Reminding me of a life I have all but gotten over - well...
Anyway, they asked me about Henry - a blind man I had worked
for and become friends with, just after Katrina.
So in honor of that email and the Katrina Anniversary
and my town of Austin, Texas I miss so dearly - I am reposting
this journal.
Austin, Texas
Wednesday, October 12th, 2005
12:55 am
"he can see me..."
It began as an errand ... a quick needed buck.
Drive to Houston, pick up two musicians, drive them back to Austin.
Easy.
I try my best to close my eyes tight and sleep soundly
straight through the morning.
It's 4am.
I knew I had to wake by 6am if I planned to meet the
10:47am flight from Chicago.
They were Leslie Sims and Joseph Carter.
Two displaced New Orleans musicians, now scattered about the
United States, making their way to Texas for a special DVD/CD
to benefit hurricane katrina victims.
After meeting Leslie at the airport ... by way of cell phone,
we tried for almost an hour to connect with the other musician,
Joseph - who now, after losing his entire home and life as he knew
it in New Orleans, is with his family starting over in the suburbs of Houston.
After what seemed like forever, and a drive past more neon fast food
signs and construction than I care to admit to the world, we found
each other.
We were on our way to my new home and for Leslie and Joseph, a short
pit stop in an already long, long journey toward the unknown.
After a brief stop for burgers, sodas and gum, I managed to lose myself
in thought, conversation and music and drive past the turn off from
Brenham to Austin and continue heading not toward Austin but North.
Fortunately, it only took a half an hour or so of realizing 36 was the
WRONG highway and managed to stumble rather quickly on a short cut to 21
and head toward Bastrop via Austin, on get right back on track.
We made it to the studio with a few minutes to spare.
By then, we had become familiar with one another and in the end,
me a bonified, informed and now completely overwhelmed NOLA
(New Orleans) cheerleader.
The studio was full with all the greats from NOLA.
Sitting on leather couches, with bottled water, hats pulled below
the eye brow, dark glasses worn without a hint of coolness.
Assistants and producers, a documentarian and an intern - all
with smiles, all in synch and all there for the same reason ...
to make music.
I was welcomed beyond what I could ever imagine and hours later,
found myself the driver picking up the late BarbQ dinner from Austin's
finest BarbQ, Artz Rib House.
I became familiar with cell phone rings for everyone and knew immediately
when I heard the Rolling Stones it meant Ivan Neville was being called.
And when it came time to lay down the hand clapping, Ivan talked me
into joining, only to jokingly convince me I was in better time than
him.
As the camera circled, I spent more and more time, staring at the
clapper next to me, praying I wouldn't be the one to lose the beat,
slam the last hand clap out of time.
I had to pinch myself, literally, over and over to see that I was not
only amongst the greatest in music but what I found quickly to be the
greatest spirits I have ever been lucky enough to find and to find me ...
It was a feeling similar only to my time with the Willie Nelson Family.
Pure, 100% uncomplicated, unpretentious love.
Henry wore dark black ray bans, much like the ones Ray Charles wore
and with a walking cane and more importantly, confidence, determination and
a smile, he filled the space bigger than anyone else within a mile radius.
His laugh was deep and when you felt it coming, it resonated in anyone
and everyone nearby ... in slow increments of one-one thousands, two-one
thousand...
He moved his hands in front of him and excused his way across the room.
"Chris, can I talk to you?"
"Of course!"
"Listen, I was wondering what you are up to this week. Do you have a
pretty flexible schedule?"
"Definitely ... what's up Henry?"
"I'd really love for you to be my assistant while I am here."
"I'd love to Henry!"
"How about we start tomorrow, Sunday?"
"Great, what time?"
"9:00?"
"OK."
So 9:00am Sunday at the Omni it was.
We started the morning with coffee and scones and I began by
answering email and typing FEMA documents.
I thought I would be okay. I thought, 'I'm working, this is work,
this is just something you have to do for Henry Chris ...'
But as time went on, and paperwork read, "total loss," "new start"
"FEMA," "insurance," "relocation" and "loans" I began a pattern
of coming and going little, secret cries.
Henry was strong and outspoken, handsome and sure of himself.
We spent the following days, with our coffee and uncommon lives,
me, typing away as Henry dictated letters, Henry.. pacing the hotel
floors with his triple espresso in a 16-ounce cup of dark roast,
giggling in between sentences.
And when it came time to run errands, Henry held my shoulder with
one hand and his cane in the other.
As the valet pulled up my Ford "Exploder," I laughed and told Henry
my car was really a limousine in disguise.
We talked about his 56 years, his new start away from
life in New Orleans search for a new state to call his home ...
his music and his luck (or lack thereof) with women.
We spoke in awe of our accidental happiness in stumbling upon
one another in such a great big world.
He tells me the universe brought me to him.
I have another secret cry.
I can't even see myself because the entire hotel room is still dark.
As if, someone was still sleeping the day away.
There is no need for Henry to open curtains and turn on lights
and for a moment, I too, forget and linger in total darkness.
There is a strange freedom in hanging out with someone you know
can't see the outside you. The dirty hair, ragged clothes and
now, new laugh lines that seemed to come from nowhere.
He says he can hear I am strong.
He tells me he can hear when I smile and when I frown.
He asks me if I am okay when I change positions in my seat.
He says my heart if full and lovely and not to change a thing.
An they keep telling me Henry is blind ... he can't see.
But I know the truth because he can see me.
