Monday begins with below zero temperatures. The snow is pristine. The landscape is covered with a white blanket. Mr. January is on his way to completion. He began with a trip to New Orleans and ended with Cold and Snow. Once January is gone, it is a slippery slope. February is short, and March is spring. Then comes outdoor activity. Easter is early, and Memorial Day sneaks up on us. Before you know it, you light firecrackers. After. On July 4th, it changes from a slippery slope to a tall slide at the beach. Christmas Decorations will be in the stores and commercials on TV at the end of August. And that, my friends, is how the Old Man got old without even noticing.

I watched a clip of a popular English performer getting out of his car with two people assisting him and some difficulty. He, like I, is a member of the Golden Years. Age hits us all. The Old Man made it well in New Orleans. He enjoyed the French Quarter so much that he had an energy jolt. The joy of the area was invigorating. The Lobby of the Hotel Monteleone was lovely and restful. The ancient Grandfathers Clock was a dignified reminder of the Hotel’s grand past.

Snow has brought the Old Man inside. Games each day. I seldom win, but I keep trying. I enjoy playing Uno. Morgan Brooks taught us in Grand Rivers, Kentucky. Since that early December visit, I have been rewatching The Jinx. The show covers the antics of convicted murderer Robert Durst. When describing his privileged upbringing in New York as the scion of one of the wealthiest families in New York City, he mentioned playing Uno as a child.

So we sat in the Sun in the French Quarter. A lovely singer or a brass band could be found on every corner. The rich history of the French Quarter was absorbing. It makes you want to wear your Pork Pie Hat. The Old Man wanted to dance a little and sing. A bit like being in a Turner Classic Movie where there was romance and wonder in every inch.

‘Good afternoon, my name is Charles, and I will be your doorman,’ Charles said. ‘I will take your bags while you check in,’ Charles continued.

‘Where is the music coming from?’ the Old Man thought. ‘A Brass Band was leading a processional down Royal Street at midnight,’ the Old Man said to himself. ‘Everyone is happy and full of joy and peace…no fear or dread,’ the Old Man considered. ‘

It snowed all night. The kind of snow that accumulates. It is still snowing. Jennifer is happy in the winter wonderland. She comes from Alabama with a banjo on her knee, according to Old Susanna. Today, we are a land of Snow. New Orleans was a land of snow last January. I saw those photos. The advent of Snow in the French Quarter was a memorable event. I thought about it each day that we were there two weeks ago. So we rejoiced in the unseasonable warm weather. The French Quarter is full of my kind of people. People of the Earth. People with a sense of place and home. Folks who meet you where you are. They are there with you. Joy in the face of adversity. Hope in the teeth of the Brooks were enjoying a goodbye drink in the
Carousel Bar. The Old Man was already planning his return engagement.

Sureal is the description of today’s events. There is the past of snowstorms of Southern Illinois and the present of the French Quarter earlier this month, and their remembrance of last January’s historic event. The Doorman at the Hotel Monteleone told us to keep the cold weather ‘Up There.’ He laughed at my term for Southern Illinois as if I were attempting to distinguish Illinois as a southern state. He had a scarf around his neck, ear muffs, and gloves. He noted with aplomb that when it gets 60 in the French Quarter, it is cold.

The National Guard eyed us suspiciously as they walked through the Lobby of the Hotel Monteleone each day. They carried the air of authority with them. We, tourists, wondered what was up? How were we a danger to the Republic on our Holiday? Certainly, the poor people of the French Quarter were not a danger to anyone. Happy, singing, and playing their instruments, they were focused on enjoying the life God had given them. The Homeless were no danger in their abject poverty. They were hungry.

So here we are in the Snowstorm of 2026. No longer in New Orleans for now, but thinking about it. It is mystical to have been thinking about the historic snowstorm of the French Quarter in 2025 and return to Southern Illinois to a historic snowstorm. Perhaps we are traveling the groove of Times Phonograph Vinyl Record. What a mysterious journey life is.

I felt at home in the French Quarter. I knew I had been there before. The rhythms of the jazz music were familiar. The genuine heartfelt smiles and greetings were home. The bartender who told me that he knew we were good people, I felt that I had met before. He was family. How to explain such a magical, mysterious journey?

