tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195666882024-03-14T01:37:27.989-07:00Under Surge, Under Siege - the Odyssey of Bay St. Louis and KatrinaThe blog was formerly called "The Language of Loss." I've changed the name to reflect the title of the book being published by University Press of Mississippi, slated for released in August, 2010. I've transferred most of the material to the book's website: www.undersurge.com - the link is below. Thanks to all my readers and supporters - and especially the remarkable people of Bay St. Louis - who helped make the book a reality!Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-29148707755980918742010-01-11T15:36:00.000-08:002011-08-27T06:16:31.669-07:00Under Surge, Under Siege, a blog becomes a book<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lleVKArhzYI/S0u5QggeTSI/AAAAAAAABBo/O38s22rnNUg/s1600-h/Anderson+cover+revised+FN+web.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lleVKArhzYI/S0u5QggeTSI/AAAAAAAABBo/O38s22rnNUg/s200/Anderson+cover+revised+FN+web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425633869353078050" border="0" /></a>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I rode out Katrina in my town of Bay St. Louis, on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Unfortunately, it turned out to be ground zero for the worst hurricane in U.S. history. Soon after, I created this blog where I posted some of my writings about the storm and the next three years of aftermath.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><div><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Thanks to encouragement from readers and supporters all over the world, I completed the manuscript</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> for </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-family:arial;"> </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-family: arial;" title="http://www.undersurge.com" href="http://www.undersurge.com/" class="style_2" onkeypress="window.open(this.href); return false;" onclick="window.open(this.href); return false;">Under Surge, Under Siege, the Odyssey of Bay St. Louis and Katrina</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;"> in the summer of 2009 and it was published by </span><span style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 153); "><a style="font-family: arial;" title="http://www.upress.state.ms.us/" href="http://www.upress.state.ms.us/" onkeypress="window.open(this.href); return false;" onclick="window.open(this.href); return false;">University Press of Mississippi</a> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">in June, 2010. The hard-bound book includes 50 photographs by myself and </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-family: arial;" href="http://www.joetomasovsky.com/">Joe Tomasovsky</a><span style="font-family:arial;">. It won the 2010 Eudora Welty Book Prize and the Mississippi Library Association's Non-fiction Author Award for 2011. I stand in amazement, remembering the first time I anxiously pressed the "publish post" button.</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Below, you'll find the book's prologue. Go to the official </span><a style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.undersurge.com/">Under Surge, Under Siege site</a><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-weight: bold;"> </span>for more excerpts, book reviews, and a ton of pictures that weren't posted here - including a "visual epilogue" of Bay St. Louis. </span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">THANK YOU, blog-world!</span>
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<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;">Prologue</span>
<br /><a title="http://www.amazon.com/Under-Surge-Siege-Odyssey-Katrina/dp/1604735023/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1260900025&sr=8-1" href="http://www.amazon.com/Under-Surge-Siege-Odyssey-Katrina/dp/1604735023/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1260900025&sr=8-1" onkeypress="window.open(this.href); return false;" onclick="window.open(this.href); return false;"></a> <p class="Body"></p><p class="Body"></p><p class="Body"></p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="Body"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="style_2">The atmosphere of compassion that transforms a mass of alienated individuals into a caring community is created by countless acts of kindness… To re-mind and en-courage myself in the practice of applied compassion, I collect images and stories with which to create my personal pantheon of local heroes and consecrated neighbors…”
<br /></span></span></p> <p class="Body"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;" class="style_2">Sam Keen, “Hymns to an Unknown God”</span></span>
<br /></p> <p class="Body">
<br /></p><p class="Body"> The invisible net of fellowship that broke the horrific fall of my town was woven long before Katrina. The knitting of that marvelous mesh was begun three hundred years before by the mariners and merchants and fishermen who first clustered their cottages on the Mississippi coast at the Bay of St. Louis. During those three centuries, the hurricanes that periodically hurtled in from the Gulf merely strengthened the weave, teaching hard lessons about the benefits of solidarity. In “the Bay,” the skills required for a flourishing community – courage, tolerance and humor in adversity – were passed down to children like a legacy and taught by example to newcomers like me.
<br /></p> <p class="Body"> Yet Katrina had to knock the stuffing out of the coast before I understood community as a survival mechanism. During catastrophe, those neighborly connections created lifelines of support for the individual – sometimes literally. Here at ground-zero, that supple safety net caught people during the full fury of the storm, even while the wind and tsunami-like surge scoured the shore. Few gave way to the panicked mentality of every man for himself. Seasoned and steeled by an ingrained concern for others, most of my neighbors remained calm. Many risked their own lives to save others. My serene little village was suddenly revealed as a hotbed of heroism. The portly public official, the soft-spoken shopkeeper and the zany artist were transformed into real time adventurers who faced down the most awesome storm in this country’s history with grit and with grace.
