Christmas with the other king

Actually it was Christmas Eve with the other king - the King of Rock. At left is Christine (aka Santa) kissing the King at a souvenir shop near Graceland. We were hoping for a couple pair of the gold pants Elvis is wearing in toddler sizes for some little ones we know. Alas, even Graceland isn't that kitschy.
We went to Graceland on Christmas Eve. It was fun, though I can't really understand why it costs $30 to enter.
I have a new view of Elvis as a humble, charitable family man. Of course, the Graceland version of Elvis is very sanitized and one-sided, omitting the dark side of the Colonel (actually almost omitting the Colonel altogether) and the whole controversial racial aspect to Elvis' music.
Even so, Graceland is definitely worth the trip - if only to see his private jet, his costumes and to actually see a visual representation of his 150 gold, platinum or multiplatinum records.
Of course, there are several copies of each of these records, representing his mega-sales in every country of the world.
Below is one of the first gold records - from 1956, and one of his suits from the same era. There is also a huge converted squash court with roughly 20-foot ceilings that houses hundreds more gold records, awards and other honors.
Elvis and his parents are also buried at Graceland, a small graveyard that should be a solemn site of reverence, but I couldn't help thinking of "This is Spinal Tap," and the scene where they sing an off-key, off-tune "barbershop raga" version of "Heartbreak Hotel."
I tried to maintain a respectful composure, but was certainly laughing on the inside.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JMmdzLHkXjA

Blue and green history

Mississippi is the birthplace of blues music, Elvis Presley and Kermit the Frog. While we didn't visit Elvis' birthplace in Memphis, we made token homages for the other two.

We detoured off Highway 61 in Leland, Ms., where a real Kermit inspired Jim Henson to create Kermit the Frog. Henson was born in neighboring Greenville, and allegedly had a childhood friend in Leland named Kermit Scott. I'm not sure if buddy Kermit was too happy to see his lanky green namesake, but I'm sure he was proud once Kermie found worldwide fame and a place in the hearts of kids of all ages.
Christine was very excited about the Kermit museum even though we arrived long after closing time. I was glad we stopped, though, because the rest of the trip was all about the music, and I am prone to bore her — and everyone else we know — with my music geekiness.
She at least feigned interest in the rest of the trip — and I think she genuinely enjoyed it.
After a quick call to Christine's dad, we confirmed the Blues Highway starts in Clarksdale, alleged site of Robert Johnson's famed crossroads.
If you don't know what we're talking about, you're in good company. I stopped to ask three different people "Hey, where is the famed crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul?" My question was returned with increasing levels of confusion with each query. I thought I might by locked up if I asked another local about deals with the devil, so we decided to fall back on our own music resources — and their Internet access.
The Internet doesn't offer much conclusive information about such a key piece of music history, so let me try to explain.
If you take Highway 61 through Clarksdale and exit at Highway 49, you will be about a quarter mile from what is believed to be the crossroads where Johnson traded his soul for his legendary blues guitar chops. The pictured landmark marks the spot, along with the Crossroads barbeque and furniture businesses.
Next stop: Graceland.

A break from building

For the past four days, Christine and I took our first extended break from construction since arriving in October. We had five days off from St Bernard Project work and decided to take a Christmas trip. We went on a historical and musical journey through Louisiana, Mississippi and Tennessee that included ancient burial mounds, fried pickles, the first Coke bottler and Elvis Presley's grave.
Our destination for Christmas was Graceland, but we turned a six-hour drive on the Interstate into a two-day journey up old U.S. Highway 61 (yes, fellow Dylan geeks, that Highway 61). Our trip up 61 actually started with a wonderful and educational
detour up the Natchez Trace highway. The road is a meticulously maintained 450-mile two-laner operated by the National Parks Service that follows an old Indian trading route and includes detailed historic information.
Along the road, we hiked very short sections of the actual trail, including this sunken portion pictured at left.
After hundreds of years of Indians, traders horseback postal carriers, soldiers and thieves traveling the trail, parts of the original route are deeply eroded, making a man-made channel through the forest.
Today, the Natchez Trace has a speed limit of 45 miles per hour and regular stops for historic markers, making it a really slow alternative to interstate highway travel from south Mississippi to Nashville, Tenn.
However, back in the day, it was the speediest route available. It allowed a journey of months to be compressed to just weeks at best — if travelers weren't beset by rogues and thieves, disease, mosquitoes, oppressive heat and more.
Historians have also restored some of the old inns and trading posts along the route, and uncovered ancient temple mounds.
At left is me being a huge dork and pointing at the mound behind me. The large hill is actually a man-made mound of dirt that is just the largest part of an eight-acre ceremonial structure built and used by the Mississippians from 1300 to 1600.

