Stormy memories

I moved to New Orleans in the summer of 1965. I was 20 years old. A couple of months later, in September, I had an experience of a lifetime when Hurricane Betsy hit us head-on. Betsy was a Category 4 when it reached Louisiana, and it was a religious experience of a sort.

I was living with my parents on the top floor of a duplex in Uptown New Orleans. None of us had experienced a full-blown hurricane before. My father left his Nash Rambler parked in the driveway. Later, we found what looked like bullet holes in the car body.

Stones had blown through.

Betsy passed overhead in the dead of night. She did sound like a freight train. Trees were bent over. Electricity danced up and down along power lines. At times I crawled to a window to look outside. I could hardly believe what I saw.

In the years that have since passed, I’ve seen videos of hurricanes, but none ever came close to what blew over our house that night. They would show some flapping street signs, etc., at most.

I always supposed that the lack of accurate videos of hurricanes at their worst was due to the fact that only a lunatic would go out to film it, or even approach a window during the height of it. Well, that has changed. There are cell phones, and there are lunatics.

When a hurricane approaches, there are always people you see on the news who say, “Oh, we’ve been through hurricanes before. We’ll be staying at home, like always.” These people have experienced glancing hurricanes at best.

Just four years after Betsy, Hurricane Camille arrived a bit farther to the east, which was good for New Orleans. The west side of a hurricane is the safer side. Camille was worse than Betsy. Yet again, there were people on the news declaring their intentions to ride it out.

Camille wiped entire homes off their foundations on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. People simply vanished forever. Plenty of them. The video below provides a good idea of what these things can do, especially at the 0:08 point.

You do not want to stay home.

Speaking of lunatics, here’s another video of what appears to be one of those wacky groups who drive toward tornados. Looks like they also drive into hurricanes. I hope they have life insurance.

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(Aftermath: The day after Betsy landed, I was able to drive north to Baton Rouge where I moved into a LSU dorm room. Damage in Baton Rouge was far less. Like right now, power was mostly off in New Orleans, and my parents lived with that, in the dark, for more than a week.)

I dreamed of New Orleans

Dawn today.

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But I woke up in Mexico to a chilly August morning.

Last night just after midnight, fireworks exploded on the nearby plaza. Just after midnight meant we’d entered another day, one that merited in some Catholic way the typical blasts of celebration.

Being accustomed to this, I went back to sleep and dreamed of New Orleans where I was walking on Carrollton Avenue, and I had a job on the newspaper again. I met a friend of an old friend. He remembered my name, but I did not recall his, which is one of my many defects. There was no clear time of year, but had it been August, it would have been hot, very hot and humid.

Just past 6, I was awake again, and it was cold, cold in August. I thought of a visit to Guanajuato in the 1980s with my second ex-wife. It too was August, and I remembered it was cold there for the same reason, altitude, and how amazed I was on walking out the hotel door to a cold August morning in Mexico.

I finally got out of bed at 7, walked into the kitchen and looked out the dining room window. And took this photo on another cold August morning. I like it here, and they’re still making noise on the nearby plaza, a small band now, celebrating something or other that I care not about in the slightest. I’m not Catholic.

A history of transportation

The first car I ever owned was a 1956 Plymouth Savoy, just as you see here. It had been my grandmother’s but when she died my parents gave it to me in 1967. I was married with a kid, so it was much appreciated. My first wife and I were living in a rental in Uptown New Orleans, and our only transportation was the St. Charles streetcar, and we had to walk a few blocks to get to the streetcar line.

The streetcar was a fun way to get around, but for convenience a car is preferred. This photo was probably taken about 10 years before we were streetcar regulars on the same route.

The Plymouth carried us a few years, but in 1969 I got a decent-paying job on the New Orleans newspaper. I don’t remember what happened to the Plymouth, but I bought a mid-’60s VW Bug convertible and, boy, was that fun. I found this photo online. I don’t know who the blonde is.

When my first wife and I divorced in 1971, I left the Beetle with her, and she fairly quickly destroyed it by neglect. I moved to the French Quarter, and a bicycle became my transportation until I bought a BSA motorcycle which I shipped to Puerto Rico in 1973. The BSA stayed in Puerto Rico when I left the island about a year later.

Yep, me.

In New Orleans again, I was back on a bicycle, but later I bought a 1977 Harley-Davidson Sportster. I met my second wife-to-be in the mid-’70s, and her 1975 Toyota Corolla became “our” car for years.