Neva J was a dedicated Christian, but she knew Edgar Cayce was on to something. She saw visions and lights that could not be explained. Neva J had an innate sense of people that I have as well. Years ago I knew that a minister was a thief. Many said that God had told them he was to be our minister, but I demurred. It is a trepidation and excitement to hear from across the Veil.

The following is a flash fiction story. Cold Snow and Hot Chocolate The snow fell as the man poured hot chocolate down his grateful throat. And there…

So the event of the weekend is clear. Snowapocalypse is here. It is starting slow, but the weather folks tell us not to despair, as it will increase. We Southern Illinois people get excited about snow. We see a little in winter, not a lot. When I was a child, it snowed more. At least that is my misty memory. We constructed large snowmen and had enough raw product to do so. The snow was plowed into sturdy walls on each side of the path to school, and we walked between them unseen from outside the fortress. I had snow boots with buckles that I wore each day. When I had those boots on, I was invincible to the effects of the white powder. I walked with the confidence of the young on snowy and icy paths. Falling down was part of the fun.

Snow removal belonged to a snow shovel. My uncle died shoveling snow. Nevertheless, the young and young at heart shoveled as a rite of life in the suburbs. Snow Days were few and far between in the ’60s. We bundled up and snapped our ear flaps, which were held on top of our hats, under our chins. Mittens were prevalent. Snow was part of winter, and we were tough.

The Old Man’s eyes look back in time to the French Quarter less than two weeks ago. Warm and no snow. The Fine Art Photographer spoke of the unprecedented Snow in New Orleans last January. He had some wonderful photos. We had no need for a sweater or jacket. We were warm with mirth and laughter. Much to see and more to do. Once or twice, it was nearly hot. Then there were the photos of what the French Quarter looked like under the 100-year snow.

‘So it is snowing in the French Quarter, and we are a part of the historic event,’ the Old Man said. ‘Bourbon Street is covered with a white blanket,’ the Old Man continued. ‘The doorman was sweeping the snow away this morning from the front of the Hotel Monteleone,’ the Old man noted. ‘People are laughing and dancing in the snow,’ the Old man laughed. ‘A jazz band marched down Royal Street playing Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,’ the Old Man grinned.

‘Wakey Wakey,’ MJ called out. ‘It is snowing,’ MJ said with joy. ‘I have baked chocolate chip cookies,’ MJ laughed. ‘Hurry before they are all gone,’ MJ danced on one foot and then the other.

‘Perhaps we can get some cookies at the Carousel Bar with our drinks,’ the Old Man suggested. ‘I think you must be referring to last January when the French Quarter received a historic snow,’ the Old Man suggested as he munched a chocolate cookie.

‘We are home, and we are receiving a historic snow, Aaron and Jonathon said in unison. ‘New Orleans was nearly two weeks ago,’ they said.

The weather folks say be prepared to hunker down for three to four days when the snowstorm starts. Given the vastness of the forecast storm, I wonder if New Orleans will receive its second 100-year snow event? Exactly a year apart for the Big Easy.

There is bone-chilling cold in the air ahead of the Snowpocalypses. Mylo takes little note since he rarely goes outside. Again, I fondly remember the French Quarter less than two weeks ago. There was neither a hint of winter nor downcast faces. Beignets to eat and Cafe Dumonde. I have been to the famous restaurant known for its beignets. Confectioner’s sugar never tasted so good.

Lake Pontchartrain was visible during our Amtrak ride. I recalled Hurricane Katrina and the terrible flooding. We passed the Superdome, and again I thought of Katrina.

The dignity of the French Quarter could be felt. A proud, loving people inhabit the place. People focused on art. A place to be yourself without fear. Music that reaches the Angels. Hope of acceptance and peace.

Food from Heaven. Dishes are special and unique. We made a return engagement to our favorite restaurant, Coops, from our last visit in 2013. In 2013, we stood in line at the door, and a woman allowed people in a few at a time. We sat at the bar, and I asked the bartender if he made a good Dirty Martini. He responded that he made a very bad Dirty Martini. I quickly ordered the Bad Dirty. The food was wonderful earlier this month. I had fried oysters. Our server asked if we wanted a drink for the road.

