Category: default || By jt3y

In 1999 or 2000 (I don't remember which exactly, because the years are starting to run together ... another sign of old age) I took a road-trip with some friends to Manhattan. We had a grand total of seven hours to spend in the city. None of us had ever been there before. We had almost no money, so we planned to walk around, sight-seeing.

Manhattan being as large as it is (but flat and easily walkable), we got dropped off down by Greenwich Village and had to decide which way to walk ... up toward Rockefeller Center and Times Square? Or down toward the Battery and the World Trade Center?

We made a quick decision. In retrospect, I wish we had chosen differently, because seeing the Time-Life Building wasn't that much of a thrill.

That's something like what I've been feeling this week, and I'm ashamed of myself because of it. New Orleans has always been high on my list of places I'd like to see (others include London, Sydney, Chicago, Montreal and South Bend, Ind., the latter for reasons best left unexplained). Late at night, while I've been obsessively reading the news from the Gulf Coast, which has been equal parts heartbreaking, frustrating and inspiring, I keep hearing a little pouty 5-year-old version of myself whining, "What if New Orleans isn't there any more? Now I'll never get to see it!"

Never mind the fact that hundreds of thousands of people who live there may never get to see their homes or loved ones again; my subconscious is worried about future tourism possibilities. So I yell at the 5-year-old, and he goes off in some corner of my brain and sulks. (And probably crayons the inside of my skull.)

I'm also embarrassed to admit, but when I heard that thousands of people were missing and that the Ninth Ward of New Orleans was under water, my first thought was: Did Fats get out?

I know next to nothing about New Orleans, but I do know who lives (or lived) on St. Charles Avenue, in one of the city's poorest neighborhoods, in a pink and gold house. It's a man who I think clears his throat better than most people sing, 77-year-old Antoine "Fats" Domino.

So on Tuesday, I started running searches for "Fats Domino" on Google News. Nothing. Wednesday, nothing.

Well, that's good, I thought. He's still alive. Right?

And then on Thursday, reports began leaking out: "Fats Domino is missing." His daughter said her dad had decided to ride out the storm in his house on St. Charles, but that she hadn't heard from him since Monday. The water was up to the rooftops on St. Charles.

My stomach twisted up into a knot, and not for the first time since the hurricane hit Louisiana and Mississippi. While the destruction and loss of life in New Orleans was bad enough, it's hard for me to imagine. Fats dead? That I could understand, and it hit me hard. It was like an old family friend was gone.

There are a lot of reasons I like Fats, and it's not just because of his music. (Which, despite what the oldies radio stations seem to think, is more than "I'm Walkin'" and "Blueberry Hill," and includes a large body of work, no pun intended, like some beautiful ballads and wonderful rollicking blues tunes.)

I happen to think he's a good person; there's been not a whiff of scandal around him. The subject of his song "Rosemary," for instance, is Fats' wife. They've been married for five decades and have eight children together. And supposedly, he's been very generous over the years to the people who've worked with him. They, in turn, are very loyal to him. Call me naive, but I hope that's all true.

But stories about Fats are not easy to come by, because he's very private, and that's something else I frankly admire about him. And despite being fairly wealthy (especially by the standards of other '50s R&B artists) he still lives close to his roots, in a poor neighborhood. About his only concession to being famous has been the house painted in the wild 1950s hues, which is now apparently destroyed.

Supposedly, he's been very approachable to other people in the Ninth Ward (especially kids and aspiring musicians), and while he still plays concerts, he's not doing big "rock and roll reunion" concerts. He plays clubs and music festivals in New Orleans.

So when a friend asked me this week, "with all of his money and connections, why wouldn't he leave?" I said it was simple: If you know the legend of Fats, and the strength of his character, you'd know that he would stay with "his people," who didn't have the means to get out.

Then came the rumors on the Internet. A newspaper photographer had snapped a picture of someone in the Ninth Ward matching Fats' description being helped into a boat. And today: Exhausted and upset but safe, Fats, his wife, two daughters and a son-in-law indeed were rescued. They went to a shelter and are now staying with LSU's quarterback in Baton Rouge.

Is he worried about his house, with all of the music memorabilia?

Maybe. But that's not what he told the Washington Post. "I'm worried about all the people in New Orleans," Fats said. "Tell them I love them and I wish I was home with them. I hope we'll see them soon."

I almost cried. And I swear that's true. Except for the "almost" part.

Make no mistake about it, the news from New Orleans, Biloxi, Gulfport and other communities is still very bad, and there is a long way to go before the people who lived and worked there can put their lives back together.

Yet in some little way, the news that Fats is alive and well made me a little happier, and gave me a little hope that things are going to turn out OK.

...

P.S. I've added a link to the Salvation Army's donation page. The experts are saying that if you want to help, don't collect food or clothing, which are hard to distribute. Give a little bit of money, instead. The Sallie Ann and the Red Cross are two of the better agencies, in my personal experience, and if you're inclined to donate, I have no hesitation about recommending them.