Then another Corolla, bought used, and then yet another, also used, when she totaled the previous one while racing a stoplight.

After 19 years we parted company in 1995 and again I had no car. That’s when I bought my first-ever new, four-wheeled vehicle, a 1995 Ford Ranger, a pickup I kept five years until I moved to Mexico.

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Mexico

Here I purchased four new cars over 14 years. First, in 2000, a Chevy Pop, a sweet, little thing not sold in the United States. It was a Geo Metro clone with no AC or even a radio that we drove all the way to Atlanta and back in 2003. Then, in 2004, a Chevrolet Meriva, also not available in the United States. Then, in 2009, a Honda CR-V. Then, in 2014, we bought a Nissan March for my child bride.

We still own those last two, which brings me to the purpose of this post. What’s gonna come next? I have a system.

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My Honda CR-V has been the best car I’ve ever owned. Twelve years and not a single problem of any consequence. The thing runs like it did the day I drove it out of the dealership in the nearby capital city in early 2009. I’d never owned a Honda before.

Looking ahead to the day when I may need a new car due to an accident, robbery or an expense so high it’s better to just buy a new car, I like to have the next vehicle chosen. I would prefer another Honda, but the CR-Vs have doubled in price since 2009, and I won’t pay that.

I don’t have a job.

I turned to Kia, specifically the oddly named Soul — good reviews and, though I am quite tall, I can get in and out with ease. So that was my backup for a couple of years till I discovered its rather meager ground clearance, not good in a nation loaded with speed bumps.

Sticking with Kia, I turned to the Seltos, which only appeared on this side of the world relatively recently though it’s long been wildly popular in India. It was my top alternative till just a few days ago when I visited a dealership and sat in the HR-V, a relatively new addition to the Honda line that was upgraded this year. Wowzer!

The mid-model I like costs 403,900 pesos, which is about $20,000 U.S. right now, plus selling my CR-V would trim that down a bit. You cannot haggle at Mexican dealerships like you do above the border.

It’s not as large as the CR-V, but it’s large enough, plenty of headroom. And it’s a good deal less pricey than the CR-V.

It’s my new main man. But I need a reason to buy one aside from just wanting to, like a teenager. Maybe I should drive my current Honda into a tree because I don’t think it’s ever going to wear out.

It appears that when you buy a Honda, you have it for life.

The new Honda HR-V is not a Plymouth Savoy.

No free lunch

We can always count on John Stossel to put things in perspective. And you can always count on me to point out the rampant imbecilities that run amok these days among spoiled, clueless Americans.

In this video Stossel showcases Americans who think that loans do not need to be repaid, but those loans — especially government-guaranteed tuition loans — often are paid by blue-collar workers who have no choice in the matter.

I have been a blue-collar worker. I enjoyed it. I might still be one had I not been stymied by unions. I left the newspaper game in the early 1980s. I went to a trade school and studied electrical construction technology. I have an Associate Degree in that.

I worked for a while in commercial construction, helping build a massive Schwegmann’s supermarket in Metairie, Louisiana.

But I was less interested in commercial construction than in residential work, an area mostly controlled by the electricians’ union in New Orleans. In order to reduce competition, the union blocked new membership to anyone over 25 years old. I was in my early 30s at the time. I am not a fan of unions. I returned to newspapering.

Blue-collar workers should not be forced to finance university degrees for others, especially these days when universities are leftist indoctrination centers, and students build massive debt to get silly degrees.

This works.
This doesn’t.

Mind Control

Let’s move on to another subject. Let’s look at face masks. Here we have two examples. The one on the left is virus control. The one on the right is mind control.

Do what we say!

I wear neither voluntarily. I don’t need the one on the left, but I sport the one on the right when I have to enter a store that requires it, as many hereabouts still do.

In my town, I am constantly surprised and disappointed at the YUGE percentage of the population that wears masks, especially where it simply makes no sense whatsoever, such as driving alone in a car or walking alone in the open air down a sidewalk. The people who do those things have lost their ability to think rationally.

They have lost their minds.


(Note: I ate my first raw oyster in a Schwegmann’s supermarket bar. Yes, Schwegmann’s stores often included bars. It was a sweltering summer afternoon, and I was sitting solo on a barstool at the Schwegmann’s on Airline Highway in Metairie. After more than a few cold Dixie beers, I ordered a dozen raw oysters out of curiosity. I was hooked.)