<br /></p> <p class="Body">In the days that followed, when the coast was shorn of electricity, communication and law enforcement, the Bay didn’t degenerate into chaos. Despite the pain, dignity reigned. In a darkness unbroken by any light, I flung open the doors of my house at night, hoping to catch a stray breeze and then slept without fear of malice. Witnessing shell-shocked residents comforting each other, offering food and hugs and laughter, I began to understand that heroism didn’t necessarily entail the risk of a life. It could be found in a small act of generosity in the midst of fear and loss.
<br /></p> <p class="Body">Soon, the elastic boundaries of our community stretched as thousands of volunteers converged on the coast. Allies materialized from unlikely corners of the country, bearing supplies, fresh energy and hope. At this writing, it’s been four years since Katrina upended the town and still volunteers continue to come, realizing that our full recovery will take decades.
<br /></p> <p class="Body">During these years of grinding aftermath, the journal I began to document a fleeting weather event took an odd turn: Instead of recording the effects of a hurricane, my pen became possessed with the phenomenon of crafted kinship that sustained me - that sustained all of us in the town. I came to realize that in the Bay, community is a living web, one laced with the diverse fibers of my neighbors’ courage and the bright threads of volunteer service.
<br /></p> <p class="Body"> This book introduces some of those unassuming heroes. In first part, “Under Surge,” I write of the storm and the immediate aftermath, when breath-taking bravery was the rule. The second part, “Under Siege,” chronicles the perils that have threatened our town in the years since the hurricane, requiring residents to embody a more enduring kind of valor. The eight sections weave entries from my journal with the stories of townspeople and volunteers who serve so well as my source of inspiration. May they enrich your life as they have my own.
<br /></p> <p class="Body">Welcome to Bay St. Louis.
<br /></p> <p class="Body">
<br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="paragraph_style_1"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="line-height: 14px;" class="style_3">all material on this site is copyright Ellis Anderson, 2009</span><span style="line-height: 14px;" class="style_3">
<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="paragraph_style_1"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="line-height: 14px;" class="style_3">may not be reprinted without owner’s permission</span></span></p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:12pt;"></span><!--EndFragment--></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-53949182846646787852010-01-10T15:59:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:01:16.584-08:00Chapter 1 - The Language of Loss<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span></span><br />There's a man living in my driveway now and I don’t find that at all unusual. He makes his bed in the back of his small SUV and sleeps there with his little dog. Many afternoons he can be found sitting behind the wheel, reading the paper, his Shitz Su nestled on his lap. He calls his car “home.” It’s part of the new vocabulary that’s emerging on the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina.<br /><br />The man is the grandfather of Anna, who’s nine years old and one of my new residents. She and her parents stay at my house for now because the storm took their own. Anna tells me that the Shitz Su is fussy and will pick fights with my dogs, so her grandfather would rather stay in his car than intrude. I’ve tried to insist that he come inside – we’d find him a bed to sleep in - but I think that now he’d rather be in the one place he can call his own.<br /><br />He’s not the only one. I have other friends living in tents in their driveways or in cramped travel-trailers rather than taking refuge with family in other towns. They want to stay connected with the place that has been their home, even if the structure is no longer standing. It may not seem very practical, but practicality flew out of the window along with everything else when Katrina tore through Mississippi two months ago.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/katrina%20patina.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/katrina%20patina.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Katrina Patina"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />The community that remains behind on the coast has evolved into a new animal – some fantastic creature I’ve never seen before. It’s fiercely loyal, incredibly hardy and deeply determined. It’s developed a wicked sense of humor and doesn’t whine very often. No matter your loss, too many others have lost more. It’s bad form to complain.<br /><br />And this new community is developing its own language, with an extensive and colorful vocabulary. There’s “mucking out.” That used to mean cleaning out a horse’s stall. Now it’s something you do to the inside of your house. “Gone-Pecan” is used frequently – it’s a designation for anything that got taken out by the storm – houses, businesses, cars, family photos. It’s interchangeable with “Got-Gone.”<br /><br />Friends meeting in the meal tents or the FEMA lines will ask each other, “How’d you make out?” Too many times the answer is “I got slabbed,” meaning nothing of the house remains except the concrete foundation. If one of them still has walls standing, the answer will be along these lines: “I came out pretty well – I only got six feet of water.” The homeless friend will offer congratulations. This is the only place in America where having six feet of mud and water violently invade your house is considered lucky.