Vandelear, last month I
went to New Orleans for its 45th Annual Jazz and Heritage Festival.
It was the first time I’d gone back since you made your transition. At every
turn I remembered the first time we went with Sandy and Leslie for the 25th.
We rented a house in Gentilly, an African-American residential neighborhood. Sipped
the local beer, Black and Voodoo, in the backyard while lightening bugs flickered
the night we arrived. The next morning we headed for the Fairgrounds. Everything
we loved was inside—fantastic music, seven tents of it, a crafts market (where
we spent every dime we could afford on handmade goods), and booth after booth
of great New Orleans food. For four days we were on sensory overload. Sandy’s
homeboy, Richie Havens, performed and Aretha and the Neville Brothers closed
out the Fest. We all had a fabulous time but you and I were the ones who fell
in love with the Crescent City, started talking about moving there as soon as
we returned home.
This year I went with
Lita—my you, here in San Miguel. Physically you’re polar opposites; she’s white,
average height and way too thin. But you have the same essence, both over-the-top
women who live life, head-to-toe accessorized, at a full tilt. She’s vintage
rather than Afrocentric but you’re both clothes horses and several of her Art
Deco pins could easily have been in your jewelry box. Of course I thought of
you as Lita and I enjoyed JazzFest this May.
I carried you with me
when I left Lita and moved on to New York for ten days. I split my time there
between two friends I met through you, Paul, who you’ve known since college,
and Stephanie, your first tenant when you bought the house in Baltimore.
Paul and I walked down
memory lane every day. He looks great. The rest of us are expanding but he hasn’t
put on a pound. We spent lots of time reminiscing about the parties you and I
gave in my old brownstone—Thanksgiving dinners, summer bar-b-ques, and Paul’s fabulous
50th in the yard. That might have been our best. Formal dining
outside when the garden was at its peak; roses
and lilies in full-force bloom, a few pink and red peonies still on the
bushes. The food that day was perfection—your caviar drizzled deviled-eggs,
Martha’s recipe for salmon stuffed with oranges and leeks, the champagne floats
we served with the cake. I haven’t entertained like that since we stopped
giving parties together. Life’s changed now that you’re not in
Stephanie’s life has
changed too. Now that you’re gone, she doesn’t have a road dog in Baltimore
who’s as adventurous as you were. She’s spending more time in New York, hanging
with friends there and her old crew in New Jersey. We miss having your life
intermingled with ours.
Vandelear Walker you left a big hole.