It was a common sight to see happy people carrying their cocktails with them on the sidewalks and streets of the Quarter. They danced with them, expertly held in their hands. The French Quarter is an oasis in a rapidly changing nation. A place to laugh from your soul.

Have you ever had a Soul Laugh? A Laugh where your entire person rejoices. A Soul Laugh caused by a sense of place as a valuable human being and pleasure in your place in the Human Family. A glimpse into Heaven and the joy of seeing the Angels dancing to the jazz music playing.

The Old Man has observed people happy for no fiscal or material reason. People who greet the day’s events with laughter and mirth. Poor People who wink and make you feel comfortable. Happy folks who do not see a stranger because all are their family. Those who are not obsessed with the ladder of success. Many who never attained more than a rung or two. They are interested in the Stairway to Heaven. They commune with the Angels who constantly use the Stairway. God is looking at the Heavenly Ladder and often comes down to have a Soul Laugh with his family.

So we wait for the snowstorm. We have seen snowstorms before, but this one is forecast to be particularly severe. Each update is worse than the one before. There were long lines at the Grocery Store yesterday. We typically receive some snow each winter, but it is often not significant. This looks like the real thing.

A big change from the French Quarter just over a week ago. The weather was 70 degrees or more, and the living was easy. We mozed about with a feeling of spring. A bit surreal for midwesterners from Illinois who are accustomed to cold temperatures in winter. We were in another universe where music and dancing were the norm in a warm atmosphere. There was joy on a normal day. Singing on every corner. Hope in the manifestation of mirth.

MJ says next time we will stay an additional night. I wholeheartedly agree! Although many people told us of the historic snowfall New Orleans experienced a year ago in January. The City was shut down due to the unexpected event. Artists painted fine art to commemorate the 100-year event. Photographers took photos. They reflected on January 2025.

I saw our server at the Carousel Bar in a moment of rest and reflection. She said that she was enjoying the moment with fewer people and thinking of Mardi Gras. She went on to say that it is insane and a sensory overload. The French Quarter is full of tourists who are experiencing Mardi Gras.

A friendly woman placed a cream under MJ’s eye to illustrate how it tightens puffiness. When MJ saw her later during our French Quarter excursion, she identified the wrong eye. Until that mistake, MJ was pondering whether to purchase a tube of the magic balm. A young man stopped Jonathon and me to tell us that he was going to run for President and that, ‘My black ass better vote for him.’ His presentation captivated me when he identified me as black. He continued to tell Jonathon and me that we were invited to the
White House if he won, for a barbecue dinner, and all we needed to do was bring a side dish with us. He received a small donation from the Old Man just for the entertainment value of his presentation.

Steve and I were caught in a snowstorm many years ago when we worked together for a Janitorial Service and were on our way to Zeigler to clean the corporate offices of Zeigler Coal Company. I told Steve that perhaps we should turn around, as all I could see out of the windshield of the 1962 Ford Fairlane was a white sheet. He assured me that we would be fine, whereupon we landed in the snowy ditch. We pushed the vintage car out of the ditch and turned for home.

When I was 20 years old, I walked to MJ’s trailer to dig her Maverick Car out of a historic snowstorm. I wanted to impress her with my affection for her and what a capable man I was. She made me hot chocolate, and I was rail-thin. That day, I knew I had made fiance points with my beloved.

The year after I dug MJ’s car out of the snow, I had been recently hired at Southern Illinois University @ Carbondale and chose to drive to work rather than miss being there if they were open. A colleague drove up in Building Services, where I had just pulled into the drive and found the door locked and one light bulb burning. Elbert persisted in knocking on the door and calling out that Brooks and Covington were reporting for duty. I had made a fifteen-mile journey through what appeared to be a snow covered field rather than highway #51. Then Elbert invited me to go home, get MJ and come to his house, which was seven miles more. I assured him that if I got back home, I would stay for the duration of the Storm.

