Lizard Innards & Misplaced Weather Vanes

Coming from a city where you count cows and sheep, horses and goats on your drive to school, it’s a bit of a change moving to a city where the homeowners themselves describe their yards/lots as “postage stamp” size. I’ll admit I felt a tad claustrophobic at first, not being able to issue my standard “Get Your Wiggles Out” command: OK kids, run three times around the yard and then finish your homework! But after a few days, I eased into our current state of affairs with a sense of peace. We are doubly blessed in our rental to have both a courtyard and a balcony overlooking said courtyard. Two architectural distinctions that virtually scream “New Orleans!” and delight me to no end. (At this point you are envisioning the balcony of a southern plantation and you can most certainly keep that image in your mind, but know that OUR balcony is such that you must hold your breath if two people are to fit while you pray that the French doors’ detached shutter does not tilt forward and push you to your death on the brick pavement below.) That being said, it is our very special little corner of this new world and we are quite fond of it.
The courtyard is brick, has bamboo shoots extending heavenward which block our view of the bordering apartment complexes and occasional police visits. (Don’t panic Mom, it was like, one time…two tops…) The palmettos are surrounded by Birds of Paradise as well as actual birds. A patio table and charcoal grill and baker’s rack (?) and horse adorned weather vane (?) fill out the ensemble. One enters the courtyard through two sets of French doors lined with two sets of wrought iron gates. (Our key chain has four separate keys for all the doors and gates, which I find amusing and comforting at the same time.)
Our carport has a brick pillar on which there is yet another locked door. The pillar doubles as an outdoor storage closet, as garages are few and far between. The Bug and the Pea have found gardening equipment within the “secret” pillar closet. (I’ve told the girls a garden gnome named Nola lives among the shovels and rakes. One way to quiet the kids on the car ride to school is to entertain them with stories of my most recent encounter with Nola Gnome. They laugh and roll their eyes, but always open the pillar door slowly and quietly so as not to disturb the red pointy-hatted resident…)
Anyhooooooo, they cart the garden tools to the courtyard and weed and rake as if they are Annie Lennox and Dickins with a Secret Garden of their own. I’m quite sure will have our own wild menagerie in the near future. When I called the Bug and the Pea in for dinner, I noticed the two had assembled a virtual smorgasbord of fresh produce for the passing wildlife. (I’m serious, magnolia leaf plates of raspberries, blueberries, strawberries and a flower pot bowl of bottled water! “Do you think I’m made of money?” I was tempted to shout, but calmed myself and showed them where the special “bird food” bread was stored for future use. But I digress…)
A few days ago, I undid the lock at the top of the French doors and a lizard fell into my hair. While I don’t DO snakes, I am rather fond of lizards and pulled him easily from my hair to show the girls. At which point an argument ensued about how The Pea held the lizard for 10 seconds and The Bug only “got” 8 seconds and so the world was going to come to a screeching halt etc. at which point (mercifully) the lizard leaped to his freedom and scurried over the bricks and into the leaves. Each day the kids look for Mr. Lizard as they weed and dig and set out a buffet for the birds. One day they stumbled upon a tiny reptilian skeleton- which they promptly presented to our first Kentucky visitor, “Look Mr. David! Lizard innards!” Oh to be seven, again.
When the Bug and the Pea need to “get their wiggles out” we simply head to a park. They climb trees with low lying branches and dangling Spanish moss while pelicans and sea gulls fly by. The Pea likes to collect piles of moss which she proudly calls “the funk” and construct ginormous nests for humans pretending to be birds. Sometimes she’ll organize a group of unsuspecting children to help gather acorns to store away for hibernation.
The other day I popped open the trunk to put in bags of groceries and I discovered a pile of Spanish moss, undoubtedly stashed there by my youngest. (“Uh, Sweet Pea…you wanna explain the pile of Funk in my Trunk?)
Today promises a high in the 70’s. We plan to explore several new (to us) parks and historical sites. On the way we won’t be able to count cows, pigs, sheep, goats or barns. But we’ll make up for it with balconies, courtyards, palm trees and pelicans. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll be lucky and another lizard will drop out of the sky into my hair for an afternoon of rollicking rib tickling fun here in the Big Easy. In the words of Little Orphan Annie (as the Pea sings over and over and over and over again to me….) “I think I’m gonna like it here!”