<br /><br />When we leave the region and go someplace that wasn’t affected by the storm, we call it “the outside world.” The outside world has cable TV and working phones. You can walk out your door and look at a neighborhood instead of rubble. You can drive to any number of gas stations or stores and they’re actually open. You don’t have to stand in line four hours to buy a washing machine or talk to a FEMA agent. A chainsaw isn’t a necessary household item. You can call an insurance agent and actually talk to someone. There isn’t a 10 o’clock curfew. And in the outside world, the word “Katrina” is just a name instead of an adjective.<br /><br />Here, we have “Katrina-mind.” That refers to blanking out, forgetting something absurdly simple, like your own phone number or the name of your best friend. We say “Katrina-ware.” That’s the paper and plastic we mostly eat from now. There’s the “Katrina Cough,” a persistent hacking from breathing all the silt brought in by the storm. This dust hangs in the air and coats everything with a fine, malevolent grit.<br /><br />A portable toilet has become a “Katrina Latrina.” Fetid water that has hidden in corners and plastic boxes, a dark brew of multi-colored molds that emits an unmistakable stench, is “Katrina Juice”. And my favorite new phrase is “Katrina Patina.”<br /><br />Anything that survived the storm is coated with sludge, discolored, mangled at least to some degree. It’s got that “Katrina Patina.” Jewelry, artwork, tools, photographs, furniture, clothes – all have been transformed by the storm into something vaguely recognizable, yet inalterably changed. Friends, at the end of a long day of mucking, covered with grime and sweat and a substance resembling black algae, will refuse an embrace. “Stay back,” they’ll warn. “I’ve got the Katrina Patina.”<br /><br />Even after a scalding shower, scrubbing with soap and disinfectant, the Katrina Patina remains, marking every one of us. It doesn’t wash off. We, as well as our belongings, are vaguely recognizable, inalterably changed. We can only hope some of it wears away as the years pass.<br /><br />Yet beneath that patina - under the sludge and the mud, the loss and the mourning - a bright determination flourishes. Our spirit as a community is evolving as surely as our vocabulary. We’re fluent in the language of loss now, but we’re also learning more about the language of love.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Mural%20Sunset.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Mural%20Sunset.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Sunset Mural"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">This beachfront mural in Bay St. Louis by artist Chris Hill survived the storm, but now has the "Katrina Patina"</span><br /></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-68061568737325158462010-01-09T16:02:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:03:45.843-08:00Chapter 2 - The Ties That Bind<div class="post-body">We’re already forgetting our town.<br /><br />A few days ago, I found a photo of Bay St. Louis before the storm. It's a digital shot I'd taken last winter, during one of my sunset walks on the beach. I enlarged it on my computer screen and sat before it, staring.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/coast%20before%202%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/coast%20before%202%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Bay St. Louis before the Storm"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson<br /></span></div><br />Anna, who’s just turned ten, walked into the room with her mother, Kim. They’ve been living with me in the four months since Katrina destroyed their home. They were surprised to find me crying and checked out the photo causing my grief. Kim understood immediately. Their home had stood a block from where I’d taken the picture. Now their house was gone. All the houses in the photo were gone. The image of our old, familiar town had already faded and we were both stricken by a renewed sense of loss. But Anna didn’t get it. She peered more closely at the picture.<br /><br />“That’s beautiful!” she said. “Where is it?”<br /><br />Her mother started crying too.<br /><br />________________________<br /><br />Katrina robbed us of our town. If you’re not from here, you can’t conceive of the damage. You may have seen pictures, but photos represent only a tiny window view of the disaster. A single image can't begin to convey the scale of the obliteration. Most of you have probably witnessed the aftermath of a tornado. Now, in your mind's eye, try to picture miles and miles of that same sort of splintered devastation. One can drive the coast for hours and find nothing that escaped harm.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Beach%20neighborhood%20Pan%209-12.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Beach%20neighborhood%20Pan%209-12.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Beach Neighborhood"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /><br /><br /></span></div>The damage is unprecedented in three hundred years of recorded history. Katrina drove a 35 foot wall of black water that barreled in from the Gulf like a gigantic bulldozer. Structures that had seen dozens of severe storms - including Hurricane Camille - buildings that had been standing solidly for over a century, are simply gone. The old Spanish Customs House in the Bay, built on high ground in 1789, is scattered over a four block area. Only the brick floor remains.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Jordan%20River%20Estates%20mailer.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Jordan%20River%20Estates%20mailer.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Jourdan Rver Estates"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />Mountains of debris will take years to completely clear. Most of my friends and neighbors lost everything they owned, many without flood insurance because we lived in a "no flood" zone. Some of my friends are living in tents or trailers. Some have temporarily evacuated, some have left for good. The ones that return sift through the remains of their lives and come back at the end of the day covered with mud, holding a small bag of odd items they've salvaged. They’re happy if they found something like their mother's tea-cup.