[Recovery Pen has been a column about New Orleans life, from the vantage point of a transplanted northerner with a soft heart and an eye for detail.]

When I was a kid, my mom tried to cheer me up at the end of a fun weekend or family vacation with this old saying: all good things must come to an end. It wasn't much comfort then, and it's not much comfort now. "But why?" I'd ask her. "Why do good things have to end?"

She didn't have an answer for me, and I don't have an answer for you. My fellow bloggers have already said their goodbyes, and now it's my turn. As you've heard, our blog has been cancelled, obviously not because of our writing quality, but because our parent company wants to go in other directions. Bloggingneworleans, and its short-lived predecessor bloggingohio, were to be the vanguard of location-specific sites across the AOL network. But when Bloggingla and bloggingbrooklyn never manifested themselves, well, it didn't come as much of a surprise when we heard they were pulling the plug on us.

Personally, I can say that I received the news with a mixture of sadness and relief. Unlike my fellow bloggers, who plan to set up camp in new spots in the blogosphere, I am looking forward to the old-fashioned pursuit of writing a novel. It's something that I couldn't balance with my full-time job, healthy social life, activist pursuits, and weekly blog, but now I can fit it in. And I'm so grateful for this site which has forced me to sit my butt down and write on a semi-regular basis. Having this practice will help my novelist pursuits immensely.

And yet, and yet... As we recently passed the two-year Katrina anniversary, it saddened me to realize that the city still needs a Recovery Pen, because we're still recovering. And maybe we always will be, the way alcoholics call themselves "recovering" for years after they put down the bottle.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans , as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

U is for Under

When considering the letter "U," this preposition popped into mind first, although after yesterday's weather, I could have easily gone with "umbrella." Yet I feel like "under" says pretty much all you need to know about New Orleans, America's underdog, the steamy underbelly of our Puritan Union. It's also one of the few places - outside of San Francisco - where you can go out wearing your underwear and people don't even blink. Although I prefer a robe.

V is for Vampire

Although tourists flock to New Orleans to tour vampire author Anne Rice's house, hoping to come across a vampire in the evening shadows, they'd find more bloodsuckers out at our construction sites. Ask anyone who's had work done on their home - including our own Kelly Leahy - and you'll get an earful about dishonest contractors who either bled them dry or sucked the life out of them with postponements and switchbacks until the homeowner finally ended up in the fetal position. Now I know there are some good, honest contractors out there - and really, the three of you should form a club.

On the subject of vampires, I could go into detail about some of the gentlemen who have taught me valuable lessons during my time in New Orleans, but this isn't that kind of blog. Besides, you boys know who you are.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

S is for Savoring

It's no coincidence that I've learned how to meditate while living in New Orleans. Nor is it a coincidence that I've learned about the Slow Food movement and taken up gardening. If my northern family thought I was slow before, they think I'm downright sluggish now, after ten years of New Orleans life. And that's fine with me: living slowly allows me to contentedly follow my own muse, and screw the rest.

People ask how we can deal with the heat down here, and it's simple (but not always easy): slow down. Don't run anywhere; take your time and just relax. Sit and have some water. Take a nap. Watch the sunset. Savor your life before it passes you by.

T is for Traditions

Because we take life so slow around here, we make the time to hold onto our dear traditions. From red beans on Monday to grillades on Sunday, our heritage finds its way into our daily lives. If you take the streetcar downtown, or go to the racetrack on Thanksgiving, or eat king cake on Twelfth Night, or fix black-eyed peas and cabbage for the new year, or go to Galatoire's every Friday, or drive in the Mardi Gras truck parade, or start Jazzfest in the Gospel tent, you know what I mean.

I could go on and on with these standard traditions, but there are plenty of good ones dreamed up by our creative population. Grilling out on the neutral ground for Lundi Gras. Making waffles for brunch on Super Sunday. Spending Halloween in the graveyard. Rereading Gone With the Wind to cope with an Ash Wednesday hangover.

If you've got a juicy tradition to share, please leave a comment - you know we New Orleanians are always hungry for new ways to pass a good time!

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

This was a hard lesson to swallow. Let me tell you this: when you grow up surrounded by people with your own skin color, it's easy to pretend that you're not a racist. So easy to love people from afar, when you've never met any of them. You think you love these people, but you're actually in love with the idea of them.