The next picture shows Mount Locust, a former Plantation House and travelers' inn that was built in 1780 and is among the oldest structures in Mississippi.
There is also a slave cemetery and a more respectful, ornate cemetery for the slaveholding family.
In the New West, slavery is largely an abstract part of history from another part of the country, but it's much more immediate and real here. Seeing the ancient burial mound and the much younger plantation home puts a new perspective on history. It really wasn't very long ago that slavery was legal - and a defining part of the economy of this entire region.
Which brings me to our next stop — a rushed tour through the Vicksburg National Military Park.
Of course, slavery ended after the Civil War (though my high school history teacher burned into my brain the prevailing argument that the war was really about states' rights, not slavery) and Vicksburg was a decisive battle in the Civil War.
The cemetery at left is the final resting place for 17,000 Union soldiers — the vast majority unidentified.
The campaign for Vicksburg is a fascinating piece of military history, and the park reflects the permanent marks the battle left on the landscape (including the deep trenches for each side that remain as lasting valleys through the otherwise fairly flat landscape. Sadly, after a long day of other historic travels, we didn't allow ourselves nearly enough time in the park, and it closed before we even journeyed halfway along the 16-mile route.
This is Part 1 of our Christmas trip. More will follow.

Hookfin's Heroes

So it's been a few weeks since I wrote about the New York construction union crew who drywalled some lovely rooms. Well, since then the Hookfin house has been plugging along nicely.
The home is owned by Mary Hookfin, a longtime Parish resident who had the opportunity to buy the place and give each of her three children their own bedroom for the first time. I look forward to getting to know her better now that she is done with her crazy weeks of 12-hour retail shifts leading up to the Christmas shopping rush.
Several great groups of volunteers have been working on the house for the past few weeks. I am particularly fond of the University of Kansas crew pictured at left (including one token guest from Ohio who carpooled with them and was an honorary Pharm school kid). They built an amazing fortress door to protect the back of the house until we get our back-ordered French doors.
The really exciting thing about managing these volunteer crews is watching people push themselves and get jazzed about learning new skills. These guys were all great about learning mudding, and they all got pretty good at it by week's end.

I also gave them a challenge, which they more than met. I had two pieces of plywood I nailed into the drywall each night, but that just didn't cut it. I asked the crew to make some kind of replacement, and they engineered this magnificent piece of medieval defense weaponry - complete with handles. See, this door that Abby and Danny are showing off fits perfectly in the space left for the French doors, and it has turning locks that fit between the brick and the drywall. And it even has handles for carrying. Just looking at it gives me the same rush as hitting a newspaper deadline did in my former life.
Go kids.

Home for the Holidays

Rebuilding houses for people who have spent the last 2 and a half years squeezing their very large hearts into very small spaces has given me a new appreciation for the value and power of four walls and a roof. I have never felt especially compelled to give up the no-strings-attached life of a renter. It is a lifestyle that, among other things, allowed us to make the journey here. I am beginning to understand, however, the beauty of a home that is completely your own. Here, of course, the homes belong completely to others, but I must confess to becoming a little attached (possessive?) as I hang drywall, mud seams or install trim around doors and under windowsills.

Being "home for the holidays" has also taken on new meaning here. St. Bernard Parish is full of people who have been celebrating Christmas in trailers for two years. Last weekend we joyfully celebrated the end of all that with one family. Steve and I had both done some finishing work in the home of a single mother, and on Saturday, when we showed up with several other long-term volunteers to take care of a few last-minute issues, she asked us to help her decorate the tree she had just hauled into the living room. It was the first thing that came into the house - before dishes, before curtains, before furniture. Several months ago, when she told him that St. Bernard was going to be able to help rebuild their home, her ten-year-old son's first question was, "Does that mean we get to have a Christmas tree in our own living room?" Last week, we hung ornaments on that tree, and watched a ten-year-old stretching from the top of one of our construction ladders to place the angel on top.

