledonia” pours out of the speaker system. Most of the people are mouthing the words.
Grief is present here but is trumped by appreciation of a life well lived by a man whose presence elevated every street, bandstand, living room, bar, lounge, anywhere, with incandescent friendliness and charm.
A man in his mid-50s from the neighborhood: “I knew him well. You have to be a man of stature to be treated like this.”
“I can't believe this, I never seen nothing like it, how they do that?” From a young man passing by.
The room is filled with the everyday people who made up Lionel’s everyday world: neighbors, police, waiters and hotel workers in their uniforms, people who hung out on their porches on North Robertson or Saint Philip St. or the bars on St. Claude Avenue or the clubs on Frenchmen Street, anywhere within range of uncle Lionel's spat covered feet.
Scores of adults bend low to hold the hands of their children or grandchildren as they present them to Uncle Lionel. You can take to the bank that this will be a memory these kids will be telling their own grandchildren or children in the decades to come. This man Lionel Paul Batiste is a link to Tremé history past and present.
A man stands serenely in front of Lionel. His tan cowboy hat with a gorgeous turquoise headband, a jacket ornamented in turquoise, slim tailored jeans and tan boots, his personal fashion expression is every bit the equal to Lionel. He holds in his hand a wing of a buzzard, beautiful brown feathers tipped with white. Slowly, ceremoniously, he waves the wing in several circular gestures in front of Lionel.
“This is a Cherokee tradition, the ceremonial waving of the buzzards wing is a healing and a blessing,” the man tells me when I introduce myself. I am talking to the Rev. Goat Carson. “Goat stands for ‘Go on and try’” he says. “I performed this ceremony for Coco Robichaud, too,” says the handsome man with of the deep set clear brown eyes and weathered, composed, kind face.
Joining him in this gesture is Leah Hodges, “I am an award-winning human rights activist for Democracy Now and a musician - Princess Leah with the Tremé Rollers Brass Band. We were working on a CD with Uncle Lionel when he passed.”
A brass band version of “Shake Rattle and Roll”comes through the sound system, that's exactly what's going on right here. And it's followed by, guess what, Uncle Lionel’s thin tremolo doing the vocals on the Tremé Brass Band version of “My Bucket’s Got a Hole In It.”
People are wiping beads of perspiration from their faces as they enter the viewing room where things are definitely chill. The atmosphere in the room felt fairly subdued from 10 AM until 1 PM. Not now. The fuse has been lit.
Note to self: I want a brass band to play at my wake.
2:30 PM I take a break in the middle of the afternoon and see Ed King sitting in a family room. Ed is a man of religious conviction. “The Lord has prepared a place for us in heaven. Lionel is out of pain,” he says quietly. “Lionel had 7 daughters I had 6. We were roommates when the band went on tour. We talked about them a lot especially when they grew older, wanting them to find the right schools and good jobs.”
“New Orleans music connects families and New Orleans families are connected by music. Some kids can't read or write but they can play the When The Saints Go Marchin' In. The music is changing now with the young players but one thing does not change and that's the beat the beat always stays the same,” Ed says.
“I was born in Dayton, Ohio. My mother brought me to hear music when I was a kid to hear Dizzy, Bird, all of them. I didn't know them at the time but I remember the experience of listening. When I came to New Orleans I had a wonderful teacher who taught me to love music and to love the trombone. Sometimes we dedicate a song to her at the Candlelight Lounge.”
The embalmer at the funeral home is Cynthia Morrell, she's been working here for 28 years. “Treme is known for a lot of strange stuff but this is the 1st time we've ever been asked to do anything like this.” Cynthia did a spectacular job.
4 PM the line stretches out the door.
A white woman introduces herself to Lionel Batiste, Jr. “My father, Joe Butera, owned Little Joe's Food Store on St.Anthony Street and knew your daddy,” she says. Lionel grins. An animated genealogical conversation ensues in which Lionel and Julie Butera trade information about aunts, uncles (like Sam Butera), sisters, brothers, grandmothers, grandfathers, mothers and fathers. This is so New Orleans.
