One Amazing Summer

It was the summer I ran away that comes to mind. Don't get me wrong; I wasn't a child. I was 27. And it was of my own free will. Kinda. The events leading up to June are what forced me to shove all my stuff into storage and flee to good ole New Orleans.

I'd had a stalker. I've written a poem about it here. I was a second grade teacher in The Woodlands and I'd just moved to an apartment complex closer to the action in Houston. Boy did I get some action! After the guy was caught and evicted, they let me out of my lease. It was nearly May. I was dating someone who lived in New Orleans. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out my reasoning.

My boyfriend owned a sound and lighting company and so he was involved in the night life. He worked many concerts, one in particular was Harry Connick, Jr. After the show we went to Pat O'Briens for an exclusive celebration. Anyone who has ever been there knows about the hurricanes they serve, and I had sweet talked my way into several of them by the time I got up the nerve to walk up to Harry and introduce myself. Like a giddy school girl I held out my hand and told him my name, said that I was his biggest fan. I would have been any star's biggest fan at that point. He looked at me like, who the hell are you? I felt smaller than a doubloon, but at least I can now say I've had a private conversation with Harry Connick, Jr.

During the long hot days I worked in a fancy seafood restaurant as a door hostess. A few times I had to step in and wait tables for a no-show, but to tell you the truth, I couldn't even carry the cumbersome trays much less remember who ordered what. I worked my way over to bartending where I received a fun education on those New Orleans spirits. I wasn't too long into that when my boyfriend convinced me to quit and spend my days at the country club. No problem-o!

This was also the summer I went to Puerto Vallarta for my birthday - his treat, I might add. You can read about my daring adventure up the steep mountains with a crazy driver here. I went to some ritzy affairs dressed in slinky black dresses and was spoiled to death by a man thirteen years older than me. By the end of the summer, our generation gap was becoming more prominent as were his promiscuous habits... but I'll never forget that adventurous summer.

Written for Kellie Elmore's Free Write Fridays- One Amazing Summer

French Quarter Lovers (Prose Poetry)

Strolling through the French Quarter, hungry singles look at passers-by as potential lovers. Horny men shop for immodest girls drunk enough to lift their shirts and jostle their tits; while lonely women stop and chat outside art galleries and exquisite restaurants in search of well-educated men. This is how they met-- by fated accident, or so they say; only she wore a muumuu dress roomy enough to hide a handle of vodka and he waited tables at a strip joint on Bourbon Street. Outside the St. Louis Cathedral I watched them move in slow motion, run like Chariots of Fire athletes until close enough to clutch one another in a loving embrace. Occasionally things turn out that way but most of the time French Quarter lovers wake up early the next morning, leave faster than you can say laissez les bon temps roulez. Such is the life in good old New Orleans.

@laurie kolp

Prompt inspiration~ The Sunday Whirl... Words for 9/25/11: accident, chat, jostle, motion, move, shop, occasionally, strolling, passers-by, outside, clutch, look

I'm also posting this to Poets United Poetry Pantry

F is for Firecrackers

My childhood in New Orleans is full of happy memories playing with neighborhood friends.  I loved riding my bike and roller skating up and down the sidewalks of our quiet street.  Our neighbors would have huge block parties several times a year. Barriers would block our street so cars could not drive down it. The grown-ups cooked a smorgasbord of various kinds of food. My mom, a piano teacher, would roll our piano out into the street and provide music for everyone. Lawn chairs would be sprawled out to sit in and picnic tables set up to eat on. The children spent days practicing for the talent show we put on for the adults. Our next door neighbor’s mom was a seamstress and would help with costumes. We had so much fun prancing around our parents and making them laugh.

One particular block party was always around the Fourth of July. The heat and mosquitoes never stopped us from having fun, though. We always stayed up way too late so we could set off fireworks.

I was watching the explosion in the sky when all of the sudden I heard screaming. I looked up to find people hovered around an older boy I did not know very well. I ran over to see what all the commotion was about when my mom stopped me.

“Don’t go over there, honey,” she said.

“Why not? What happened?” I asked.

“That teenager had a firework explode in his hand and burn it. We’re going in now.”

I couldn’t believe that had happened. I was always overly concerned when it came to accidents, so I reluctantly followed my family inside, turning around several times to sneak a peek. The boy was taken to the hospital and the next time I saw him, his hand was all bandaged up. Since then, I have stayed away from firecrackers.