Margo and Jeff stayed with us a year later when a snowstorm occurred. MJ fed them homemade biscuits, and they accompanied us to Eldorado on a snowy road to take Neva J home. We laughed a lot and bonded in our lifelong friendship. It was a fifty-mile journey, and we made it with the help of Neva J’s strong black coffee.

So I knew what the Uber Driver was talking about in French
Quarter regarding Snowstorms. Much snow provides a significant challenge. It also provides an opportunity for lifetime memories.

Time flies even in winter. Soon it will be a month since Christmas. Time marches on. The French Quarter took a place in the Old Man’s heart. I did not expect it. We visited New Orleans in May 2013. It was horribly hot and humid. We took the streetcars from our Airbnb, and our clothes were drenched with sweat. The Hotel Monteleone in the French Quarter changed our perspective and our level of enjoyment. The cooler weather and lower humidity helped make our recent journey more enjoyable. A wonderful way to begin the New Year. We want to do it again.

We spent our first day in the Quarter walking nearly five miles around the area. That may not sound like a lot, but for the Old Man, it was fierce. We watched a military ceremony at Jackson Square. The brass band was inspiring. A homeless man checked each outside trash can for food. There is joy and sadness living side by side.

People are reaching for Heaven. Their music is joyful. Their faces are happy with seeking eyes. There is a commitment to living life on their own terms. New Orleans is a diverse community. The spiritual etheral environment is compelling. Different is good, and the French Quarter proves it. We live in a homogenized country if we accept what many fundamentalists tell us. They tell us that we must be like them, and they have stolen the title Christian for only their narrow, biased views. Churches are loseing people because those who are looking for meaning and purpose do not see it in the gathering of politics/religion.

New Orleans is authentic. No masks of holiness over others. The common denominator is humanity. The point is love and acceptance. The Monteleone was our Cruise Ship of rest when the excitement became too much. I can see why Truman Capote and Eudora Welty liked it so much. The French Quarter is a release valve on the pressure cooker of life in Authoritarian Times. An oasis to be yourself and not fear the judgmental eyes of the religious and political elite. I am, in my unique humanity, so let us be friends.

Spirits watch their ancestors and their loved ones. Angels rejoice with the joyful noise of the jazz bands and singing. Ghosts dance alongside the party of happy people. There is a pulling away of the curtain that separates this world from the next. What is seen is beyond imagination or words.

The month of January doesn’t have the same amount of flash as November or December. For some of us that cannot tolerate the cold January and February…

The cold air is warming for a day or two. The Woods were lovely and cold. The Old Man watched a Blue Jay, oblivious to being watched. He was about his business in the New Year. It is not the Arctic air as much as the wind. Thoughts hearken to New Orleans and the French Quarter. There is a culture dedicated to Joy. There is a joy in living that we often ignore. There are things to do and bills to pay. Joy is a reward we defer to when we retire or take a holiday. The majority of our time is spent putting our nose to the grindstone. We Americans especially the Baby Boomers, were raised to produce and not be slow about it. Keep your nose to the grindstone and avoid frivolity. Paul said that when he was a child, he enjoyed childish things, but when he became a man, he gave them up. Perhaps that is not sound advice. I marvelled when I passed thousands of students at Southern Illinois University and found most of the faces I saw were sullen, lonely, and sad. We have lost the plot.

Joy is the purpose and the meaning of life. The French Quarter taught me there is a better way. Spontaneous eruptions of joy occurred all over the French Quarter. It is invigorating to witness lifting of our human experience to the Angels. Happiness broke out across our Holiday in the Big Easy. We were met with smiles, song, music, and dancing. We had a server at the Bourbon Street Cafe who was original. She not only caused us to feel welcome but also made us participants in the Joy. The slowed-down acceptance of life as it presents itself was refreshing. A jazz band played on the corner. When we left the Bourbon Street Restaurant, where I enjoyed some wonderful parboiled oysters, we found ourselves in the midst of a street party. Many were singing and cheering while a young man danced with abandon in the middle of the street. He was in another world.

