We Wallow In It.

Any man whose dream has died is a man who is dead inside. He is really dead. Any movement that he makes is either the result of rigor mortis or delirium tremens.

I visited the ovens at the end of my street today. Most New Orleanians end up in ovens, except in the Jewish cemeteries or in Holt Cemetery or they are buried in the East.

I have seen cemeteries with ovens in the older parts of the East, but, out along Old Gentilly Road, I cannot remember if I saw a mausoleum out there. The cemeteries in the newer parts of the East are more suburban, with bodies in the ground and headstones flush with the earth to facilitate efficient groundskeeping.

The ovens, or any part of a New Orleans cemetery, are not a pleasant place to visit in summer. Especially today. The heat index is 110 degrees Fahrenheit. It feels even worse than that in places where there is no shade or, even, any vegetation to speak of.

If you don’t know what I am talking about, in New Orleans, we call the above ground tombs that line a cemetery’s borders, or, really, any mass grave above ground, we call those above-ground tombs, “the ovens.”

I will tell you why. After the cemetery talk, I want to talk about streetcars, a dead fish, and a book review. It is nice to see you. I have a lot to tell you about.

Hold on a moment, please. I have the draw the curtains.