Elliotte Harold: A Modern Christmas Carol with apologies to Charles Dickens

A MODERN “CHRISTMAS CAROL” (with apologies to Charles Dickens)

by Elliotte Harold

Nestled against the banks of the Mississippi River in uptown New Orleans, Lambeth House offers an incomparable retirement location for folks from far and near. It boasts comfortable accommodations, exquisite food under the guidance of a well-known French chef, and genial residents.

Everyone wants to know everyone else, so newcomers post pictures and biographies. Since these seldom tell the full stories of everyone’s business, the ubiquitous New Orleans queries of “How’s your Mama an’ dem?” and “Where ya’ll at?” are often heard. No one keeps much hidden from inquisitive friends and neighbors.

Personally, I’ve been the object of curiosity about the scraggly beard I started to grow while displaced by Hurricane Ida. I could easily get by with the explanation that the daily scraping of my cheeks saves me about 10 minutes a day or 60 hours a year or 2 ½ days which could be put to better use. That should satisfy all the curious (nosy?) residents.

However, that is not the true reason. The true reason is so unlikely that many would not believe it.

On the first night of our evacuation for Hurricane Ida, I had a vision. Some skeptics would call it a dream, but I am convinced it was a vision. In the middle of the night, I awoke to a number of spectral shapes standing at the side of my bed. They did not appear threatening, so I asked “Who are you?” One responded ”We are the ghosts of hurricanes past.”

Another one said “I was in New Orleans in 1917 before we were named. Your father has told you how he watched the fire house across the street from his home on Mandeville Street collapse. What a blast!”

The next said “I am the ghost of the hurricane of 1947; I also had no name. I laughed at how frightened you were when you went with your uncle to check on his cabin cruiser at Delacroix Island and found that I had dumped a lot of snakes into the boat.”

The third said “I am the ghost of Hurricane Audrey which devasted Cameron Parish in 1957. I learned that cows do not swim well.”

After Audrey stopped bemoaning the drowning of the cattle, the next chimed in “I am the ghost of Hurricane Betsy, which was heading toward you when you were living on the Isle of Palms near Charleston in 1965, before I turned around and went all the way south and into the Gulf to hit New Orleans. Please, no comments about fickle women who can’t make up their minds.”

“I am the ghost of Hurricane Camille of 1969 which skirted New Orleans and hit the Gulf Coast. What fun it was leaving boats stranded on what was dry land, some even past the highway. One is still there in the parking lot of a restaurant.”

“I am Bill,” said another, “a mere tropical storm from 2003, but I regret wreaking havoc on your mother’s funeral. Sorry.”

“I am proud to say that I am the ghost of Hurricane Katrina, which is still talked about 17 years later.”

At this point I was tiring of the history lesson and broke in. “OK, folks, what’s the point, since you are all long gone?” Katrina seemed to be the spokeswoman. “Don’t get snippy. Yes, we are gone, but we are here to give you a warning. If you wish to avoid hurricanes in the years you have left, you MUST grow a beard. That will protect you.”

At this point, I awoke, wondering whether it was a dream or vision. I tend to believe it was a vision. Not being one to reject advice from experts, I started to grow a beard. My cheeks have not seen a razor blade since. It may not help, but what do I have to lose? Thus, folks, in the words of the late Paul Harvey, now you know “the rest of the story.”