New Orleans can be a training ground for racism. Here in the Deep South, people don't swallow their feelings like my northern cohorts. Since I've moved here, I've heard plenty of nastiness, and had my own nasty thoughts. When I've had stuff stolen. When I've had to wait at a slow register. Or when I've heard someone screaming at her kids. I've thought things that completely shocked the good person I considered myself to be.

It's hard, because racism can become a self-fulfilling prophecy: you think I'm lazy and violent? I'll show you lazy and violent! You think I'm timid and submissive? Okay, I'll be timid and submissive. It's a crucial, sad truth of human nature: people tend to live up to what's expected of them. So if we want change, we have to expect change, and we start with our own selves.

Today I can be honest with myself when I have racist thoughts, and I call myself on it much more quickly. Not only have I grown comfortable living among people of colors, but I've felt a change: when I go back north to the white suburbs, I become a little nervous. Where's the color? I ask myself, scanning the pale crowd. Where is everybody? And as I wonder what this change is about, I consider that it could be reverse racism, or it could just be that I'm missing the good folks from home.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

I propose a toast to New Orleans, where every man is king, and every woman - and some of the men - a queen!

Cheers!

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

I dare say that all Americans have some experience with parades, from big-city St. Paddy's Day extravaganzas down to small-town kiddies riding their streamer-festooned bikes on country roads to celebrate America's independence. Myself, I'd thought that my participation in a ticker-tape parade celebrating the troops home from Iraq back in '92, in a marching band on the streets of downtown Chicago, was the pinnacle of my parading life.

Oh, how wrong I was. I moved to New Orleans, where parades roll at night. And it makes a difference to see a parade after the sun's gone down, when the floats rise up out of the evening shadows and the flambeaux carriers' faces shine under the light of their torches. We spend a full year crafting our floats by hand, and then light them up with thousands of tiny bulbs. When they finally appear on the streets, against a backdrop of screaming crowds and marching band music, it's no wonder that people fight over beads - they want to bring a tiny bit of this magic home with them.

And if you get sick of the big parades, Fat Tuesday spawns hundreds of tiny ones, troupes of friends where the locals become the floats, painting and feathering themselves into the most amazing creations this side of Rio.

It's your choice, darlin': you can come to New Orleans to watch the parades, or you can come down to be the parade.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

N is for Neutral Ground

Wouldn't it be great if there was a world's neutral ground? People from all nations could go there to catch beads at Mardi Gras parades, have Sunday afternoon cookouts, and park their cars when the rain falls a little too hard. While the world's powers continue their endless warring, us regular folks could gather on the streetcar tracks and make fair-trade deals: one can of High Life for a Popeye's chicken breast. No glass allowed, friends, it's safety first out here.

How great would it be to see kids from all cultures fighting over a plush football tossed from a float? To sing drinking songs in every language? To hang out in a place where traffic's permanently stopped so that people can sit in their lawnchairs and shoot the shit?

This is my dream, dear readers, and it may never come true. Fortunately for us here in New Orleans, there's always a neutral ground, no matter how many battles life throws our way.

O is for Okra

I'd never given much thought to this hardly little vegetable until my neighbors planted it in spades this past spring. From its lowly spot on the table - rarely seen in its pure state, but hidden in gumbo or fried beyond recognition - I never would have imagined that it came from a plant that towers above my head and blooms such exquisite flowers.

If you only knew okra from its restaurant incarnations, you'd never guess that it grows so fast that if you don't pick daily, those stinkers will end up as long as your forearm. Sadly, they're too tough to eat at that length, but their long, tapered shape remind me of witch's fingers. And voila: another Halloween costume is born. This year, keep on the lookout for the lady wearing a dried-okra skirt!

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

Magic: such a hard thing to explain, and yet, when it's there, it's so clearly there. I'm not just talking about rabbits disappearing into hats, of course, but the sort of magic that keeps us devoted to our sad city. Some magic can be understood logically, such as the dazzling musician who awes us on the piano: it's magic borne of hours and hours of practice. The magic of having so many selfless people come from distant places just to help us rebuild: solid evidence that humans are essentially good and kind.

The best magic, though, has no explanation. When lovers meet by chance, or when opportunity knocks at just the right moment. A friend just told me a story about a coworker who was stuck in OPP during Katrina. When he finally got out, he had $7 in his pocket and didn't know what to do. He went in to Harrah's and won $600 - a start at a new life.