<br /><br />The storm stole more from us than homes or personal possessions - it took a way of life. I don’t want Anna to forget that life. I don’t want any of us who lived here to forget. And I want people who never knew this place to understand exactly what we lost. So let me tell you about Bay St. Louis before the storm. I’ll try to paint the landscape that I loved so well, create a picture of this village by a sleepy sea.<br /><br />Ancient oaks lined the coast, framing large and elegant houses - many of them built in the 1800’s. Behind this dignified vanguard, cottages clustered along narrow, shaded lanes. These neighborhoods were mixed in more ways than one. Professors lived next door to plumbers, young families next to retirees, black next to white, rich next to poor. I loved that – it flew directly in the distorted face most outsiders have pasted on the state of Mississippi.<br /><br />The architectural styles of the homes varied as much as the people who lived in them. Cheek to cheek, the Creole cottage danced with the Victorian, the Greek Revival with the bungalow. In those lush yards, you could imagine the lingering ghosts from an era of ease. They didn’t want to leave. Nobody who came here wanted to leave. This place pulled at the hearts of any who have them. It promised peace and made good on its word.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Brignac%20Grounds.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Brignac%20Grounds.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Brignac Grounds"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />We were safe here. The simmering city anger that threatens harm was far away. Many of us casually left car keys in the ignition or forgot to lock our doors. That feeling of security was rooted in our sense of community. If you’d lived here, you wouldn’t have known everyone in town, but sometimes it would have seemed like it. A trip to the grocery store or post office was a social outing. Checkout lines were always alive with chatter about kids and family. You would have heard the question, “How’s your mama?” several times a day.<br /><br />Children of the Bay didn’t realize it, but they lived in a Norman Rockwell portrait of a kinder time. Parents could take toddlers to the beach and relax their guard. They didn’t have to worry about treacherous undertows and surf, because the shallow water lapped at the shore as if it were a placid lake. Older kids would walk down to the beach in groups or bike together down sparsely trafficked streets. If they recognized you, they’d wave and try to ride faster. They didn’t want you to stop them and ask how their mama was doing. They were on a mission: To have fun and be free.<br /><br />I’d feel like a kid myself when I’d go out for my daily bike ride. The free-wheeling feeling of childhood, buoyant like a helium balloon, swelled in my chest when I’d pedal through the streets. I knew I must have looked strange – a middle-aged woman, sun-hat shading my face, one dog riding in my basket, another trotting alongside - but it didn’t matter here. A little eccentricity was welcome in the Bay.<br /><br />Biking at night was even better. I could imagine that I was living in the 1930’s as I silently glided past shuttered shops and cottages lit by antique lamps. The magic was palpable on soft, humid summer evenings. It was as if some alchemist had distilled the essence of a small southern town and poured it over the ground of Bay St. Louis. Our town motto is “A Place Apart,” and it was.<br /><br />Three mornings before the storm, I rode my bike to the beach for the last time. No premonition of doom followed me. The dawn was breaking and a diffused pink light tinted the town. It seemed like I moved through a fairy tale, one with a happily-ever-after ending. Would I have appreciated it more if I’d known it was my last time? I don’t think so. I knew how lucky I was.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/The%20Bike.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/The%20Bike.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Bike"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*************<br /></div><br />Despite Katrina, I still feel lucky. I’m learning new lessons every day. And of all the lessons I’ve learned since the storm upturned this idyllic coast, this seems the most important: A sense of community is the most undervalued asset in this country today.<br /><br />In those first black days after the storm, we were cut off from the outside world, isolated and alone. Yet, I watched a couple who had lost all they owned driving over from Pensacola repeatedly. They brought truckloads of needed supplies and distributed them around town. I saw the two elderly brothers on my block, the only ones in the area who had a generator, welcoming strangers in to charge cell phones and drills.<br /><br />I witnessed the Miracle of the Shrines - neighbors would pick through the rubble from houses of friends and salvage the few personal belongings they could find. They would set these items up at the edge of the property. One could drive down the street and pass Irish crystal vases, family portraits, pottery or silver candlesticks, neatly arranged at the curb, awaiting the owners who had evacuated.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Seaside%20Shrine.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Seaside%20Shrine.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Seaside Shrine"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson<br /></span></div><br />People are still stressed beyond comprehension, yet they continue to give. I’ve witnessed so many acts of kindness that my faith in the goodness of most humans has been restored. Yes, theft occurs, cross words are exchanged, hoarding happens. But overall, because we feel bound to each other, we’ve taken care of our neighbors.<br /><br />No wonder so many of us want to stay and rebuild. Each day, we exist surrounded by destruction and it's a hard, hard burden to bear. But this community possesses a spirit that the winds and the surge of Katrina weren’t able to steal. The storm only strengthened those qualities that connect us.