Family Ties – Mary Ann Fitzmorris

At the parade the other night, I heard a teenage girl say into her cell phone, “Yes, Mother, I remember. If I hear a shot, I’m supposed to drop to the ground, right?” She rolled her eyes to her friend.

I chuckled, because I told my children the very same thing as we left for the parade. It’s the 21st century version of “Stop, Drop, and Roll.”

What a pity. The bands marched very lively down the street, putting heart and soul into every note of their music. It would have been a shame had people been too afraid to go out to see them.

We have been to parades in Covington when the kids were little. It was age appropriate. Then we graduated to the safer but way tackier Jefferson Parish parades.

But New Orleans is the Real Mardi Gras. I thought as I stood there how privileged we are to have such a spectacle right here. Free!

Mardi Gras plans have become far more complicated for our family than the days when we watched the wagon parade in Covington.

My son has reached what his father has dubbed Phase Two of Mardi Gras: teens hanging out with friends at parades. Naturally, they were doing this someplace other than where I had planned to see the parade. Fortunately, it wasn’t too far away.

I had to let him go by himself to meet the group. Having a cell phone on him gives me a false sense of security. If he’s being kidnapped or shot, I can’t help him, but at least I’ll know it!

He left us as soon as a large herd of people wandered by going in the right direction. He blended in.

My daughter and I stayed for most of the fun, but soon we were ready to go.

We walked to the car, collected the parking ticket from the windshield, and drove to meet my son.

Naturally, he wasn’t ready to leave. He was standing in a group on the parade route much closer to where the shootings occurred. Parking in that area to wait for him made me a little uneasy.

We girls would not have been interested in allowing him to conclude his revelry for very long had we not discovered our own bizarre form of entertainment.

There was a parking place right off the parade route on a side street, only about fifty yards from the main boulevard. We parked about a foot away from an enormous oak tree. Or it might have been a port-o-let disguised as a gigantic oak tree for all the action it saw.

We didn’t mean to see anything, and were quite shocked the first time it happened. Fortunately our windows were tinted, but anyone looking carefully could have seen me in the front seat. I didn’t breath any time the big tree had a visitor.

For some reason, my daughter and I found these trips to the tree howlingly funny. I was hoping that the customers couldn’t hear us snickering from inside the vehicle.

This tree got hit so many times we girls made a contest of guessing who would be visiting next. It was quite distinctive. Guys who were walking quickly never stopped at the tree.

But we could tell almost immediately as they started down the street which men would be stopping by. They left the boulevard slowly, eyes darting in all directions. There was no doubt about them. A few were quite brazen about their plans, unzipping as they walked.

We didn’t actually look at these guys as they relieved themselves. After all, they should be given every privacy peeing at a tree affords. The game for us was in guessing which ones would be visiting the tree.

And there were some scientific discoveries in watching these test subjects.

We noticed that the ones that stayed the longest at the tree always carried the biggest beers. Was there a connection? Inquiring minds wanted to know.

We passed the time quickly with this twisted game. Soon the parade was over. My son called to say he was making his way to the car. I pulled out and met him. I didn’t want him walking anywhere near that poor tree.