Myself, I'll never forget the day, not long after I moved here, that I was sobbing in the shower, feeling low, low. So low that I finally asked a God that I didn't believe in for a sign. Before I could change out of my towel, I began to hear music. As I got dressed, the music got louder - drums thumping, trumpet blasting. I got to my front window in time to see the second line make its way down my little side street. It wasn't a huge parade by any means - only about twenty folks decked out, umbrellas twirling, leaping and dancing in the afternoon sun. But it was big enough to make me believe that Someone had been listening to me. And even though I came to understand that New Orleans second-lines are as commonplace as crooked politicians, that street music still means magic to me.

Local literary lion Joshua Clark, publisher of French Quarter Fiction and author of recently released Heart Like Water, emailed Yours Truly and asked if I'd put up a link to his website http://www.hurricanekatrinanews.org So I went to check it out, and its motto of "everything you need and need to know is right here" seems pretty apt. At least, it's got everything you need and need to know about Katrina and New Orleans' recovery from it.

The site opens with "The Latest News," linking to numerous articles, including the infamous August 2007 National Geographic article which I hear - haven't read it as I've got enough depression in my life - pretty much states that New Orleans is a big waste in a dirty bowl and we should all move to Kansas. Or at least, that's how my sources have summed it up for me. But note: when I tried the link to the NG article on Clark's site, it came up as "File Not Found." Is my computer screening content for me? Keeping me from ugly depictions of our wonderful city?

At any rate, if you're under the age of two or have been under a rock for the last 24 months, the site also has basic Katrina information, such as the storm's path and timeline. This is also good for all you stoners out there, who've self-medicated so much since The Event that you might need a refresher on what the hell happened.

There's a bunch of other useful stuff on there, too, such as emergency phone numbers and links to resources, charities, and info. about our vanishing wetlands. The site's most intriguing section carries the title "Lessons Learned," which I doubt can be summed up with a few weblinks, but it's a good start.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

"New Orleans: Third World And Proud Of It!" states the popular bumper sticker. And it doesn't take long for the new resident to realize that this statement declares two uncomfortable truths. The first: New Orleans is Third Word in so many ways, not the least of which is the amount of litter that tosses about our streets, parks, and vacant lots. Chris Rose, Times-Picayune columnist, loves bitching about our litter, to the point where I expect he'll eventually suffer from a litter-related gunshot wound.

And the second truth: people here are proud of being slobs. Really! In truth, we're not a third-world country, because we actually have regular sanitation services. Granted, right after the storm, we had to fight to get these services back, but they're here to stay (knock wood.) Because we have regular trash pickup, there's no excuse to throw your bullshit on the street. Put it in a can, or -gasp!- carry it with you. Keep it in your damn car. But people don't do that because they're too proud. The city looks like hell, but their hands are sparkly clean and you can eat off their car seats.

Does anyone else remember the absurd variant on the sign at right? Last summer, when they posted signs with a $1000 fine for littering? Now, the city can't deal with its murderers - how are they going to keep on the litterers? And if someone's low-class enough to litter, you really think they're going to pony up $1000 for a littering fine?

[Recovery Pen started as a response to the post-Katrina wreckage: physical, emotional, and societal. Unfortunately, its author still finds plenty to write about, two years later.]

Let's face it: we're all sick of Katrina. Maybe the news media is excited to have a pre-made story as August 29 roars down upon us, but the rest of us would rather be rid of the whole damned mess. Still, it's impossible not to think about, as impossible to ignore as the elephant standing on your foot.

This week, my fellow bloggers will be posting Katrina remembrances and photos, and I will continue on with my NOLA Alphabet as a way to commemorate what I've learned from this great city, before and after the storm. Yet I wanted to dedicate today's column to Katrina's children, who've had to survive the powerlessness of this trauma with the added powerlessness of being a child Adults can decide whether or not to leave the city as a killer storm approaches. But what about the children without a choice, the ones whose parents or guardians didn't have the sense or the money to evacuate? What would it be like living through such a storm as a child? Or as an infant, so sensitive and completely unable to make sense of the experience, likened to having a freight train running over the house, for hours on end.