<br /><br />I used to sing a hymn in church when I was a kid - "Blessed be the Ties That Bind." Now I understand that those ties can go beyond family, beyond religious affiliation, beyond political leanings or race or economic status. They're ties of the heart and can still be found in the remains of a little town called Bay St. Louis.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Citizen%20Street%20in%20January.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Citizen%20Street%20in%20January.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Citizen Street, January 2006"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br /><!-- End .post --> <!-- Begin #comments --> <a name="comments"></a> </div><h4>3 Comments:</h4> <dl id="comments-block"><dt class="comment-poster" id="c113373114373487262"><a name="c113373114373487262"></a> <span style="line-height: 16px;" class="comment-icon blogger-comment-icon"><img src="img/b16-rounded.gif" alt="Blogger" style="display: inline;" /></span> <a href="profile/10733796940697624431" rel="nofollow">LEJ</a> said... </dt><dd class="comment-body"> <p>Thanks for Katrina Patina. I know what you mean. I've been living in Lafayette, Louisiana the past months since evacuating my home, <i>Squalor Heights</i>, in old New Orleans. <a href="http://www.lej.org/" rel="nofollow">LEJ</a></p> </dd><dd class="comment-timestamp"><a href="http://katrinapatina.blogspot.com/2006/01/ties-that-bind.html#c113373114373487262" title="comment permalink">1:19 PM</a> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-2123847922"><a style="border: medium none ;" href="delete-comment.g?blogID=19566688&postID=113373114373487262" title="Delete Comment"><span class="delete-comment-icon"> </span></a></span> </dd><dt class="comment-poster" id="c113381539868505957"><a name="c113381539868505957"></a> <span style="line-height: 16px;" class="comment-icon blogger-comment-icon"><img src="img/b16-rounded.gif" alt="Blogger" style="display: inline;" /></span> <a href="profile/09236507410044176814" rel="nofollow">Sugar</a> said... </dt><dd class="comment-body"> <p>Ellis, I've read "the world that is" for you so far. I cannot imagine losing my home, the one thing in life that contains everything which I hold dear, my great grandmother's bath table pitcher, her dresser, etc.<br /><br />Simply "Stuff" I see now. A house. As long as we have each other, then we are.<br /><br />I'm going to keep up with your postings because they touch my heart and my humanity.</p> </dd><dd class="comment-timestamp"><a href="http://katrinapatina.blogspot.com/2006/01/ties-that-bind.html#c113381539868505957" title="comment permalink">12:43 PM</a> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-257885547"><a style="border: medium none ;" href="delete-comment.g?blogID=19566688&postID=113381539868505957" title="Delete Comment"><span class="delete-comment-icon"> </span></a></span> </dd><dt class="comment-poster" id="c115158894018280263"><a name="c115158894018280263"></a> <span style="line-height: 16px;" class="comment-icon anon-comment-icon"><img src="img/anon16-rounded.gif" alt="Anonymous" style="display: inline;" /></span> <span class="anon-comment-author">Anonymous</span> said... </dt><dd class="comment-body"> <p>Ellis, my husband's job recently brought us to Hattiesburg from Colorado. Like most of the world, we saw the aftermath of Katrina through the media. However, like you mention in our story, this was just a tiny window into the overwhelming devestation. Every single person that I have met since we've been here was impacted by the storm. A year later they talk about it like it just happened yesterday.<br /><br />Personally, I have been battleling cancer for two years, and in all honesty I've been a bit self centered through the process. Your story and these wonderful people have helped me get outside of myself and see that the human spirit is stronger than physical devastation. Thank you and God Bless You!<br /><br />maritza</p> </dd><dd class="comment-timestamp"><a href="http://katrinapatina.blogspot.com/2006/01/ties-that-bind.html#c115158894018280263" title="comment permalink">6:49 AM</a> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-599642237"><a style="border: medium none ;" href="delete-comment.g?blogID=19566688&postID=115158894018280263" title="Delete Comment"><span class="delete-comment-icon"> </span></a></span> </dd></dl>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-60227118563626432232010-01-08T16:04:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:05:25.745-08:00Chapter 3 - The Dethroning of CamilleMy insurance adjuster’s eyes bug out. “You <span style="font-style: italic;">stayed </span>for the storm?” he says. “I ought to get back in my car and go right now.” He doesn’t actually call me nuts, but his tone of voice says it for him.<br /><br />After waiting two months to see a representative from my insurance company, I would lay down in front of a train to prevent his departure. “It’s a Camille thing,” I stammer. Even as I say it, I realize it won’t make sense to someone from Ohio.<br /><br />I am right. This answer does nothing to convince him of my sanity. He narrows his eyes and asks another question and for this one, I can find no words. “What was it like?” he says.<br /><br />For months, I’ve wanted to write about my storm experience, but procrastinate with persistence. I circle that mental minefield with suspicion and tread in tentatively, knowing one misstep will blow my carefully constructed composure to smithereens. So I’ll sidle in the back way by starting with the history of Hurricane Camille. After all, she’s the reason I and hundreds of my neighbors chose to stay.<br /><br />One of the best quotes I’ve heard since the storm is that Camille killed more people in 2005 than she did in 1969. If your house survived that storm, it could handle the worst nature could throw at you. After all, Queen Camille broke every record in the book.