The month of January doesn’t have the same amount of flash as November or December. For some of us that cannot tolerate the cold January and February…

January Celebrations

The cold air is warming for a day or two. The Woods were lovely and cold. The Old Man watched a Blue Jay, oblivious to being watched. He was about his business in the New Year. It is not the Arctic air as much as the wind. Thoughts hearken to New Orleans and the French Quarter. There is a culture dedicated to Joy. There is a joy in living that we often ignore. There are things to do and bills to pay. Joy is a reward we defer to when we retire or take a holiday. The majority of our time is spent putting our nose to the grindstone. We Americans especially the Baby Boomers, were raised to produce and not be slow about it. Keep your nose to the grindstone and avoid frivolity. Paul said that when he was a child, he enjoyed childish things, but when he became a man, he gave them up. Perhaps that is not sound advice. I marvelled when I passed thousands of students at Southern Illinois University and found most of the faces I saw were sullen, lonely, and sad. We have lost the plot.

Joy is the purpose and the meaning of life. The French Quarter taught me there is a better way. Spontaneous eruptions of joy occurred all over the French Quarter. It is invigorating to witness lifting of our human experience to the Angels. Happiness broke out across our Holiday in the Big Easy. We were met with smiles, song, music, and dancing. We had a server at the Bourbon Street Cafe who was original. She not only caused us to feel welcome but also made us participants in the Joy. The slowed-down acceptance of life as it presents itself was refreshing. A jazz band played on the corner. When we left the Bourbon Street Restaurant, where I enjoyed some wonderful parboiled oysters, we found ourselves in the midst of a street party. Many were singing and cheering while a young man danced with abandon in the middle of the street. He was in another world.

So the French Quarter felt a bit like a Cruise. The Hotel Monteleone had wonderful accommodations and music. Across the street was the Brass Monkey and a Fine Art Studio where MJ discovered a piece. Just down the road was Meyers Hat Shop, where I purchased a delightful Pork Pie Hat. Mr. Meyers was there at 101 years old and working behind the counter. Many ladies were having their photos taken with Mr. Meyers, the Hat Man. One woman told him how cute he was, to which he replied that he was not cute. The women laughed, knowing that he was. The Meyers’ Hat Store looked throughout the store for a Pork Pie Hat that would fit the Old Man. He found a perfect straw one. I wore it the remainder of my time in the French Quarter.

The relaxed feeling in the Hotel Monteleone was compelling. A luxorious Grandfather Clock was in the Lobby. People from all over the world were staying there. Old people middle aged and young are all enjoying together. At our Sunday Breakfast with musical accompaniment, an old couple sat next to us. The old gentleman was putting in his hearing aids, and I felt a kinship with them. I noticed on the Train that they were on board with us and wondered if we might have met.

The Old Man watched the Love Dance at the Hotel Bar. Couples rejoiced in the moment of Joy as they flirted with each other and sought companionship. Old Men flirting with young women, temporarily forgetting their place in life. A tall lady squatted on her knees and rocked and rolled to the jazz music. She was in Nirvana and worried not who was around her. Rest for the weary and hope for the hurting. An Oasis in the desert of authoritarian government and meanness towards those who do not fit the mold of the leader. The French Quarter breaks the mold of the Dictator and those who would control the lives of others.

We watch and wait. Our feelings are mixed. Where is home, and how do we get there? Home is a place in our hearts more than our heads. A place where we feel accepted and wanted. Often, we search for years without success. A vain attempt is made to fit into someone else’s definition of Home. They tell us that this is the home we want, while we feel underwhelmed. The Baby Boomer Generation’s definition of Home and success left subsequent generations wanting. A house in the suburbs and a two-car garage. Working from 9-5 each day for a year with a two-week break for vacation is not inspiring. Many Baby Boomers chose the road of protest and hallucinogens for an enlightened path toward Home. This path resulted in limited success and still much seeking. I was friends with several Jewish Hippies in the early 70s. Some found Home while others chose the corporate world, sad and disillusioned with their early quest.

