I am Irish. Well, technically I am half Irish and half Mexican. Okay, okay… if you want to get really technical I am half Mexican, almost half Irish with a smattering of German and a teeny pinch of English. The point is the middle of March is a busy time for me and my family.
Growing up, the 17th of March has always been a big deal. We have marched in a little, local parade for going on three decades. It is a rag-tag group of families walking down the streets of Dogtown, yelling at friends and neighbors and waving to random strangers like bawdy runner’s-up in a d-list beauty pageant. Like our pageant counter parts we take great care in our appearance. Unlike the beauty queens, our garments usually involve smart-aleck tee-shirts in shades of emerald and jade with complementary bright green hued feather boas, socks and hats. It is a sight to see.
Needless to say, we don’t take ourselves too seriously. This year we marched under the banner of “The Real Housewives of Dogtown” with my 80-something year old great aunt waving from a convertible. We threw plastic cabbages, snakes and beads to the crowd; who screamed for them like they were made of real emeralds and not cheap bits of plastic. It was a great time.
For the past few years I have kind of taken the parade for granted. We would show up, act rowdy for the day and then pack away our green gear until next year. That was until my aunt sent out a message stating that this was the last year we would march, unless someone else wanted to take the reins. Now it seems as if it is up to my generation to carry on the tradition. This has me thinking about family, and traditions, about what is too important to let fade away. In the next couple of weeks I will write about my family, the ragtag group of people who surround me every day. These amazing stories that are too cool to simply fade into memory.
I hope you like them.
It is that time of year again, Carnival time! That time of year in which revelers are encouraged to eat, drink and make merry before Lent; a season of abstinence and austerity. Nowhere is this more encouraged than New Orleans, the Big Easy, where everyone laissez les bon temps roulez (let the good times roll for non Cajun speakers. At least that is how the T-shirt translated it.) It is Mardi Gras time and I couldn’t be more excited.
I love everything about Mardi Gras, the tradition and history coupled with the reckless abandon of the revelers. Mardi Gras itself translates in Fat Tuesday, a time when good Catholics would binge on fatty foods and meats in preparation for the fasting associated with Lent. I love the parades, I love the king cake and I love the music that fills the air. It is slightly seedy and very chaotic, it is steeped in superstition and ritual and it is made thoroughly modern with cheerleaders dancing to Beyonce as they make their way down the streets of New Orleans. I love everything about it, including the beads.
For the past two years we have made the trek to New Orleans for the festivities. We go two weekends before Mardi Gras to enjoy the parades with smaller crowds than the following weekend. With my daughter and grandma in tow this weekend seems more geared to the family crowd and we always have a great time. We marvel at the floats, cheer for the high school marching bands and dance with the pom-pom squads, but mostly we scream for beads.
That is the amazing thing about Mardi Gras, after all I am a pretty normal person. I take things in stride and for the most part I roll with what life throws my way… unless life is throwing beads. Then I become a screaming, leaping nut-ball. Those shiny bits of plastic have an ability to create a frenzy that matches Beiber Fever, NKOTB Madness or Beatle Mania, to put it in the parlance of a number of generations.
My grandmother and mother, also (fairly) normal people could be seen rushing out into the street, climbing on barricades and elbowing random strangers to catch their share of treasure. A ten cent piece of plastic can send even the most level headed person diving into the gutter to claim their prize. It is the magic of Mardi Gras, the ability to get wrapped up in a tradition that has been rolling through the streets of New Orleans for over a century.
Of course I get funny reactions when we return home. The pre-school moms who ask how we “earned” our beads or the dirty looks I got in the checkout line as my daughter talked about our trip. They tend to think that New Orleans during Mardi Gras is more “Girls Gone Wild” than it is “Sesame Street”. (I NEVER thought I would put the two of those in the same sentence.) We caught 15 stuffed animals this year in addition to 3 swords and a light up yo-yo. We sat next to a family armed with their Mardi Gras ladder to raise their kiddo about the crowd. In between parades our kids played tag and had sword fights while the parents laughed and chatted. (And sipped hurricanes, it is a time to cut a little loose after all.) Dirty looks or not, I am glad that I am able to share this with four generations of my family. I think it is a blast to jump up and down like a crazy person for a sparkly set of beads. I officially have Mardi Gras fever, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
Laissez les bons temps rouler. Bon Mardi Gras.
a life just ordinary 