<br /><br />Here’s a few statistics: Camille was the most intense storm to hit the mainland U.S. in modern history. Sustained winds were 190 mph, gusts to 220. The lowest storm pressure ever recorded on the mainland (909 mbs) was measured in Bay St. Louis. The tidal surge was estimated at 22-27 feet, an all-time record for our country.<br /><br /><br />Camille was our town’s yardstick for catastrophe. Before Katrina, when guests asked me how I felt about living in a hurricane prone area, I had blithe and confident answers. “Bay St. Louis is on a high ridge of land,” I’d explain smugly. “This neighborhood didn’t even flood in Camille.” If I was shopping for real estate, the first question I’d ask is, “Did it flood in Camille?” If the answer was no, I rested easy, knowing that it would be eternally high and dry.<br /><br />Insurance agents were equally as confident. They’d tell you, “If your property didn’t see water in Camille, don’t waste your money on flood insurance.” Lots of my friends heard the same line, but no one really blames the agents. We were all insurance poor, paying vast amounts just for the windstorm policies. Why not save the money if you were located on some of the highest ground on the Gulf?<br /><br />The numerous historic houses on the coast bolstered our community confidence even higher. Homes that were 100-150 years old lined the shore. The sturdy Spanish Customs house, right up the street from me, had stood overlooking the beach since 1789 and faced off countless storms, including Camille. These buildings were monuments to indestructibility, daily reminders to keep the faith.<br /><br />Camille was called a “hundred year storm.” What were the chances of another Camille striking in our lifetime? And if another monster storm were to occur in that hundred years, could lightning possibly strike twice in the same place? Throw in the astronomical probability of a storm worse than Camille making landfall in the same area within thirty years and you have odds that would be the dream of any bookie. It’s a bet the most timid gambler would have taken in a heartbeat. I certainly did.<br /><br />In the days before Katrina hit, the name Camille became a mantra while the community prepared for a “bad one.” Everyone on the Gulf Coast takes hurricanes seriously, but many of my neighbors were Camille veterans. While we were boarding up, filling our bathtubs, checking our batteries, I heard over and over, “The weather people are alarmists. They’re predicting a 20 foot surge, so maybe it’ll get to 15. And even if it’s 20 feet, Camille was way worse. We didn’t take water in ‘69. We’ll be fine.”<br /><br />Outsiders may not understand this reasoning. Before any storm, the weather stations and public authorities screech in strident tones, “Evacuate now!” But while Coast residents pay attention to the wind speed of storms, we know from generations of experience that tidal surge will present the most danger. If your roof blows off (and it’s happened to me in the past), it’s dramatic, but not usually life-threatening.<br /><br />If you have sturdy shelter on high ground, you have two choices when a storm approaches: You can fight bumper to bumper traffic which crawls along – and it can take 6 hours to move 50 miles - hoping to find a motel room two states away. Or you can trust the surge predictions, batten down the hatches and stay put.<br /><br />As Katrina moved into the Gulf, family and friends around the country pled with me to evacuate. I invoked the name of Camille, holding it up like a banner, a bright talisman to ward off my fears. I was too exhausted to attempt a long drive and resisted last minute pressure to retreat to Diamondhead - a community five miles north. I trusted my own stout historic house more than any new and untested structure. “The only thing I’m really worried about is the water and this property didn’t even flood in Camille. They’re predicting a much lower surge for this storm,” I declared again and again.<br /><br />Now, when people asked me why I stayed, my standard line is, “If I’d known we were going to be hit by a 35 foot tsunami, I would have been in Nebraska.” Despite the advances in science, weather forecasts are not infallible. My neighbors and I had trusted that a 20 foot surge would be the worst-case scenario. I should have remembered that my thesaurus lists an interesting synonym for “prediction.” That word is “guess.”<br /><br />The afternoon of the storm, when the waters had receded from the coast and the winds had relented somewhat, I picked my way through the rubble and gazed in shock at the splintered, unrecognizable remains of my historic neighborhood. In a single morning, hundreds of years of heritage had been erased. Elegant houses and quaint cottages were crushed or left twisted in the middle of streets. Even the Spanish Customs House had vanished completely, the lot filled with tangled heaps of debris. Worse yet, we knew without doubt that beneath the mountains of timbers and trees, lay bodies of our neighbors and friends.<br /><br />Queen Camille has been dethroned. It turned out she was just the dress rehearsal for loss, a dry run for true disaster. Katrina took our homes, our livelihoods, members of our community - but my friend Kat pegged one of the most important things: The storm stripped us of our illusion of security.<br /><br />So when my insurance adjuster asks his final question, I have a final answer. “Would you stay again?” he asks.<br /><br />“No,” is my very short reply.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/waveland%20camille%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/waveland%20camille%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"All that remains of the Waveland City Hall"<br />photo by Ellis Anderson<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(text and photos copyright 2005 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</div> <p class="post-footer">posted by Ellis Anderson | <a href="http://katrinapatina.blogspot.com/2006/01/dethroning-of-camille.html" title="permanent link">7:46 AM</a> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-763849620"><a style="border: medium none ;" href="post-edit.g?blogID=19566688&postID=113371154612308885" title="Edit Post"><img class="icon-action" alt="" src="img/icon18_edit_allbkg.gif" height="18" width="18" /></a></span> </p> <!