The Old Man was at Home in New Orleans in the French Quarter. The Spirit of the place inspired him. The joy de vie was compelling. You could feel it in your bones. Singing and dancing, horns playing jazz, and smiles all around are hard to argue with on a Wednesday. Shopping for a Pork Pie Hat was fun and a mission from God. Sitting in Jackson Park was a delight as the artists set up their exhibits. The focus on joy rather than riches was intoxicating. I have followed Le Petite Theatre, where we saw Blithe Spirit Thursday night. I am thoroughly enjoying the Facebook posting from Le Petite Theatre regarding the performance that we saw just over a week ago. I have not enjoyed a theatrical performance more, and have seen two plays on Broadway. We also attended two performances in London’s West End, and still, Le Petite is my favorite. However, the enthusiasm of the audience reminded me of the West End. Theatre provides a welcoming of all people. It is home for thought and a venue for voice in all forms.

How shall we find Home when we have not found ourselves?
What makes your heart sing? What makes your soul leap? This is a good barometer and compass on your way Home. My journey has been many roads of discovery. Raised in a conservative family, I had to discover my quest for Home. My Christian faith became progressive, and I followed my heart when it came to accepting all people. When I began working at Southern Illinois University @ Carbondale, I was working with students from 70 countries. I was happier than I had ever been. I learned Jesus loves the little children, all the little children of the world. Red, yellow black, and white are precious in his sight. We learn from each other when we listen. We accept each other when our hearts are open.

The Bartender at the Carousel Bar in the Hotel Monteleone told us that we were good people and that he meets a lot of people. Perhaps he saw or felt our openness for others, no matter their color or creed or faith, or lack thereof. There is one requirement for a human being’s acceptance…breathing. MJ told me that the journey to New Orleans had transformed her and lifted her spirits. Her steps are lighter, and her outlook is brighter. I feel the Leaping of my soul when I think of the jazz band in the Hotel Monteleon. The feeling is rare, and the Old Man seeks more…please…

Cold weather has settled in for a winter’s nap. Christmas has come and gone, and the New Year is growing older. Thoughts of Valentine’s Day and Easter are dancing in our heads. One week ago, we were on Amtrak returning from New Orleans. The holiday we had experienced left us happy and full of wonder. People danced and sang for the joy of art. Hope reigned in the teeth of fear. Life thrived without a authoritarian influence or government. People reached for Heaven while their feet stood on Earth.

When I was a child, television and magazines advertised X-Ray Glasses. These glasses gave you the ability to see the bones of those you met. I think we had a bit of X-Ray spectacles on in the French Quarter. All was not as it seemed. There was a story behind the story. Spirits were watching the dancing, singing, and music. There was a stairway for the young and an escalator for the Golden Year Crowd between Heaven and Earth. Angels and humans ascending and descending while the jazz music played and the congregation danced.

‘I have never seen anything like this nor felt like I do,’ Jane said. ‘There is a joy and peace here that is encompassing,’ Jane continued. ‘The lovely woman singing on the corner has a voice like rushing water and a face of perfect joy,’ Jane observed. ‘I spoke to her before she began performing and she told me of the many hard years of her life, the suffering and tears,’ Jane noted with tears in her eyes. ‘Her singing is directly from her experiences,’ Jane whispered. ‘She told me that she found peace in the French Quarter among kind people,’ Jane said. ‘Here are the Seekers, the woman with the intoxicating voice told me,’ Jane said. ‘People do not judge each other, they seek to help and to live in harmony with Heaven,’ Jane mused.

‘I have been the Head Bartender at the Carousel Bar for the past ten years,’ Ezra said. ‘I see a lot of people, and many are unhappy or searching for peace outside their minds,’ Ezra continued. ‘Some seek the answers to their lack of place and unhappiness in another drink,’ Ezra noted. ‘They look for outside magic when magic comes first from within,’ Ezra explained. ‘Other people experience the leaping of their souls when the spirit hits them, and they rejoice for the communion between them and the angels,’ Ezra laughed with joy. ‘When you are touched by the spirit of God, you experience something extraordinary,’ Ezra smiled. ‘Then you see what it is all about and why you’re here,’ Ezra danced behind the bar.

‘The man danced in the street in a state of bliss,’ Chet said. ‘He was in another world,’ Chet continued. ‘The spirit of his art captivated those who watched him,’ Chet noted. ‘He seemed to be praying through his dance,’ Chet explained. ‘There are many ways to talk to God,’ Chet smiled.

