You Must Remember This

"There is a tiny splinter group, of course, that believes you can do these things. Among them are H. L. Hunt (you possibly know his background), a few other Texas oil millionaires, and an occasional politician or business man from other areas. Their number is negligible and they are stupid." ~ President Dwight D. Eisenhower, in a letter to his brother, dated 8 November, 1954

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Of Slaves, Brothels, and Wine

L. A. Norma dropped a postcard on the kitchen table. It was from the United States Postal Service and read, "Just about anything you can do at the Post Office, you can do from your office with USPS.com."

Norma said, "About all you do at the Post Office is toss your mail in the trash can. How you going to do that on the internet?"

"That is about all anyone does on the internet," I pointed out.

We sipped black coffee and gazed through the kitchen dormer at a two-story house, recently building up inside the courtyard of a Creole cottage three doors down.

"Where are all our historic saviors?" she asked. Norma has not felt good about historic preservationists since the Louisiana State Museum began hanging advertising banners for Bell South and other purveyors of the future, across the front of the Cabildo and Presbytere, the most historic buildings in Louisiana. Thankfully, this practice has halted; in part because of a visit to the museum’s offices by Norma and her cigarette-smoking weapon of mass deconstruction.

The Creole cottage first grew a second-story wing stretching out its rear directly into the courtyard. Sometimes, men with clipboards could be seen scurrying about the open framework. Bankers, we both reckoned. Surely they weren't City officials inspecting and approving such a development.

Approved or not, it developed by fits and starts, over a year or two, or three. "le Frog boiling slowly theory," Norma observed in a sorry French accent.

Some days, men would hammer and saw, then the project would lie fallow. One day, after a lengthy hiatus, a window appeared looking squarely back into Squalor Heights’ dormer window. Then the project grew quiet for weeks, months? When it started up again, the window was filled in, and a tiny outbuilding at the edge of the courtyard that may have once housed slaves began reaching towards the cottage. Half way there, it stopped and started growing up. Today it has flowered into a matching second story with budding balconies, and the sweet aroma of corporate condominiums.

"Slavery may never be the same," Norma said, blowing Camel Cigarette smoke out the dormer towards the construction site.

The House of the Rising Sun

We heeled and toed it into the Quarter recently to eyeball addresses that might have been "That house in New Orleans they called The Rising Sun . . . "

We first learned about Rising Sun in the fabled Sixties, from a folk song popularized by Eric Burdon (Animals). It was a musical symbol of classroom escape, and there was many the frat boy who drove from Illinois to New Orleans in its weekend pursuit.

Our leg work netted three addresses with possible connections to Rising Sun, and the Williams Research Center (a jewel operated by the Historic New Orleans Collection), on rue Chartres, a block down from Bacco's ten-cent martini heaven.

The Center was an experience so (how can I put this?), so like college must have been for others. Comfy hard, straight-backed chairs, efficient work tables, lighting bright enough for elder eyes, clean and serene, with an occasional lanky loon bobbing about the room bumping into chairs in pursuit of truth.

The Williams Center’s Pamela D. Arceneaux assured us, with the firm quiet voice only research librarians can muster, that no ironclad evidence existed of any such Rising Sun, not to her knowledge, anyway, and she has been oft quoted lately in book and magazine articles on the subject.

She tells all who ask, "I have made a study of the history of prostitution in New Orleans and have often confronted the perennial question, "Where is the House of the Rising Sun?" without finding a satisfactory answer. Although it is generally assumed that the singer is referring to a brothel, there is actually nothing in the lyrics that indicate that the "house" is a brothel. Many knowledgeable persons have conjectured that a better case can be made for either a gambling hall or a prison; however, to paraphrase Freud: sometimes lyrics are just lyrics."

After diligent research, and a two martini lunch, we found three possible sites. One is the 535-37 Conti Street address spawning the recent rash of news stories about finding the Rising Sun. This candidate building was destroyed by fire in 1822, but had been a hotel by the name of House of the Rising Sun for the preceding thirteen months. It is now a parking garage and was recently purchased by the Historic New Orleans Collection, not because of any such link, but for construction of an archival storage facility. Here excavators found a multitude of rouge pots and booze bottles. Naive drylanders concluded these were a rare indication of la joie de la vie in old New Orleans.

The second site named Rising Sun was a coffee house (1800s), at #9 Old Levee Street, now 115 Decatur. From personal experience, as a Son of the Sea (more’n a century and a half later), I am inclined to place a small bet on this upper Decatur neighborhood being the site. But history can be a fickle pickle and no more confirming evidence than that exists.

The third site, at 826-32 rue Saint Louis, is listed in BIZARRE NEW ORLEANS, by Frank G. Fox, as having been owned, 1862-74, by a Marianne Lesoleit Levant, which translates from French to English as "Rising Sun." Maybe, but likely not.

Wine, wine, pour me more wine

The line moved fast down Royal, in front of the Louisiana Supreme Court, from Conti to Saint Louis. Little wine glasses inscribed with "NOWFE," for New Orleans Wine and Food Experience, were being passed out, along with handheld fans printed with the names, addresses and winery pouring libations from fifty-four shops up and down the toney rue.

We attended a dinner tasting across the street at Brennan’s. Great wine, great food. The good New Orleans life lived in promise of a new layer of bottles for the next generation of archeologists. City Council Member, Jackie Clarkson, stood wedged near the front door, with neither glass nor plate, shaking hands with constituents and friends.

"That poor women is not contributing her share of empties to posterity’s cause," Norma said.

Outside, we picked up a bottle of iced water and headed for Cornerstone, the Memphis headquartered Napa winery, pouring a fine Zinfandel at Entertainment Galleries.

This annual event always sells out. Not to be missed. Next year, make reservations early. Maybe today, www.nowfe.com.