All photos courtesy Colleen Duvall
Revisiting a city from one's past can be both enlightening and nostalgic. Especially if that city happens to have recovered from a devastating hurricane some 10 years prior. I remember falling in love with the city of New Orleans when I visited it for the first time in March of 2004. At the time I was in a failing marriage and it was a last-ditch effort. These were some of my impressions that I had journaled about then:
In the French Quarter, there are wrought iron laced verandahs everywhere. They make you almost expect to see painted ladies of long ago leaning out on them, luring the boisterous drinking men on the streets –now giving way during the party season to bare-breasted young coeds who’d do it for nothing at all. The city has something tawdry and seedy about it in an orphan appealing sort of way, not unlike Hollywood Boulevard in L.A. But it is more secretive, and the hint of more stories to tell lurk in the shadow of an alleyway.
One night at a blues club when I’m using the ladies room, I meet a woman who claims to be from North Carolina, "near a river somewhere."
“Sorry- I’m so drunk off my ass right now,” she explains. I ponder that I may have been familiar with that particular river before.
Afternoons are spent reading on the porch in bright sunshine. The breezes here are gentle and tempestuous; the sights and sounds are seductive, lazy and sensual. The people seem earthy and not afraid to get dirty. On our trolley car on the way back, to my delight, I notice a dixieland band playing, “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and locals and visitors alike are prompted to dance in the streets. I longingly wish to join them...
And so I did, these many moons later. Any notions of the city not rebounding after the devastation are quickly dispelled as a I look around. Now with AJ Page at my side, and rooming in a fixed-up shotgun house in the Irish Channel neighborhood near Magazine Street, we see signs of construction, but nothing looks beyond repair. When we ride the trolley together it is pleasantly packed and rattles along on its way to the French Quarter. There are more shades of a modern Las Vegas here now – more proprietors of more strip clubs out peddling on their front doorstops, attempting to lure us in. Knowing better, we walk on smiling, to the quieter, less touristy end of Bourbon Street. There are ghostly places here with more history: Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop Bar (1722), one of the oldest in the country. There is the infamous Madame LaLaurie's house of horrors, where Season 3 of American Horror was based. I wolf down a fried shrimp po'boy from Verti Marte on the corner, and I feel like I died and went to heaven. After the purple Voodoo Daiquiris at Lafitte's, it hits the spot. Around the way is the decidedly mellow Frenchman Street, featuring live jazz and blues, at venues such as The Spotted Cat. Back over on Toulouse, The Dungeon Club still stands in all its dim, red lighted goth glory, but now there is a cover charge to venture to the upstairs bars, and the mysterious bathrooms behind hidden "library" walls are long gone. That was one of the only specific places I wished to return to for a second time, and I was still glad that I did.
On our road trip, we travelled through Rockford, IL, De Soto, MO, and Memphis, TN. On our last day, we were itching for one last fall hike once we were back in Wisconsin. There had been rain to contend with on the return route, and I was itching to escape the confines of the car and stretch my legs. We were keeping our eyes out for a pumpkin patch, as I had not yet nabbed some of the farm fresh goodies for Halloween carving.
We stumbled across the Carver-Roehl County Park in Clinton. Carver-Roehl is about 14 miles east of Janesville. Although we arrived mid-week, I was under the impression it was an underutilized little treasure in its community. Of course, that could have been the chilly and overcast fall weather, as well. According to the park brochure, it covers 53-acres and is the second oldest park in Rock County. There are even two lonely historic gravestones on the scenic trail. These belonged to a mother and son, dating back to 1843. Scenic it is, complete with the Spring Brook Creek, limestone walls, and plenty of pine trees and plant life. Looping back on the 1.5 mile intermediate trail, we opt for the path along a nearby farm field, where several free range fuzzy black cows roam and graze amidst the trees. AJ "moos" at them, and one youngster then "moos" repeatedly in alarm to mom. I nudge AJ and we move on.
This put things in perspective. We have visited parks in other states, but none so far have compared to the natural beauty to be found preserved right here at home. The south has its wonderful hospitality and laid-back attitude. Here in Wisconsin our woods are like an old friend – loyal, steadfast and true. They are always waiting, every season of the year to lose yourself in.
Visit www.co.rock.wi.us