It was a cold Woods Walk today. The Old Man has gone from spring to winter in a week. In fact, it got a little warm in New Orleans most of the time we were there. MJ reminded me of a week ago, when we took our tour of the National World War II Museum, and then we had the good fortune of obtaining four seats together at the Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone in the French Quarter. We had lain in wait for four seats together but were unsuccessful on a couple of occassions. The Carousel is historically famous. It completes a round of its rotation every twenty minutes. The happy, frenetic activity of the experience was fun.

I often speculate on the possibilities of alternate universes and found one in the French Quarter. People intrigue me. The people of the French Quarter fascinated me. There is a spiritual ambiance in the Quarter. A lack of concern for rhetoric and a focus on life. Have you ever danced in the street? They do in the French Quarter. The debate of what is truth and what is fake news melts in the hope of playing music and singing songs with the Angels as your audience.

Here we are, embarking on the journey through 2026. We knew it would be special in 2025. Time for a sense of place and something new. A year for traditions and new customs. We have instituted Sunday Game Day on the first Sunday of each month. Also, a plan to play Bingo on Wednesday evenings. Plans are in the works for a return to the French Quarter. It is a place we had fun, and that is no small thing for the Old Man.

Life is a magic mysterious journey. We live it once and should seek to understand it from the Angel’s View.

I have adjusted to winter twice after returning from New Orleans. What I was accustomed to is a shock to the system. When I looked at my calendar and saw that we are halfway through January, I was a bit suprised. So it goes in the drumbeat of life. Beginnings turn into middles and middles turn into endings. You need to hold on to your hat to ensure it stays on your head.

The percussive beat of joy we found in New Orleans, we wear like a fine porkpie hat. ‘Nice hat,’ the coat check gentleman told me at the Hotel Monteleone. You see a lot of porkpie hats in the French Quarter. To be in the Monteleone is to want to write. A nationally recognized Literary Hotel. Creativity seeps from every corner. At breakfast Sunday morning, we enjoyed a lovely duet of a Bass Violin and a clarinet alternating with a Tenor Saxaphone next to our table. I played the Tenor Saxaphone in sixth grade and admired the Saxaphonist Boots Randolph.

We visited an Art Gallery with a beautiful floor. They had their Grand Opening Saturday night. Music is everywhere and often free except for a donation as the spirit moves you. If you are enjoying an adult drink or need one for the road, you can carry it along the cobbled sidewalks of the Quarter.

Light and darkness walk arm in arm in the French Quarter. Exuberant people seeking unity with the Angels and homeless sleeping on sidewalks. There is a Spirit that is not easily categorized or described in the French Quarter. A Spirit of acceptance and love, family and home. A unique mixture of human beings, diverse and spiritually attuned, on their way back to Jerusalem. Music brings a leaping of the soul!

A lovely black woman sang on the corner. Flawless with the voice of an angel. People stopped what they were doing in their daily pursuits to listen. She knew her mission, she knew her gift. She sang to no one, she sang to everyone. There is nothing like music from the singer’s soul. Our Souls know the real thing when they hear it, they know it when they feel it. Often, we see things on the surface, but through the grit and sweat of the day. There is a higher purpose and calling. Life is made of the spiritual, and we live in earthly bodies, struggling to understand the meaning.

Well, we are all pumped up! Back from New Orleans with especially glowing memories. We rode Amtrak fourteen hours there and back. When we got on last Tuesday morning at 2:00 A.M., our Roomettes had the beds made for us. MJ slept in the top bunk. It is a different feeling to lie in a bed that is going down the tracks. A bit surreal. The lights of the towns and hamlets of Southern Illinois soon changed to the lights of the little towns of Kentucky. Then breakfast in the dining car. Hot and tasty. The Train rocked more than a cruise liner.

New Orleans was our cup of tea. Its artistic mindset and wonderful jazz music were a balm for our souls. The rhythm of life is unique to the Big Easy and the French Quarter. A different drummer was setting the beat. The Doorman at the Hotel Monteleone greeted us warmly and announced ‘I will be your Doorman.’ It is the first Hotel that I have experienced a doorman, and I thought of the Doorman on Seinfeld. Our Doorman was of great assistance in opening the doors to our Uber cars and helping us unload and load our luggage. As we were leaving, our Doorman asked us how cold it gets in winter where we live, and when we told him teens and twenties, he shivered and replied that New Orleanians are cold when the temperature reaches 60. He wore a neck scarf, a woolen hat, and gloves when he assisted us, and the temperature was in the 60s.

