Published: January 08, 2007 10:11 am      

Out of the ruins

Home for Christmas

Christmas 2006 represented a dream come true for me; I finally got to spend the holiday with the woman I love.

Yes, I’m female, so this may seem a little strange. But if you could see her, you’d love her too. Her timeless beauty and grace are unsurpassed; her elegant manner and kindness are known the world over. Like so many ladies of a certain age, she’s seen her share of tragedy, yet continues to hold her head high, welcoming guests with enormous platters of delicious food and warm, soft embraces.

The woman is New Orleans and she is my home.

The tradition in my family has long been to spend Christmas with my parents in Palm Coast, Florida. My brother Richard Barron and I went every year, and in 2004 we were delighted to be joined by Abby, my brother’s lovely bride, and my nephew Mitchell Garis.

Sadly, we lost my father early in 2005 and spending the next Christmas in Palm Coast seemed too sad a reminder of that incalculable loss.

We crafted a new tradition, that of a round-robin celebration, beginning with Christmas 2005 in Byng with the newly-formed Young Barron Clan, then 2006 here, in New Orleans. Next year we’ll be back in Florida, plucking oranges off my mother’s enormous trees and watching our dogs cavort in her park-like backyard.

Each locale has its charms; Byng is the epitome of pastoral comfort, and includes a pair of goats available for our amusement. Palm Coast, a thriving, well-bred community of retired Northern ex-pats, offers a spa-like experience. But to my mind, nothing beats New Orleans. That’s why, against all reason, I returned here after Hurricane Katrina murdered 1,800 of my neighbors and tore my home to shreds.

Though I attempt to masquerade as a curmudgeonly old crone, at heart I’m a plucky optimist. I suppose that explains how I managed to translate “my brand-new house is ruined!” into, “well, now I can renovate!”

And ruined it was. No words can turn a stomach more than “total loss,” especially as spoken by a FEMA representative. I’d bought the house - my first - just three months before the storm, and seeing it in its post-alluvion state does not rank among my most pleasant memories. The water reached 5 feet inside my house, which sits on 3-foot piers. For all intents and purposes, everything I’d owned was gone, including treasured photographs, letters, and artwork. I had not a stick of furniture, not a pot to cook in, not even a sundeck, which had, until the Great Deluge, been fastened to the back of my house.

But I did have what every woman really needs - a flattering lipstick, the love of a good dog, and my wonderfully supportive family. Those things, coupled with a generous insurance settlement, sent me on my way to rebuilding what I unabashedly now describe as a gorgeous home.

And it was to that rebuilt home that I invited my little family. I’d been preparing for this visit in my mind for months. I purchased a 9-foot Frasier Fir to grace the front room of my high-ceilinged Italianate cottage, its branches decorated with silk flowers and its hundreds of white lights reflecting the gleam from my 100-year-old heart pine floors. I hung a set of towels, festooned with fleur-de-lis, in the guest bathroom, and placed potted poinsettias in the wrought iron window boxes. Stars of Bethlehem glowed in the multi-paned front windows, and my new granite countertops groaned under the weight of an assortment of holiday treats.

My mother, Sarah Jo Barron, arrived first, followed shortly thereafter by the gang from Byng. In no time at all, Richard and Mitchell, climbing on ladders and snaking themselves behind appliances, took care of a number of “man-tasks” I’d been saving for their visit.

Christmas Eve found us at Christ Church Cathedral, a massive gothic structure inside of which can be found a scene reminiscent of the Royal Wedding. In an effort to set a good example for my nephew, I opened my hymnal and belted out carol after carol, trying not to cringe at the sound of my well-intentioned but hopelessly flat alto voice.

A good deal of time was spent eating; we particularly enjoyed Abby’s pumpkin trifle, and I took considerable pride in the spread I put out on Christmas day. My dog Griffin and Byng’s celebrated Chihuahuas, Sierra and Max, were particularly enamored of the mouth-watering orange-glazed turkey I prepared.

Gifts included cashmere socks for my delicately beautiful sister-in-law and camping gear for my outdoorsman brother. I was profoundly grateful to receive a set of monogrammed coasters and salt-and-pepper shakers that coordinated perfectly with my new stainless steel appliances.

After our feast, my family and I ventured out to see the city, on a tour now dubbed by most of us locals as the “Magical Misery Tour.” It was important to me that my guests see the miles of destruction, and to recognize that, while I am a daughter of fortune, thousands upon thousands of my fellow citizens are not. New Orleans, like the hearts of its people, is currently held together with bailing wire and duct tape. A particularly poignant message was painted on one house we passed: “Home. This was home.”

Home it is, for me, and for all the victims of the Diaspora eventuated by the storm. What made it complete, the thing that meant I’d finally recovered, was having my family inside it, sharing with me my rise from the ashes of destruction.