So the French Quarter felt a bit like a Cruise. The Hotel Monteleone had wonderful accommodations and music. Across the street was the Brass Monkey and a Fine Art Studio where MJ discovered a piece. Just down the road was Meyers Hat Shop, where I purchased a delightful Pork Pie Hat. Mr. Meyers was there at 101 years old and working behind the counter. Many ladies were having their photos taken with Mr. Meyers, the Hat Man. One woman told him how cute he was, to which he replied that he was not cute. The women laughed, knowing that he was. The Meyers’ Hat Store looked throughout the store for a Pork Pie Hat that would fit the Old Man. He found a perfect straw one. I wore it the remainder of my time in the French Quarter.

The relaxed feeling in the Hotel Monteleone was compelling. A luxorious Grandfather Clock was in the Lobby. People from all over the world were staying there. Old people middle aged and young are all enjoying together. At our Sunday Breakfast with musical accompaniment, an old couple sat next to us. The old gentleman was putting in his hearing aids, and I felt a kinship with them. I noticed on the Train that they were on board with us and wondered if we might have met.

The Old Man watched the Love Dance at the Hotel Bar. Couples rejoiced in the moment of Joy as they flirted with each other and sought companionship. Old Men flirting with young women, temporarily forgetting their place in life. A tall lady squatted on her knees and rocked and rolled to the jazz music. She was in Nirvana and worried not who was around her. Rest for the weary and hope for the hurting. An Oasis in the desert of authoritarian government and meanness towards those who do not fit the mold of the leader. The French Quarter breaks the mold of the Dictator and those who would control the lives of others.

We watch and wait. Our feelings are mixed. Where is home, and how do we get there? Home is a place in our hearts more than our heads. A place where we feel accepted and wanted. Often, we search for years without success. A vain attempt is made to fit into someone else’s definition of Home. They tell us that this is the home we want, while we feel underwhelmed. The Baby Boomer Generation’s definition of Home and success left subsequent generations wanting. A house in the suburbs and a two-car garage. Working from 9-5 each day for a year with a two-week break for vacation is not inspiring. Many Baby Boomers chose the road of protest and hallucinogens for an enlightened path toward Home. This path resulted in limited success and still much seeking. I was friends with several Jewish Hippies in the early 70s. Some found Home while others chose the corporate world, sad and disillusioned with their early quest.

The Old Man was at Home in New Orleans in the French Quarter. The Spirit of the place inspired him. The joy de vie was compelling. You could feel it in your bones. Singing and dancing, horns playing jazz, and smiles all around are hard to argue with on a Wednesday. Shopping for a Pork Pie Hat was fun and a mission from God. Sitting in Jackson Park was a delight as the artists set up their exhibits. The focus on joy rather than riches was intoxicating. I have followed Le Petite Theatre, where we saw Blithe Spirit Thursday night. I am thoroughly enjoying the Facebook posting from Le Petite Theatre regarding the performance that we saw just over a week ago. I have not enjoyed a theatrical performance more, and have seen two plays on Broadway. We also attended two performances in London’s West End, and still, Le Petite is my favorite. However, the enthusiasm of the audience reminded me of the West End. Theatre provides a welcoming of all people. It is home for thought and a venue for voice in all forms.

How shall we find Home when we have not found ourselves?
What makes your heart sing? What makes your soul leap? This is a good barometer and compass on your way Home. My journey has been many roads of discovery. Raised in a conservative family, I had to discover my quest for Home. My Christian faith became progressive, and I followed my heart when it came to accepting all people. When I began working at Southern Illinois University @ Carbondale, I was working with students from 70 countries. I was happier than I had ever been. I learned Jesus loves the little children, all the little children of the world. Red, yellow black, and white are precious in his sight. We learn from each other when we listen. We accept each other when our hearts are open.

The Bartender at the Carousel Bar in the Hotel Monteleone told us that we were good people and that he meets a lot of people. Perhaps he saw or felt our openness for others, no matter their color or creed or faith, or lack thereof. There is one requirement for a human being’s acceptance…breathing. MJ told me that the journey to New Orleans had transformed her and lifted her spirits. Her steps are lighter, and her outlook is brighter. I feel the Leaping of my soul when I think of the jazz band in the Hotel Monteleon. The feeling is rare, and the Old Man seeks more…please…