What happens in New Orleans…

It was a helluva day in New Orleans, February 1971. I was 12, in 7th grade. I was wearing my favorite polyester navy and orange tunic and bell bottoms with fringed moccasins. My mother had just warned me against going near the Beatniks surrounding Jackson Square. They looked harmless. I wanted to feed the pigeons. Turns out my cousin Chappie, an amateur photographer and Vietnam vet, was lingering around the Gen. Jackson statue and snapped this shot before we knew he was even in town. I adored Chappie. Also, he had a bazooka in his bedroom, which was weird. Later that day, I spotted my French teacher from Birmingham playing hooky at a Mardi Gras party with a man who wasn’t her husband. She was really nice to me that whole year. Some days are just better. ☮️