St. Bonaventure University Exhibit in March!

 

Mardi Gras

 

Mardi Gras

by Wil Bosbyshell

I was about to march in a parade. Not just any parade, mind you, it was the mystic Krewe of Iris parade at Mardi Gras in 1980. Standing in formation in New Orlean’s French Quarter on Saturday morning before Mardi Gras, I could feel the craziness building.

Mardi Gras is not just crazy, it's planet crazy!

As a freshman in Army ROTC on the University of Georgia Pershing Rifles Drill Team, I was ill prepared for Mardi Gras.  

The Drill Team consisted of 30 cadets both men and woman. We marched in a platoon formation with four cadets across and seven rows deep. Our uniforms were dark green Class A pants tucked into highly polished boots, a white short-sleeve shirt with two vertical creases, yellow ascot and chrome plated helmets. We carried the M1A1 rifle with wooden stock weighing 13 pounds. The rifle was augmented by a flat black bayonet. Our team advisors were a regular Army Major and Sergeant Major.

As a precision rifle drill team, a key part of our parade routine was twirling our rifles in circles in front of us and to both sides. The rifle moves required roughly 3-feet clearance in front and to each side of platoon members.

In most parades, the marching units are buffered from the crowd on either side by several feet of space. Right now, the crowd was already close, too close. We were still in the staging area on a side street and the crowd was pressed into the point of physical contact. Pawing me is more accurate.

Carl, the senior commanding cadet, gave the order, “Forward … March.” We stepped off in unison, our rifles at port arms. I was on the right flank of the platoon. In just three steps a child ran into my legs, and a man brushed my shoulder. I began to worry. We twirled our rifles as part of our drill routines, and the rifles had bayonets attached to the end of the barrel. Sharp bayonets on very heavy rifles. 

Carl gave the first routine command, which meant swinging the bayonet-tipped rifles in a circle in front of each of us. It was a basic move where I swung my rifle causing it to extend two feet past my right shoulder, into the normally empty space between me and the crowd. This time that space was not empty.

As I swung my rifle in a quick circle an old lady darted in between me and the cadet in front of me. There was no room for any person to physically occupy that space, but this little old lady somehow dodged my razor-sharp bayonet.

At that point the Major called a halt from the rear. The lady ran hell bent for leather through our formation and out the other side. Clearly, she wanted to cross the road. She was nearly skewered by several bayonets. As we stopped, three more people ran through our closely packed ranks. These people bumped into us without noticing or acknowledging us in any way. The Major was having a heart attack, imagining a bayonet spearing a civilian.

The scene was complete insanity. Several trumpet-heavy high school bands played with all their might, speakers on floats blared loud staticky sounding music, Iris Krewe members (all women) screamed at the top of their lungs from their perches atop floats, and the audience screamed back for Krewe members to throw beads. It was nuts and we were only five minutes into the parade.

Cadet Commander Carl called for us to stow our bayonets. We had scabbards to hold a bayonet on our belts, however, our team Sergeant Major feared that revelers would grab the bayonets from us while we marched. It was certainly possible and more than likely. So, our Sergeant Major carried all our bayonets for the duration of the parade. 

While we reorganized ourselves, I politely repeated, “Excuse me ma'am, please stay on the side of the road,” several times. We stepped off again. There was absolutely no space between the parade spectators and the floats and marching units. We weaved our way through a sea of humanity that was walking and darting through our formation. We couldn't do any fancy drill as we planned, we were just trying not to hurt people twirling our 13-pound M1A1 rifles as we marched.

We were constantly being pelted by strings of beads that everyone was throwing seemingly at us. The worthless colorful beads coated the street making footing precarious. All the cadets were slipping on the sea of beads.

Wow, I thought “It can't get much worse.” Just then it began to sleet.

Just an hour ago, I was sweating in the Louisiana morning heat wearing my short sleeve summer uniform. Now ice and freezing rain pelted my face in a blustery winter storm. “Great,” I thought.

We were able to do some of our planned drill routines at designated street intersections when police on horseback held back the crowd. Huge horses.

Amazingly we made it through the parade without hurting ourselves or any drunk old ladies. Cold, soaked and tired we returned to the USS Lexington aircraft carrier docked in the port of New Orleans. USS Lexington was there to support all the military units during the Mardi Gras season. It was an older carrier, diesel not nuclear, but it was a super cool place to stay. The only problem I encountered was that I kept hitting my head on the solid steel Navy water-tight doors. So, I decided to wear my helmet everywhere.

In the carrier mess hall, I ran into a fellow Camp Cheerio counselor. He was a Navy ROTC cadet at Chapel Hill.

We rested and got ready for the party on Bourbon Street. The Major established a few rules. We had to stay in groups of four, and we needed to watch out for each other. The Team was co-ed, and we were all 18 and legally able to drink. “Be back on the Lexington by 8:00 AM,” shouted the major. I was surprised, surely, we would be back before that. I thought, “Don’t the bars close at mid-night?” Little did I know.