Where I come from the question might be, “Where do you live?” Down here, the first question is “Who's your Momma?” and the chances are that within a few sentences you'll find some connection by blood, kinship, or geography. Forget six degrees of separation. Down here it's about 3.
Photographer/artist Pat Jolly, who lost many of her belongings in Katrina, volunteered to work with the New Orleans Musicians Clinic after the storm. “Through the New Orleans Music Clinic (NOMC), I found Lionel a place at the Christopher Inn after the storm. For months after the storm, the clinic worked to bring band mates back to New Orleans, finding places to live and eat.” For example they might ask someone, “How would you like to put up some members of the Tremé band for three nights?” And people opened their doors.
These were hard times, but not without guardian angels. “Bethany Bultman, co-founder of the New Orleans Musicians Clinic, bought $10,000 worth of WalMart gift cards and passed out $250 gift cards to every musician she found,” Pat says.
The clinic promised to find musicians at least one gig a week they would
get paid for. "I volunteered to be the contact intermediary (a nickname given me by James Booker) and was put on the payroll when I took over the gig fund. I was thrilled because it gave me the opportunity to help many musicians not famous or in the limelight. It was a perfect undertaking for me because I have had a community email service for 20 years and was in contact with many. But more importantly, I have worked for decades in the music industry in New Orleans and know all the players," Pat told me later in an email.
Julie Butera on Lionel: “Some people never change, Lionel was a leader, that's why this is such a big deal. He looked out for others and others looked out for him, that's why people have been celebrating his life with second lines every single night since the day he died on July 8. He was never a sad man, his goal was to keep everybody else's spirits up, that's why he was so special.” In truth, that's the tip of the iceberg. The man was a father figure, a mentor, friend, ambassador, consummate musician, creative organizer, cultural bridge between the races, a man who had no trouble telling young men around him how to behave, and one of the all time flirtatious lady's men in New Orleans. (I'm sure there are more of Lionel's roles that I just don't know yet).
4:54 PM
A brass band in full bodacious volume parades into the room now crammed with people. In a totally unique brand of New Orleans respect, the band pauses in front of Uncle Lionel and blasts out a version of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” No sooner has the first brass band begun to wind its way out of the room when a second brass band shoulders its way through the door.
I don't care what they say about how they do things in New York or Chicago or Los Angeles. Nothing tops the way the people of New Orleans are sending off their beloved Uncle Lionel.
The Great Grandmother Of All Used Book Fairs: The 51st Annual Westport Friends Meeting (Quaker) Used Book Fair
July 14, 2012: Westport Friends Annual Used Book Fair
Westport Friends Meeting, 938 Main Road , Westport, MA 02790
This is a mystery as inexplicable as the precise timing of the swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano every year.
At 10:45 AM on July 14, there are a few handfuls of people milling around the two yellow and white striped tents recently erected in front of the Westport Friends Meeting House. Ten minutes later, the two tents housing 20,000 books of fiction and non-fiction are surrounded by an elbow-to-elbow line of customers waiting to wade inside. Only a long band of yellow tape and red white and blue pennants lies between them and the objects of their desire.
The antsy customers lean over as far as they can to catch a glimpse of the titles of books stacked neatly on the wooden tables a few tantalizing feet away.
“I’ve been reading since I was four years old,” Twenty-something Katie says, balancing a big brown carton under her arm. “I live up in Berkley and work in a library in Middleboro. I’ll read some of these books and give others away to my reading friends,” she says as she lugs a carton around the fiction table. “I’ll sort through the carton when it’s full then come back for more!”
With the same inner certainty the swallows time their return, these shoppers know that at exactly 11 AM, a whistle will pierce the air, the tape will be dropped, and the wild rumpus will begin.