Balconies & Blow Torches a.k.a. Temporary Permanency

So my Nanny asked my Mom how I’m spending my newly found free time in New Orleans? My token reply, of course, is eating bon-bons, because that is a worthy way of spending an afternoon. (Let’s face it, that’s a worthy way of spending a morning, afternoon or evening…) Nevertheless, I followed my answer with a laugh, namely because I have yet to experience this “free time” she speaks of.
Picking up and moving a family of four to a new state is, to put it mildly, a bit of a challenge. (I’d like to send a ‘shout out’ to my military friends who organize graceful family moves at the drop of a hat, with finesse and poise. You are my heroes, on many levels.) But me? I’m a novice. Sure, I’ve changed residences multiple times, in 5 different cities, once with a wicked case of “morning sickness” in my ninth month of pregnancy with a toddler in tow. But I’ve never moved to a new state, 12 hours away from family, with 2 elementary school kids and a husband already working in said new state.
In my urgency to provide my kids with some sense of permanency (which, for now, is more aptly stated “temporary permanency” as my daughters are sleeping on an air mattress in a –mostly- furnished condo) I set out to obtain a Louisiana Drivers License. For the record, the DMV operates like a well-oiled machine if you’ve brought the right identification. (I am not kidding when I say I produced my KY drivers license, my birth certificate, my marriage license, my social security card, my passport, my car title and the rental contract establishing residence before I was given a number and told to take a seat.)
The kind lady who assisted me was glad to speak with a Kentuckian. She said her friends didn’t believe her story, and she wanted me to verify a “sighting” from her past. Which, I’ll be honest, as the question came from a born and bred New Orlean-ian, I was exceedingly curious what she considered so bizarre. She wanted to know if our farm animals wore clothes? At first I was picturing those stone geese some folks put on their porch and dress up for the holidays. I was debating how to tell her the geese weren’t “real animals” when she added details. Apparently her family was driving through Kentucky one winter and she saw what looked like cows and horses draped in blanket/coats. She was delighted when I confirmed her “sighting” and added how The Bug, The Pea and I counted all the horses wearing coats on the drive to school each morning.
Once I got the OK, I moved to the “Drivers License Photo” area. The man told me to take a seat in front of the camera. And I did. Then he asked me to take a seat in the waiting area. Which I thought was odd, since it would have seemed more productive just to go ahead and take my picture while I was sitting in the chair. Next thing I knew, he handed me the already laminated copy of my new drivers license. Sufficed to say, he HAD taken a picture after all, and the snapshot is HORRIBLE. (“Mommy, you should REALLY go back and ask the man to try again. This picture is embarrassing,” says The Pea.)
Nevertheless, I took my license and my new license plate and headed for the door. Next stop, car inspection. (Apparently an annual necessity in LA, who knew?) Driving a mile down the road I spotted what looked like an abandoned warehouse with a cardboard sign out front marked: Brake Tag. I swerved in. You will not believe me, but Santa Claus “mans” the Brake Tag Car Inspection Garage. He asked me to turn on the headlights, put the car in reverse, test the blinkers and the brakes. Then he promptly handed back my paperwork through the window and advised me to visit a mechanic (“Darlin’ none of your lights work. None of them.”) I was not discouraged, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’ve changed car bulbs before. I headed to an auto-parts store. I bought bulbs for the brake lights, I bought bulbs for the reverse light, I bought enough bulbs to illuminate a Christmas tree. A fellow from the store shook his head as I turned on the ignition and “tried” out the new bulbs. (“I’m afraid you’ve got bigger problems than light bulbs, it could be the electrical system. Darlin’ none of the lights work.”)
 
Long story short, a trip to the mechanic, some electrical maintenance and several dollars later, I was back at the Brake Tag Place. (The mechanic asked, “Dat guy at the shop, he look like Santa Claus to you?”) This time St. Nick was pleased to give me my Brake Tag sticker and send me on my way.
Back at “home” I searched for anything resembling a flat head screwdriver to remove my KY plate and replace it with my brand spankin’ new LA license plate. A trip to Wal-Mart later, I was on my knees in the carport trying desperately to undo completely stripped screws. I had purchased pliers, and I tried to wrench off the screws. I grabbed a gardening trowel and tried to pry up the plate. I found some rose clippers and tried to tear off the plate. It was while I was wielding the ginormous hedge trimmers that my next door neighbor appeared. We had not met yet, and I’m sure I made a grand impression sitting on my hiney, stretched under the car, with hedge clippers firmly gripped, cutting a license plate into shreds. She introduced herself¸ and interestingly enough, told me that her mother grew up about 20 minutes from our Kentucky home. Small world.
At this point, the husband appears. He looks at me, the hedge clippers, the trowel, the pliers, the screwdriver, and then the neighbor. He introduces himself to poor E, who clearly thinks I was recently released from the looney bin, and then offers some sage advice, “Why don’t you try some WD-40?”
At this point, the Bug and the Pea emerge from the condo, ready to hit the Zoo. (“Wow. How many of you are there?” asks our stunned 23 year old neighbor. And who can blame her, smaller doses are best when it comes to spending time with my family.)
This morning, I admitted defeat. I stopped by the mechanic’s garage once more and begged them to help me switch the plate out. (“Darlin’ all ya need is a screwdriver…”) Right. I just want the records to show: it took 2 mechanics, one trip to the hardware store, 30 minutes and a tool resembling a blow torch to remove my KY plate. (“Gee, those clips are made to last, huh?” I conversed.)
But the good news is: I am now official. Louisiana Drivers License, Louisiana License Plate, Louisiana Residence, even a Louisiana Library Card. I’m starting to feel a little bit more like I belong. And as I sit here and type, peering out our balcony, into our courtyard, I’m starting to feel a little bit more like I could fall in love with New Orleans. That, and I could use some bon-bons…