Bourbon Street was crowded at 6:00 PM and only slightly unusual. Most people were going to dinner in nice clothes or formal attire with just a few people in costumes. When we emerged back on Bourbon Street after dinner, the formal attire was gone, and most people were in elaborate costumes. These were typical Halloween costumes, such as vampires, fairies, werewolves, monsters, wizards, etcetera. There were a lot of vampires even though this was several years before Anne Rice wrote her famous New Orleans vampire novel Interview with a Vampire.

Everyone wanted to see a Drag Queen show, so we did. The show was OK, nothing great. I was from Florida and unimpressed, men in drag were nothing new to me.

We emerged from the show around 10 PM onto the Bourbon Street bedlam. We saw wall to wall people, many openly doing drugs right in front of police officers. By this time of night, the costumes were all sexual. For example, buck naked cowboys and cowgirls in chaps with nothing underneath. There were many topless women and just plain naked men running, dancing, and partying. I marveled at all the nearly naked people; I was wearing a winter coat. There was a lot of body paint masking as clothing.

The police were there in full force but only intervened in case of serious injury. If an injury was not going to result in death, the police didn’t intervene.

It was 1 AM and I realized there was no way out of Bourbon Street, we were trapped in the crowd that went for blocks and blocks. We were in the Twilight Zone; I mean Mardi Gras Zone. Returning to the aircraft carrier was not an option anytime soon.

We were stuck for the duration. So, we made the best of it. My group decided to find a place on the street that we could stand without being run over by the crowds.

We each got a giant-sized signature hurricane drink and moved to a T-intersection. We stood on the sidewalk under the balconies that ran along both sides of every street. My shoes and pants were already ruined, and I was trying to keep my wallet out of pickpocket’s hands; they were everywhere. ‘Heaven help you if you fall on Bourbon Street tonight,’ I thought.

In front of me women bared their breasts so that people above on the balconies would throw them beads. Have I mentioned that Marti Gras provides excellent people watching?

My attention was drawn to a large second story balcony at the end of the street. Two French doors flew open, waltz music blared and two couples in tuxedos and hoop skirts danced out onto the balcony.

The couples spun wildly with the music as the crowd cheered. Each dancer waved in turn at the crowd as they came close to the balcony railing. I kept thinking that something was strange about the dancing. My mind said, “This is weird,” but I suspended my disbelief and enjoyed the spectacle. 

As they danced the couples began to undress, throwing off pieces of clothing. The clothing would float down to the street, the crowd surging in that direction. I held onto a nearby pole for dear life. 

In minutes it became clear that there were not four people dancing, but two people and two mannequins. The male and the female humans were operating their respective mannequins like life-sized puppets!

Soon both humans and mannequins were naked. I thought mistakenly this marked the end of the show. Yet, the human and mannequin couples continued to dance, and the crowd cheered even louder.

“What would they do next?” My question was answered as the human half of each couple began dissembling the mannequins.

The man and woman each removed a hand on their respective mannequins, tossing it to the crowd below without missing a beat of the waltz. The enthusiastic crowd flowed towards the discarded mannequin parts; I am not sure why. I wrapped my entire arm around the pole to keep my place as the crowd churned and people crushed around me.

When the mannequin heads and torsos landed in the crowd I was forced to let go of my drink and hold onto the pole with both hands.

This continued, and as the mannequin’s limbs slowly dwindled the humans used the mannequin parts sexually before throwing them into the crowd. Now I really didn’t want a mannequin part to hit me. Eventually the mannequins were gone, and the two naked humans began to dance together as one couple. I believe the two humans were a man and a woman, however there was some lively debate to that point on the ride home the next day.

As the human combo danced, they engaged in sex or came very close. Maybe they simply simulated having sex. Take your pick. It was a crowd-pleasing show in any case.

The music ended and the couple bowed deeply as if they were in a Broadway play, then retreated through the French doors. “This is Mardi Gras,” I thought. The act was repeated on the half hour. I watched a few rounds.

Towards 4:00 AM the crowd slackened ever so slightly, and we made our way to a café, drank coffee, and ate a beignet. We made it back to the carrier around 5:30 AM and got two hours rack-time before heading home to Athens.

If you want a crazy spring break, Marti Gras in New Orleans is the place.  

Cabo Fish Taco in NODA

Cabo Fish Taco in NODA

This original painting will be part of the charity auction for La Escuelita School. The auction is part for the celebration on Friday, February 21st from 6 to 9 PM at Holy Comforter Episcopal Church. This is a mono-print with watercolor and color pencil, 8 x 10 inches at $190. NODA Yoga used to have classes on the 2nd floor. 

Learn more: holycomfortercharlotte.org/children-youth/la-escuelita

Ice Storm!

Ice Storm

by Wil Bosbyshell

We went to bed with snow falling outside. Our son, Allen, was five years old and loved playing in the snow. But he was asleep and had been asleep for hours.

I considered, for a nanosecond, waking him up. Nope. Never wake up a sleeping child.