By noon, thousands of these hard cover and softcover books that have been donated to the Westport Friends Meeting will have been carted away in shopping bags, cartons, and the occasional suitcase. The books will remain under the tents for about ten days. After Sunday,the honor system prevails. A coffee can set on the tables is emptied at the end of the day by someone from the parsonage access the street.
How fitting. “The parsonage had a leaky roof and our first used book fair was to make enough money to pay for a new roof, “ Dr. Stuart Kirkady says. Now retired, Dr. Kirkady ran his highly regarded family medicine practice in Westport and was a mainstay of the Friends Meeting. He’s been a fixture at just about every one of the previous 50 Book Fairs.
Although proprietary about their collecting, book seekers often break their silent scanning when the mood strikes them.
“I don’t know whether this should be labeled fiction or non-fiction,” a woman laughs, holding up a copy of Maureen Dowd’s “Are Men Necessary?” Several women get a charge out of that then keep raking through books.
Despite the upsurge in all ages of readers toting Kindles, there’s still a huge market for books in paper.
Kindles?
And there’s Hannah from Warren, RI for her third year in row. She has a bigger budget from when I talked with her last year, $100 smackers. She had the foresight to bring a posse of helpers and a steamer sized suitcase to take home her loot and pray her mom will let her in the door. “This day is better than Christmas for me!” Hannah exults.
The bright light of the year was the emergence of volunteer Tristan Peirce. When Greg Marcello’s school administrator wife Melinda realized he needed a reliable and focused volunteer to head up the sorting process, she thought of student Tristan Peirce.
“No, I don’t read much on tablets, I really have to have paper in my hand. I also write for National Novel Writing Month and have submitted five stories so far!”
I’ll have to check in with her next year. Someday Katie’s name might be on one of these books on the table.
Ten-year-old Larissa from Westport is beaming. “This is the real one,” she says proudly, grasping a copy of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s 'Little Princess.' "The first one I read was a kid’s version. I listened to 'The Secret Garden' on tape but prefer reading real books.”
Larissa will enter Westport Middle School this fall. “My favorites are books about life and manners and growing up, I can spend all day in my room reading. I have one or two friends who talk abut books with me a lot.”
Larissa’s mom Lisa is fine with this. “The prices are crazy, “ she says. Their pile of books they have in their arms is a fraction of the cost of new titles.
The huge wave of sales has abated around 12:30 and Book Fair Steering Committee Clerk Greg Marcello has a chance to sit down for a bite to eat.
“One development this year is we’re getting more donations of DVDs. Three years ago we had hardly and now have way more along with VHS and CDs. Lots of book dealers come here. We don’t allow them to preview anything but they’re patient, know what they’re looking for and find enough good deals to make it worth while for them."
"We don’t have the capacity to sort with that level of inspection with tens of thousands of books and we don’t know much about older titles,” Greg Marcello’s son Brendan says.
It consumes tons of hours to sort, categorize, label, box, and then organize the books for this annual sale. “Of our core membership of about 50, we have about 25 volunteers and 6 teenagers who’ve helped toting cartons from the shed to the tents and to the Macomber Meeting Hall (Better Books, digital and video) and the Meeting House (Children’s Books and 6 for $1 books),” Greg Marcello says. “It seems that church attendance across faiths has seen its numbers dwindle,” he says wistfully.
Although Tristan is not a Westport Meeting member, he emerged as the pivotal figure in this year’s organization, collection and sorting process “He sorted, priced, organized – did whatever was needed,” Book Fair Steering Committee Clerk Greg Marcello said.
“He was very shy. He’s become more comfortable talking with people, more engaging, was really good at organizing. Now he knows as much as I do about sorting, has learned more social skills, and is a smart down to earth, hard working kid.”
There are hundreds of used book fairs in New England every year. The Westport Friends Meeting organizes the great grandmother of them all.
Photos by Paul A. Tamburello, Jr.
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Dr.Stuart Kirkady relaxes before the opening whistle; Book Fair Steering Clerk Greg Marcello cashes out a customer with a huge cache of books.
July 16, 2012 in Commentaries | Permalink