Morning Open Thread is a daily, copyrighted post from a host of editors and guest writers. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.
I’ve come to think of this post as one where you come for the music and stay for the conversation—so feel free to drop a note. The diarist gets to sleep in if she so desires and can show up long after the post is published. So you know, it's a feature, not a bug.
Join us, please.
I woke Monday morning feeling like I’d been run over by love’s garbage scow. So this is what Adam and Eve felt like after getting kicked out of Eden. I tried to think about the grand scheme of things, but her smile was still burned into my retinas.
I checked out of the Marquette House and paid my $21 for three nights. Such a deal! I’ve found that when licking one’s wounds, it’s easier when your mouth tastes like tequila. Since I was in no rush, yet not really in the mood to stick around, I walked up to Igor’s with my bags. New Orleans on a Monday morning doesn’t have quite the same charm as a Friday evening. Plus, I’d been on the road for a month and I was ready to head home.
When the taxi dropped me off at the train station, I figured I was going to have plenty of time to study the murals and work on placing Katrina into context. I was half right. Little did I know that I was about to get a master lesson in the healing process.
One of my secrets to traveling by train is to find and friend the folks with musical instruments. That’s where the action is, in the lounge car. After checking my bags and making sure everything was a go, I walked around the large waiting area looking for the passengers who were carrying funny shaped cases. Voila. I spotted a lady with a blue violin case. I asked to sit down next to her.
Most folks who are familiar with the South are way more knowledgeable about the concept of a Southern Woman than me, but I was meeting an ace at it. She was energetic and friendly. Since she was interested in my story, I was more than willing to dump my story in her lap. All the emotion I was feeling just flowed forth. See seemed truly interested in hearing about my whirlwind of a romance on the dance floors of Nawlins. I was almost in tears when I finished and changed the subject to her. She was a studio musician that has recorded with most every Cajun band in the state. She was a teacher at the University Of Louisiana at Lafayette and first chair in their symphony. Wow. She recommended that I go to the lounge car when they gave us the all clear to move around after leaving the station. No problem.
As I sat in my seat as the train pulled away, I thought this weekend would make a good song. Not that I’m a good songwriter. I had penned a couple lines when they announced the lounge car was open. I walked in and she was already there, waving me over to sit down next to her on her left so I wouldn’t lose an eye from her bow. She had rounded up another kid that had a guitar. He was a street musician from Atlanta making his way out to Las Vegas. Untrained but hungry to learn, he was about to get schooled. Since I had already met her, I knew what was to come and she didn’t disappoint.
She encouraged him to play a song he knows. As he did, she took notes. Then she was off to the races. He was accustomed to his own style of music and I sat next to her and watched her change his world. She had him follow along with simple melodies and chords, stopping to give him friendly pointers. Then they’d start up again and she would teach him something new.
It’s only a three and a half hour ride from NOLA to Lafayette on Amtrak. And what a time it was. Within a half hour, she had this kid playing better than ever imagined. His eyes were wide with this huge grin on his face as she whipped him into shape. Then they started playing songs. This got the entire lounge cars attention. They were clapping, hooting and hollering. In between there were questions like, ‘Do you two have a C.D. I can buy?’ and ‘How long have you been playing together?’. People even wanted to pass a hat around. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She did accept the beers that I bought. She was so nice, she phoned her husband, telling him to bring down beer and plates of food for the kid and I.
We were sitting on the left side of the car heading west because I wanted to look out to the bayous that opened up to the south. I sat there with my sunglasses on, listening to some of the best music I’ve heard played on a train. And I’ve heard a lot. The trumpet player with a mute playing at 3 in the morning rolling down the coast of California comes to mind. She had just finished showing him a new chord progression when she turned and said this song was for me.
This amazing woman started playing and singing the story of my weekend! I was blown away by her kindness. Suddenly, I felt a whole lot better. The magic, joy and pain all made sense. It wouldn’t take long to see that this was one of my best weekends of my life. What was there to be down about? All I had to do was enjoy the tears that rolled down my face as we rolled through the swamps, listening to the song that was just for me.
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Three Nights in NOLA, Part 1
Three Nights in NOLA, Part 2
Three Nights in NOLA, Part 3
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Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?