Movin’ with Joe
His name was Joe Mover. “Mr. Joe Mover,” Melvin said in introduction and I wondered about the truth of it. Joe Mover, taxi driver in New Orleans. What were the chances?
Joe’s cab was a Lincoln Town Car, not new but don’t let on about that. It was white with gold lettering: Taxi - New Orleans - Reliable driver.
Melvin, doorman at the Monteleone, promised to find a taxi for us at two, in spite of the crane and trucks that had turned Royal Street into a construction zone. Sure enough, just before two, Joe was at the corner, beyond the crane and its human and mechanical trappings.
“That’s Joe Mover. He’s a good man, Joe Mover. He’ll take care of you.” Melvin seemed proud to know him, proud to have a part in the transaction.
At the corner, Joe opened the trunk and smiled. Polished shoes, pressed pants, satin jacket, smartly brimmed hat – he was the perfect image of a taxi driver. Better because he was real.
His trunk was lined in custom-cut carpeting with a small whiskbroom in a corner. Across the back, in a customized pouch, there were bottles of cleaners, polishes, rags - an army of small soldiers for Joe’s battle with disorder. Inside the cab, it was clear that victory was complete. The royal blue leather seats were as smooth and shiny as polished marble. There was no lint on the carpet, no dust on the dash, no smudge on the glass.
Joe started our trip with a short cut, turning down an alley, cutting through the parking garage of a smaller hotel, popping out the other side to greet another cabbie. This young upstart in his new minivan goosed the throttle, nudging Joe aside, never a glance at the town car or driver.
Joe scolded, “See that? See that? Wouldn’t even give another cabbie his due. If was the other way, he’d be cussin’. What goes around comes around. Comes around. You got that right. Comes around.”
Joe’s voice was a little raspy but strong. Seventy-five years of saying what he saw and knew colored his tones. He used words not for telling but for showing. He repeated words, enjoying the cadence. His conversations were soothing songs in frantic city traffic.
“You know what Naw’Leans is famous for? Do you know? Good food and a good time. You got to have good food to have a good time and Naw’Leans has plenty of good food. You got that right.”
Driving past the Louisiana Superdome, Joe sang out facts and fantasy. He watched it being built as he inched through traffic jams for four years of construction. It was fascinating, he said, to see the sections of the roof, “lowered by helicopters and fit right in place just like acoustic tiles in a ceiling. Folks rubber necking to see it sometimes stopping and putting their whole necks into it. Fascinating.”
Joe focuses on people, though, so his real fascination was with the audiences there. “You know the biggest crowd it had? Go ahead and guess. I ain’t gonna hold you to it. It was the Pope. The Pope had ‘em standing in the field on top of each other. You know the biggest crowd for a concert? Come on and guess. I’ll give you a hint. It was 1981. It was a rock group. It was the biggest crowd ever for a concert. You guess this one. Can’t you guess?”
“The Rolling Stones?”
“Is that your final answer? The Stones? Final answer? Well, that’s right. You got that right. Now Elvis, he would’ve beat that, if he didn’t die. Beatles would’ve beat that too but they broke up. It was the Rolling Stones and they had 87,000 people there. The Rolling Stones.”
Joe could draw a pretty good crowd himself if they gave him a chance but he seems pleased with movin’ through the city, driving folks and singing about Naw’Leans.
Go to www.keylesspiano.blogspot.com to see The Story Jar with photos.
Showing posts with label New Orleans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Orleans. Show all posts
Friday, October 12, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Story Jar - Wooden Spoons
Story Jar - a bi-weekly column published in the Patriot and Free Press, Cuba, NY
copyright 2007 Elaine Hardman
An introduction to a few spoons from left to right: The cherry spoon Rick made, the bamboo spoon from SanBao in China, a rice spoon from Peru, a rummage sale spoon, a Peruvian spoon, the spurtle, a coconut shell spoon from Thailand, a coconut spoon from Malaysia, the newest spoon from Budapest. Photo at the beginning is of The Idea Factory, then there's a photo of some favorite spoons on the mantle in some favorite pottery and finally you can see the jumble of wooden tools in a market in Cusco, Peru.
copyright 2007 Elaine Hardman
Wooden Spoons
There was, in the French Quarter of New Orleans, an odd little store full of wooden toys and clocks. From the ceiling hung sculptures - dolls nested in junk - though that description cannot begin to give the picture of the fantasy and frolic within their creation. This store, The Idea Factory, also offered hand-carved wooden spoons and, of all the fancy in the store, these plains appealed to me most.
I wanted to buy one of those spoons, a cherry piece with curving handle and gentle bowl. Cherry is a wonderful rosy brown color. It has the feel of silk and a tight grain that resists moisture.
Rick said that he had a short of cherry at home that would become a spoon if I needed one. Need? Now there’s word of varied definition.
I have a small collection of spoons in one of my favorite pots. Though the pot holds many spoons and only one spurtle, I call the pot a “Spurtle Jar.”
My spurtle was found in a small shop in London, not nearly as curious as The Idea Factory. Both tool and name are Scottish. The spurtle is designed to stir porridge. Made of a white wood and holding a smooth finish after a decade of oatmeal service, my spurtle is a caricature of a tall, skinny, armless person with a round head and funnel hat.
Spurtle. What a great word. I bought every spurtle there and sprinkled them on my friends at home with liberal repetition of the word. Spurtle.