-- End .post --> <!-- Begin #comments --> <a name="comments"></a> <h4>4 Comments:</h4> <dl id="comments-block"><dt class="comment-poster" id="c113374851496023803"><a name="c113374851496023803"></a> <span style="line-height: 16px;" class="comment-icon blogger-comment-icon"><img src="img/b16-rounded.gif" alt="Blogger" style="display: inline;" /></span> <a href="profile/11758999990040685353" rel="nofollow">Jamie</a> said... </dt><dd class="comment-body"> <p>Ellis, I am Jean Prescott's daughter, Jamie. I delivered gasoline, water, food, and clothes to BSL on the Friday after the storm. The donations were made from people in Houston, TX. Many I didn't even know (friends of friends of friends). I have been forwarding all of your articles to the same people I emailed for help. They respond with "these must be very strong people" and "they must really love this town". I say yes in both regards. You are doing a great job with the articles. Thanks, Jamie</p> </dd><dd class="comment-timestamp"><a href="http://katrinapatina.blogspot.com/2006/01/dethroning-of-camille.html#c113374851496023803" title="comment permalink">6:08 PM</a> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-682826176"><a style="border: medium none ;" href="delete-comment.g?blogID=19566688&postID=113374851496023803" title="Delete Comment"><span class="delete-comment-icon"> </span></a></span> </dd><dt class="comment-poster" id="c113375442595994805"><a name="c113375442595994805"></a> <span style="line-height: 16px;" class="comment-icon blogger-comment-icon"><img src="img/b16-rounded.gif" alt="Blogger" style="display: inline;" /></span> <a href="profile/00757093995572836021" rel="nofollow">BroBo</a> said... </dt><dd class="comment-body"> <p>All who read this post are fortunate enough to have read the words of a true hero of Katrina and, even more so, of the aftermath of Katrina.... my cousin Ellis. All my love and support for all you do and all you are, Cuz. Bo</p> </dd><dd class="comment-timestamp"><a href="http://katrinapatina.blogspot.com/2006/01/dethroning-of-camille.html#c113375442595994805" title="comment permalink">7:47 PM</a> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-323024195"><a style="border: medium none ;" href="delete-comment.g?blogID=19566688&postID=113375442595994805" title="Delete Comment"><span class="delete-comment-icon"> </span></a></span> </dd><dt class="comment-poster" id="c113379005150667418"><a name="c113379005150667418"></a> <span style="line-height: 16px;" class="comment-icon blogger-comment-icon"><img src="img/b16-rounded.gif" alt="Blogger" style="display: inline;" /></span> <a href="profile/03460617288688921233" rel="nofollow">Jean</a> said... </dt><dd class="comment-body"> <p>You're my hero, and I want to be just like you when I grow up...if I ever grow up. I've always known that the people of Bay St. Louis had something special going for them. My dad used to say it was in the "dirt," something we all ingested that tied us together, no matter where we roamed. I've not roamed that far, just slightly east...where I could find a roof, mine in the Bay having been, well, you know. Save a place for me at the table. I will be back. And you know where to find me if you need me. A million thanks to you for being smart and strong and articulate.</p> </dd><dd class="comment-timestamp"><a href="http://katrinapatina.blogspot.com/2006/01/dethroning-of-camille.html#c113379005150667418" title="comment permalink">5:40 AM</a> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-1446822236"><a style="border: medium none ;" href="delete-comment.g?blogID=19566688&postID=113379005150667418" title="Delete Comment"><span class="delete-comment-icon"> </span></a></span> </dd><dt class="comment-poster" id="c113380531057904127"><a name="c113380531057904127"></a> <span style="line-height: 16px;" class="comment-icon blogger-comment-icon"><img src="img/b16-rounded.gif" alt="Blogger" style="display: inline;" /></span> <a href="profile/16179144249372103793" rel="nofollow">Mark</a> said... </dt><dd class="comment-body"> <p>Ellis, your postings have given me strength. You seem to give voice to what we all feel. Do you remember the game 52 pickup? That's what I'm playing, with the emotions I sort through each day. Like the game it's a cruel joke, a bad hand has been delt.<br />and as I pick up each card and try to sort through it's meaning, and what value it must be trying to teach me, I have your writings to help voice what I feel. I will continue to pick them up, and search for the message, Thanks</p> </dd><dd class="comment-timestamp"><a href="http://katrinapatina.blogspot.com/2006/01/dethroning-of-camille.html#c113380531057904127" title="comment permalink">9:55 AM</a> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-717077782"><a style="border: medium none ;" href="delete-comment.g?blogID=19566688&postID=113380531057904127" title="Delete Comment"><span class="delete-comment-icon"> </span></a></span> </dd></dl>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-90877518920598131782010-01-07T16:06:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:09:30.861-08:00Chapter 4 - The Dominoes of DenialAt first, I thought the street was flooding from the hours-long downpour of rain, but the thin film of water covering the road quickly became a stream. An orange cat bounded pell-mell across the yard, headed to higher ground. A cooler sailed by at a fast clip, followed by a sheet of tin from someone’s roof. When the trunk of a large tree careened past - looking like a kayak caught in rapids - adrenaline began to roar through my veins. The roots of my hair rose up in a futile effort to desert the rest of my body. Denial wasn’t possible any more. I was watching a storm surge charging in from the Gulf of Mexico.