I woke with a start and sat up in bed. “What woke me up,” I thought. The answer came in the sound of something hitting the outside of our house hard. The sound was coming from the other side of the wall behind our bed. As I jumped out of the bed, what sounded like a giant claw struck the house and slid down grinding and scraping.

I threw up the window blind. My backyard was bright, brilliant snow reflecting the moon light like a mirror. Everything glittered and glistened. “What the heck was going on,” I thought. The wind howled and I saw the honey locust tree next to our house hit the side of our house again. Squinting into the night, I saw something was wrong with the tree. It was white and shiny at the same time. I watched the top of the tree bend toward the ground. The branches of the tree clawed the side of the house again, but this time the tree didn't recover. The top of the tree kept moving down slowly instead of bouncing back to its normal height. Down and down until the trunk snapped with a crack, breaking in half. Shards of ice flew in all directions as the tree top collided with the ice-covered ground. It was 6:00 AM.

In the silence after the tree snapping, I heard a sound behind me. “Papa, did it snow,” Allen asked. He was an early riser like all kids. “It sure did, let's go outside and look,” I said. Allen turned running back into his room to get dressed. I did the same. My wife Maura slept through the whole thing.

I helped Allen into his winter boots, gloves, and hat. To put on a jacket, I sang a silly song based on DEVO’s Whip it, “When a jacket comes along, you must zip it. Let's explore the backyard first.” “OK, Papa.”

As we walked through the icy winter landscape, I realized what had happened. First it snowed about two inches and then the temperature rose above freezing, with the snow turning to sleet. The snow began to melt, it rained and then the temperature fell below freezing again. Now about 1/2 inch of ice coated the two inches of snow.

An ice storm!

The ice crunched under our feet as we broke through the top crust. The trees were surreal. A layer of ice coated every small branch and leaf. It looked heavy as everything drooped and bent, straining against the weight of the ice. It was now deadly calm and quiet. All sound except Allen’s muffled voice, “Papa, look the tree broke!” “Yes, it hit the house on the way down,” I added. “The ice killed the tree,” Allen summed up the situation. “Let's go play in the field and build a snowman.”

We crossed the street in front of our house slipping and sliding. We made snow angels and threw snowballs. We tried to make a snowman, and we succeeded in making a very small one. It was the wrong kind of snow for snowmen. Allen giggled with delight for no reason other than pure joy.

The snow began falling again in big flakes spiraling through the air. Allen whirled around and around with his arms outstretched, face turned up mouth open and tongue out laughing. He chased snowflakes catching them on his tongue lapping them up.

“Snowflakes are stars that fall from heaven onto your tongue,” he exclaimed. I laughed just watching his silly game. Kids are so fun. Snow brings out joy and the kid in us all.

Plus, as Allen knew, snow meant fun and adventure all day. No school for him, even though he loved it and no work for his parents. There was no such thing as working from home in those days. He would have our attention all day. Not to mention playing in the snow with all his neighborhood friends, Hadley Young and Sean McGillicuddy.

Our neighborhood had no power lines as they were all buried underground. But our neighborhood was an exception, all the neighborhoods around us had power lines stretched on poles.

“Allen, did you hear that explosion,” I asked. “Explosion!” “Yes,” listen.

In the distance I heard a bang. It was a muffled bang. But a bang, nonetheless. It was a particular kind of bang: the sound of an electric transformer exploding when the power cable running into it is violently pulled out. I unfortunately knew that sound too well.

He stopped in his tracks, nothing like an explosion to get a 5-year old's attention. A second explosion. Then in rapid succession 3, 4, 5 loud bangs. Some close and others farther away. The ice was too heavy for the tree limbs and power cables. They all started to break and fall. Suddenly there were about 15 minutes of steady explosions all around us.

“Papa is that dynamite,” Allen watched cartoons where dynamite was a common theme. “No, that is the sound of a blackout,” I said glancing back at the houses across the street. The porch lights were dark. Allen and I played in the snow for an hour or more. Kids ran out and joined us in the fun.

Allen got his adventure. Almost the entire city of Charlotte lost power in the ice storm. Charlotte’s mayor Pat McCory’s, house was dark for two weeks. We lost our power for four days. The junior college where I taught never lost power, so on the third day we spent the day in a classroom being warm. On the afternoon of the 4th day our friends the Halls joined us at Ed's Tavern with their daughter Madison.

Ed’s Tavern had regained power. The server came up to get our drink order. “Bring beer until the power comes back on at our house,” I laughed out my order. I was laughing but not joking. The temperature hovered in the high 20s, and our home was very cold. We had a gas fireplace and hot water heater, so we could take hot showers and warm the house a little. I began to understand how the pioneers in the 18th century felt. I understand the value of a bed warmer now.

We stayed at Ed's Tavern until the kids were exhausted. As we turned into our neighborhood the first house’s outside porch light shone like a beacon! “We have power,” Maura yelled. We cheered and clapped. The Hall’s had to wait one more day in the cold.

We all went to sleep. A warm bed never felt so good!