Towering above the spurtle is a sadza spoon from Zimbabwe. When we were in Zimbabwe it was a friendly country able to supply its people with sadza, corn porridge. Building-sized piles of sacks of corn were throughout the country. Their situation of plenty left these piles unguarded by fence or weapon because everyone was able to buy grain and stir huge pots of sadza with such a spoon. Shona people ate sadza as a warm cereal, cooled it and fed it to the village dogs or chilled it, so that as a congealed slab, the slices could be fried in a pan with spices.
This spoon is a paddle with no hollow bowl. The wood has become dark like the soil of the country and rough like the political climate that eliminated knowledgable farmers.
Huddling under the sadza spoon are common spoons, factory made, utilitarian pieces with no personality. I use them sometimes, when it seems not to matter but I really like the old spoons. These have come from antique shops or rummage sales, sometimes from the “free” boxes. They are heavier, smoother and darker than the new stuff.
I like to think that farmers made them while resting their bodies but using their hands. They were made for work in the kitchen so, while they might have a rounded bulge in the handle or a notch at the end for a string, the shoulders of the bowls are unfinished. They are strong spoons, a bit out of symmetry and darkened by years of soup and sauce.
There is one that is unwisely short. Stirring much of anything puts the hand in reach of the steam and popping bubbles but this spoon reminds me of my Aunt Genevieve, born December 1, 1912. Aunt Jay was fifty-two inches tall, a powerhouse of energy and a no-need-to-measure kind of cook. She would have had a spoon like this with a stout little handle that swells just at the center. She would have used it for stirring, tasting and pointing while she talked.
The bowl of this spoon is nicked in two places. It has been stirred flat on one edge, worn by age and discarded by its last owner. I like using it and the other old, damaged spoons with all their history and character.
Need or not, Rick made a new cherry spoon for me and hid it away until Christmas Eve to slip it into my stocking on the mantle. I hope to stir it flat on one side over the next many years so that someday a caring hand will admire its shape and ponder its creation.
There was, in the French Quarter of New Orleans, an odd little store full of wooden toys and clocks. From the ceiling hung sculptures - dolls nested in junk - though that description cannot begin to give the picture of the fantasy and frolic within their creation. This store, The Idea Factory, also offered hand-carved wooden spoons and, of all the fancy in the store, these plains appealed to me most.
I wanted to buy one of those spoons, a cherry piece with curving handle and gentle bowl. Cherry is a wonderful rosy brown color. It has the feel of silk and a tight grain that resists moisture.
Rick said that he had a short of cherry at home that would become a spoon if I needed one. Need? Now there’s word of varied definition.
I have a small collection of spoons in one of my favorite pots. Though the pot holds many spoons and only one spurtle, I call the pot a “Spurtle Jar.”
My spurtle was found in a small shop in London, not nearly as curious as The Idea Factory. Both tool and name are Scottish. The spurtle is designed to stir porridge. Made of a white wood and holding a smooth finish after a decade of oatmeal service, my spurtle is a caricature of a tall, skinny, armless person with a round head and funnel hat.
Spurtle. What a great word. I bought every spurtle there and sprinkled them on my friends at home with liberal repetition of the word. Spurtle.
Towering above the spurtle is a sadza spoon from Zimbabwe. When we were in Zimbabwe it was a friendly country able to supply its people with sadza, corn porridge. Building-sized piles of sacks of corn were throughout the country. Their situation of plenty left these piles unguarded by fence or weapon because everyone was able to buy grain and stir huge pots of sadza with such a spoon. Shona people ate sadza as a warm cereal, cooled it and fed it to the village dogs or chilled it, so that as a congealed slab, the slices could be fried in a pan with spices.
This spoon is a paddle with no hollow bowl. The wood has become dark like the soil of the country and rough like the political climate that eliminated knowledgable farmers.
Huddling under the sadza spoon are common spoons, factory made, utilitarian pieces with no personality. I use them sometimes, when it seems not to matter but I really like the old spoons. These have come from antique shops or rummage sales, sometimes from the “free” boxes. They are heavier, smoother and darker than the new stuff.
I like to think that farmers made them while resting their bodies but using their hands. They were made for work in the kitchen so, while they might have a rounded bulge in the handle or a notch at the end for a string, the shoulders of the bowls are unfinished. They are strong spoons, a bit out of symmetry and darkened by years of soup and sauce.
There is one that is unwisely short. Stirring much of anything puts the hand in reach of the steam and popping bubbles but this spoon reminds me of my Aunt Genevieve, born December 1, 1912. Aunt Jay was fifty-two inches tall, a powerhouse of energy and a no-need-to-measure kind of cook. She would have had a spoon like this with a stout little handle that swells just at the center. She would have used it for stirring, tasting and pointing while she talked.
The bowl of this spoon is nicked in two places. It has been stirred flat on one edge, worn by age and discarded by its last owner. I like using it and the other old, damaged spoons with all their history and character.
Need or not, Rick made a new cherry spoon for me and hid it away until Christmas Eve to slip it into my stocking on the mantle. I hope to stir it flat on one side over the next many years so that someday a caring hand will admire its shape and ponder its creation.
An introduction to a few spoons from left to right: The cherry spoon Rick made, the bamboo spoon from SanBao in China, a rice spoon from Peru, a rummage sale spoon, a Peruvian spoon, the spurtle, a coconut shell spoon from Thailand, a coconut spoon from Malaysia, the newest spoon from Budapest. Photo at the beginning is of The Idea Factory, then there's a photo of some favorite spoons on the mantle in some favorite pottery and finally you can see the jumble of wooden tools in a market in Cusco, Peru.
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