And then, what about the aftermath? What would it be like to wade through filthy flood water, which goes a lot higher on a small body? And having your home - the center of your tiny universe - swallowed by water, your few toys ruined? What would it be like to leave all your friends, and maybe even lose your very best friend, your pet? To watch your relatives drown while you wait for rescue?

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

K is for Krewe

Before I moved to New Orleans, I thought of a crew simply as a bunch of people who work together, or perhaps an adjective to describe a square haircut. As I went through my first Mardi Gras, I then thought of a Krewe as an exclusive group of people who spend gobs of money to have a parade. Each Krewe has numerous royalty and dozens of members, all able to put up the cash to buy enough beads to shower upon the masses.

The more I learned about Mardi Gras, the more my definition of Krewe expanded. There are krewes for anyone, and most krewes don't care who you are, barring the Krewe of Comus, who opted to stop parading instead of opening admission to blacks. This means that a WASP like me can join the Krewe du Jieux, white folks can become Zulus, and cats can join the dogs' Krewe of Barkus (although few do.)

The Krewe du Vieux parade gathers numerous smaller krewes with names such as Krewe of CHAOS, Krewe of Underwear, and Krewe of Space-Age Love into one parade to kick off the season with satire. And on Fat Tuesday, these smaller krewes, along with other impromtu krewes made up of fun-loving locals take to the streets - the krewe du poux, the krewe of kosmic debris, krewe du st. anne, and on and on. In the end, all you need for a krewe is a group of friends in costume that want to parade around the city with flasks in hand, dancing to portable instruments of tambourine and kazoo.

This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

J is for Jasmine

Here's to the scent that aroused a musical revolution, waftting out from behind the ears and knees of the night-women. Was it this flower's perfume, so associated with dingy rooms where holy prostitutes made their living and where musicians birthed the sound called jazz, that inspired the name of this rebellious, heathen music? No one knows for sure.

But I can tell you true that in the deep spring of New Orleans, this flower releases her spicy-sweet smell to float across both courtyard gardens and junk-strewn streets. She'll grow in the most exclusive collections and cover rusty chain-link with her dainty white flowers and deep green leaves. Iin the summer, her sister takes over, with her evening blooms and her sticky-sweet fragrance scenting the humid night air. Her presence defines the decadence of this city, a land covered in flowers and perpetually drunk on the smell of sweet love-sweat and the dance of improvised music.

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

I is for Island

Okay, so we're not technically an island, although we're not really mainland either. Barely tethered by swamp, ready to float off into the Gulf, we could so easily break away and become our own nation-state.

I know I'm not the only one to think about seceding from the Union; we could rebuild with our port royalties and give Uncle Sam the finger. Don't tell me you haven't considered it...

Besides, if you only read the Times-Picayune, you could easily believe that we're the only place on earth, at least the only place worth reading about. Face it - most of the news we get about the rest of the country either involves the volunteers they send our way, or the inconceivable notion that they might have a touch of Katrina fatigue. Now I love New Orleans as much as anyone, but I've seen the rest of the country, and believe it or not, they've got interesting people and unique customs of their own. Of course, nowhere else is as special as we are, but sometimes I get curious: what's happening in the other 49 states today? And I've even heard rumors that outside the island, there are even entire countries that manage to exist independently of New Orleans. Shocking, but true!

[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans , as well as the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.]

H is for Hello!

Even though my fellow Midwesterners can be quite friendly, they're no match for New Orleanians at large. This is a city where you are encouraged, nay, required to say hello to everyone you pass.

My first summer here, I found myself walking down the sidewalk in a heat-induced funk. I passed a homeless man, seated against a building, bottle in hand. Too grumpy to say anything, I tried to pass him in silence. But he interrupted me: "You could at least say hello," he sneered, obviously upset. Put off by his attitude, I ignored him and kept walking. But he taught me an important lesson: being friendly isn't just a kind-hearted gesture, but an important way to stay safe in this strange city. It's the opposite of northern cities like Chicago and New York , where human connection implies weakness: if you don't want to get mugged, I suggest making eye contact with strangers and shouting a confident "hello" as you pass by. With one happy little word, you're expressing fearlessness, spreading goodwill, and creating to the feeling of community that makes our city such a fun place to live.

While you're at it, take a moment to stop and chat with your neighbors. Even if they're funny looking or smell funny, they're probably good people with entertaining stories or a pot of red beans on the stove. And you'll never get to taste real local food if you don't introduce yourself to real locals.