The spiritual light in the eyes of those we met in the French Quarter was inspiring. The lady owner of the Brass Monkey treated us like family and gave Jonathon a 20% discount on some wonderful Limoge keepsakes. The music transported me. I believe that in the French Quarter, two realities collide in happy unison.

Parades, when the stoic among us might ask what are we celebrating? I discerned the French Quarter residents were celebrating the union of Heaven and Earth, the unbroken connection between life and death. The hope of Heaven was walking with the Earth Angels.

Blithe Spirit at Le Petite Theatre brought cool water of laughter to a thirsty worried audience. Authoritarianism brings sadness and suffering. Art brings joy and hope for the future. Theatre speaks truth to power.

Being human is a unique dynamic in the universe. We are made in God’s image, the Bible tells us. Politics has nothing to do with our creation. We seek to soar on the wings of the angels. We want to understand the unknowable. We want to see the face of God. We wait for Godot, and at times he appears in New Orleans.

Well, we visited the World War II Museum in New Orleans in 2013 and again last week. What a moving, immersive experience. I felt as though I had traveled back in time to the days of World War II. MJ’s Dad, Berl, and her uncle, Merle, were soldiers in WWII. Brock and my father in the Pacific Theatre. When I was born, the War had been over for 12 years. In those halcyon days, everyone knew a World War II vet. They were the greatest generation. Dad brought back hand-carved wooden boxes from the islands. Neva J ruminated as to whether Dad had a Pacific Island girlfriend. They married soon after his return from the War.

Anne Frank captured my imagination. Her photos resemble Neva J when she was a girl. The WWII Museum caused me to feel I was there with the Frank family, of which only the father, Otto, survived. He published the Diary Of A Young Girl in 1947. Otto moved the family to his Amsterdam office, where he had a hidden annex behind a bookcase that the family hid from 1942 to 1944. Neva J spoke of Anne Fank often as I grew up. Her affinity for her was extraordinary.

New Orleans is a city of etheral presence. The presence of another unseen world is palpable. The residents of the French Quarter realize this fact and celebrate it. There is more that we do not see than what we see. New Orleanians would not live anywhere else. I video recorded a band at our hotel that moved me to tears. I wondered why I was so moved until I considered that my experience was special and singular in my life. Angels walk among us in human form. We feel it from time to time. We know it in our hearts. Something is happening that unites Heaven and Earth, and we are in the middle of the Union.

Anne Frank hoped for the opportunity to grow and live the joining of Heaven and Earth. She dreamed of life outside her family’s hideaway behind the bookshelf. She wrote in her diary of the more that awaited her in the coming years. As I stood in the Anne Frank presentation at the World War II Museum, I knew she was there watching and smiling.

In the midst of our revelries, when our spirits were at their zenith, we gathered at Le Petite Theatre to see Blithe Spirit. Le Petite Theatre has been operating since 1916 and is one of ‘the nation’s longest running community theatres.’ The Theatre is known as one of the most haunted theatres in the world. A good venue for Blithe Spirit. Noel Coward wrote Blithe Spirit to bring laughter to people burdened with the sadness of World War II.

We four took our ticketed seats in the first row of the balcony next to the iron fence designed to protect the patrons from falling over the edge. Having my recurring knee pain, I asked if I could sit where I might stretch out the offending leg. The performance was wonderful with an ending that suprised even the Old Man. Being in the presence of artistic people always enlivens my mind. The optimism of living above the current woe of totalitarianism is refreshing.

New Orleans is a city of Ghosts. The presence of Spirits can be felt wherever you walk in the French Quarter. The residents are determined to live their lives dedicated to art. It is an unswerving dedication to searching for a higher meaning than riches and power. The uplifting spirit of those you meet brings a smile to your face. No longer are you shackled by the yoke of expectation. Nothing to prove, just be. The jazz music quickens your steps and lightens the load of worry and care. Thoughts of world domination or being the most powerful are not found in the French Quarter. Thoughts of Good People and fellowship, a bit of dance and song. People live as they feel and are led by benevolent spirits. Each day is hope. Each night is a celebration of the hope that propels the earthly saints.

When a person dies, they are led to their resting place by a musical parade. The connection between the dead and living is seamless. No more hurrying through a short life, but the expectation of the next chapter.

The city of New Orleans is like another universe in comparison to the small city where I reside. My parents and brother and I recently took a train …

The Unique Universe of New Orleans