Gentrification is crowding us on Laurel Street in Uptown New Orleans.

First Frank remodeled his house next door. He lived there once, moved out and then rented it to a series of folks that had most recently included couple who produced two children during their tenancy.

They learned about the first child right after the guy’s 27th birthday for which he gave himself a big party that was followed by an even bigger hangover. He had not fully recovered when she learned that she was pregnant. I have never known a couple to be so surprised at pregnancy, as though they were not really sure how it could happen to them.

Yet they managed. She bore a beautiful daughter while working at a real job and him occasionally working at a job that turned out to be mostly in his own mind. He had a problem with several substances, some of which kept him abed for long periods of time.

Yet he often talked, convincingly at first, of grandiose schemes and projects, but they never saw fruition. Still, he was likeable, pleasant to talk with. So was she.

Soon they made another baby who arrived about the time Frank had told them to leave so he could sell the house. So they did.

The “remodeling” involved Frank, working himself as the contractor, remaking his small, one-story house and adding a two-story camelback in a project that required more labor that if he had built it new from the ground up. That’s the way they do it in New Orleans, at least in our neighborhood, probably to get around property setback restrictions on new construction. After all, the standard lot size is 30 feet by 120 feet.

So now, where a big old Goldenrain Tree once stood in his backyard, there is a big, two story camelback addition within spitting distance.

Next, the widow lady who owned the house next door on the other side died. Her house was promptly purchased by a developer. We had not seen the widow lady since she moved away to live with her daughter after Katrina, but her son had moved in and lived there after she left.
For years it has been sort of like having Kim Jong Un for a neighbor. I don’t know exactly what we did to get on his bad side. There were few words between us. Mostly we just avoided eye contact. We exchanged a few waves but with sparse economy of digits.

The house was rotting and falling down. The lot was overgrown — I mean really overgrown — with elderberry trees from what were once bushes intertwined with trash trees, more Goldenrain trees all intertwoven with cat’s claw and other vines, creating a wall of vegetation 20 feet high. Or more.

So when we learned that the house had been sold and saw that former neighbor make his final departure, we were relieved at not having to encounter his scowling visage any longer. We looked forward to seeing the backyard reclaimed from the jungle it has become.

They started last week. The contractor came and workers began demolishing the old structure. The more they demolished, the worse rot they found and the more they tore down. They will probably keep something of the footprint of the old structure, again “remodeling” instead of starting new construction.

On Friday, my wife learned that they would be cutting down the big crepe myrtle tree near the front corner of our lot. It is the largest crepe myrtle that I have been personally acquainted with, producing a cloud of pink blossoms during the long summer season. They are going to make room for a driveway entrance. They are going to cover most of the lot with new structure, she overheard them say.

We find ourselves wishing for the the return of the ne’er-do-well and Kim Jong Un.
(By the time this is printed, I hope to have posted photos on my Facebook page.)