So a couple of you have asked for photos. I don't know if you don't have the attention span for chapter books or if you don't believe we are really working, but here is a photo. Sadly it is the only image of either of us on the worksite. It's Christine using a circular saw to put down subfloor in the first house she worked on. It seems so quaint and long ago now.
We'll have to post more soon. Thanks for reading.

You can send money too

I should add that even if you have neither the money nor the star power of Brad and Angelina, you can also give to the St. Bernard Project.
Details on giving at stbernardproject.org.
I know a lot of people are looking for places to send year-end contribution. It's hard to find a place where your money will be better spent. The organization has basically no overhead. Your contributions simply buy materials that volunteers use to rebuild houses for people who couldn't otherwise afford it. Most of the people struggled and did the right thing, scraping together enough money to buy a house, only to see it washed away.

Brad and Angelina just want to be Steve and Christine

Three pieces of evidence that Brangelina just wants to be Stistine (OK, our names don't go together as well, but you get the point).
1. Christine went to Africa for a year before they started adopting babies and throwing gobs of money and publicity at the continent.
2. I moved to Manhattan in 1997, briefly before Brad started shooting a movie there. He followed me there to film "Meet Joe Black" (I think).
3. Now they have followed us to New Orleans. We apparently almost maybe sort of could have seen them this weekend. We unwittingly strolled by their house (maybe). A young lady in the French Quarter was all giddy about finding their house - on the street we were wandering.
Anyhow, any way the recovery of St. Bernard Parish and the Lower 9th Ward can get publicity works for me. Go Brangelina. Although with the amount of money and publicity going to the cause, maybe he'll have a little left over for the St. Bernard Project.
Brangelina, if you happen to surf the blogosphere for really obscure blogs about you, stop by and see us at the St. Bernard Project. We have free chocolate (today we did anyway - I think it will be gone by tomorrow). Details at www.stbernardproject.org.
By the way, thanks Kevin for planting the idea.

Git ‘er done

I learned an important lesson in volunteer management and construction supervision today. A crew of guys who “build skyscrapers in record time” in New York City for a living don’t need a lot of instruction, handholding or direction when they are rebuilding fairly simple homes in St. Bernard Parish.
They make sexist jokes, drop the f-bomb more than anyone except (as I learned last week) New Orleans electricians and bicker about who can tell who what to do and when, but they get the work done — well. It was supposed to be my first day as a site supervisor, but I became an errand boy for a group of union construction guys from New York today — part of HEART 9-11, a great new organization of people affected by the Sept. 11 attacks who are now reaching out to residents in other areas impacted by tragedies.
Fifty members of the organization are here for a week working on the homes. Most of them are first responders and family members, but I am working with seven union construction workers – all great guys and great workers. They just don’t really work by the same rules as the St. Bernard Project. The beauty of the small non-profit, though, is that its rules really are made to be broken.

Priorities, Paslodes and (Internet Service) Providers

We’re back. Actually, we came back last Friday, as you can read below. Before that, we essentially had not been on the Internet for about a month. We finally realized we cannot function (actually, we were doing fine, but I can't blog or write freelance articles) without Internet access, so we signed up here in our apartment. I’m very excited to be able to research and keep in touch with people. However, I also didn’t really miss it while I was offline. Temporarily, our No. 1 priority is to work with the people of St. Bernard Parish, the victims of this largely manmade disaster, to get them out of trailers, friend’s basements, uncle’s couches and other undesirable situations and back into their homes.
Logging on to Pitchforkmedia.com to see what the tastemakers think of the latest trendy post-rock band takes a backseat, as does celebrity gossip, box office numbers and even “The Office.” (If you’re reading this, you know me and know sports wasn’t ever even in the backseat. I left any interest in sports on the curb after a very lackluster little league career).
On the other hand, we have learned lots of new skills to the aforementioned end of getting people back in their homes. The Paslode made for dorky alliteration here, but it’s also the brand name for a really cool nail gun we use for doors and baseboards. There has been much debate about the health effects, smell and general enjoyment of the gas emitted by the air-powered nail gun. For the record, I enjoy the smell but understand why it bothers others.
It is nice to develop moderate skills in some aspect of this construction work. We spent a few days doing baseboards last week, and I feel as though I learned new skills and became more precise in my baseboarding angles and corners (though I could still work on my Paslode skills).