My date from Alabama watched eight years ago, incredulous and
perhaps horrified, as Anne Russell and I high-fived and jumped
around and yelled like maniacs. New Orleans Saints running back
Ricky Williams had scored a game-winning touchdown on the game’s
final play, and Anne and I — watching from her den in Pass
Christian, Mississippi — lost our minds in foot-stomping
celebration.
But it wasn’t a contemporary — not a classmate or a cousin —
with whom I was losing all dignity in front of a date I should have
been trying to impress. Instead, Anne was 60 years old — and the
coolest godmother in all creation. Songs, odes, entire books have
been dedicated to mothers, fathers, brothers and grandparents. But
godparents, even good ones, rarely inspire so much devotion. Anne,
though, was special.
Not only was she a dear friend of my mother’s, but Anne also was
the mother of my own most trusted friend, Hugh, born just 12 days
after me. Five more wonderful siblings followed Hugh, the oldest —
but casual observers could be forgiven for thinking there were
seven Russells, not six, so often did Anne welcome me into their
home. For several years the Russells lived just five blocks away in
Uptown New Orleans, and I had virtual walk-in privileges at almost
any time; later, when the Russells moved to the Garden District,
their home served as the base for endless Mardi Gras parades, and
accompanying merriment, two blocks away on St. Charles Avenue. It
was in the Russells’ yard where across-the-street neighbors Archie
and Olivia Manning taped the ESPN-famous home movies of a
six-year-old Peyton perfecting his passing skills, and somewhere
along the line Anne joined in Saints-fan lunacy with the same
enthusiasm with which she approached virtually everything —
enthusiasm total and unvarnished.
At age 41, with no training, while raising six children, Anne
decided to turn an old pharmacy building into a restaurant for
which she would serve (in the beginning) as the lead chef; within
just a few years, Gautreau’s was universally rated as one of the
very best restaurants in a city world-famous for its dining.
Anne also loved politics, but less (apparently) from any strong
ideological convictions than from a fascination with the tableaux
of interwoven, entertaining maneuverings for advantage. (For well
over
a decade, without showing any approval of the possibility — I
think Anne leaned right — she emphatically predicted that Joe
Biden would be president one day. Scary thought.) She loved that my
career ended up revolving around politics, and frequently peppered
me with questions about all the “inside scoop.”
But long before that, and amidst eventually running not one but
two restaurants and attending countless of her athletically
inclined children’s sports events, she somehow carved out huge
blocks of time for sojourns to their tree-shaded house in sleepy
Pass Christian, about 100 yards from the beach. Between Russells
and cousins and neighbors and friends, Anne kept track of a more
confusing array of kids than most summer camp directors do. Tennis,
swimming, board games, ping-pong, table pool, softball,
kick-the-can, crawfish boils…somehow, Anne made sure we could do
it all. Mostly, Anne had a knack for letting us feel like we were
absolutely running wild even as she ensured that we stayed
safe and (mostly) out of trouble.
Alas, Hurricane Katrina blew away every last vestige of the
Russells’ house in Pass Christian. Not long after the storm, Anne
was diagnosed with cancer. But that only led her to redouble her
successful efforts to find the fun in life. She entered our fantasy
football league — and she won it. She traveled to places she had
never before visited. And she helped organize her 50th high school
reunion.
Anne Russell died on August 8. Her family memorialized her on
the beach in Pass Christian. And the Saints and both Manning
brothers [at this writing] went through five weeks of this NFL
season undefeated. This column is the best way I can figure to send
Anne a very, very high five.