<br /><br />I’d always prided myself on being cool in a crisis, yet now, only one thought ran through my head, repeating like a record on an unbalanced jukebox: “You idiot. You should have gone to Diamondhead.”<br /><br />Diamondhead is a community five miles north of Bay St. Louis. Friends who had evacuated to ride out the storm there had begged me to join them. I had resisted. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “No surge will make it back to my house, I’m a quarter mile from the beach,” I assured them. “It can’t be worse than Camille.”<br /><br />But now, Katrina had me feeling like I was trapped in the Alamo, surrounded by an enemy whose strength had been vastly underestimated. No reinforcements would arrive, no escape was possible. If the walls were breached, my survival would be in doubt. How did I find myself in that precarious position? The decisions had fallen into place like dominos of denial, ending with my resolution to ride out the storm.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Citizen%20St.%20surge%20rising%20mailer.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Citizen%20St.%20surge%20rising%20mailer.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Surge Rising on Citizen Street"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">(end of chapter 4 excerpt)</span><br /></span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-86644232943031050482010-01-06T16:11:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:12:10.874-08:00Chapter 5 - The Fourth Step<span style="font-weight: bold;">The First Step</span><br /><br />My cell phone became a high-tech rosary. My fingers fumbled as I punched number after number into the keyboard. Even when I managed to enter a correct number, I’d only hear a busy signal. Lines were either down or overwhelmed. I rehearsed the one question I’d ask if I was lucky enough to make outside contact: Where is the eye of the storm? If it was passing, the surge was peaking. If the hurricane was still at sea, we were experiencing just the beginning of a tsunami.<br /><br />Phone in hand, I paced from room to room, unconsciously looking for a way to escape. In Joe’s office, I eyed the attic pull-down, remembering the old New Orleans adage about keeping an axe in the attic. Yesterday, I’d joked about the tradition. Joe had never heard of it, so I had to explain that people who retreated to an attic because of rising waters could be trapped there and drowned. If an axe were in the attic, they could at least hack a hole in the roof. It had seemed funny the night before - now I wondered if I’d be climbing up there soon.<br /><br />My pacing took me to the kitchen door and I peered out into the storm. The Gulf of Mexico covered the patio and yard, but it looked more like the Amazon river. Sinister dark eddies swirled against the stairs to the house. Five steps rose from the ground level to the porch landing. The first was already submerged, the second was under attack.<br /><br /><br />Mesmerized by the sight, I almost dropped the phone in surprise when I heard a voice. I’d somehow gotten through to my friends Regan and Mark, weathering the storm at their house several miles inland. Regan had no new reports. Their radio had gone out and the last they’d heard was that the eye should have passed at nine.<br /><br />Regan suggested that we try to make it back to my house. I moved to another window and looked longingly towards the massive white building. Through the sheets of rain, it beckoned like a lighthouse. But the short path between Joe’s house and mine had disappeared beneath muddy rapids, seething with debris. The current ran against us.<br /><br />“Ahh, honey,” Regan said, her tone heavy with pity. She put Mark on the line, but our call was cut short. Their roof was blowing off. It was the last phone conversation I’d have for three days.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Joe%27s%20yard%20before.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Joe%27s%20yard%20before.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>“Joe’s Yard Before the Storm”<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div> <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Joe%27s%20yard%20during%20surge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Joe%27s%20yard%20during%20surge.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>“Joe’s Yard During the Storm”<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Second Step</span><br /><br />Still working the phone, I joined Joe on the back porch. He seemed unperturbed by the gusts of wind pummeling him and held his camera to his eye as he framed shots of his yard. The raging river was rising – the second step had been overtaken and water lapped hungrily at the third.<br /><br />A flying sheet of tin sent us scurrying for cover and once inside, I put my hand on his arm. In a shaky attempt at humor, I asked Joe if he’d put the axe in the attic. “Ellis,” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice, “You’ve already asked me that three times. No. The axe is in the garage.”<br /><br />I realized then how addled I was. I had no recollection of asking before. We gazed at the garage, only twenty feet away, separated now from the house by a rushing torrent.<br /><br />Joe explained that if the water rose much higher, the house could float off the pilings. “When the water comes into the house,” he said, “we have to get out.”<br /><br />Some details stick in my memory like glints of glitter. He used the word “when” instead of “if.” Another wash of raw terror slid through my body. I looked out into the raging winds and across the expanse of black, pitiless water. An incredulous voice in my head protested: <span style="font-style: italic;">Are you crazy? Just shoot me in the head right now and get it over with!<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">(End of Chapter 5 excerpt)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-19141709046382253162010-01-05T16:15:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:16:28.534-08:00Chapter 7 - Lionel's BoatMy house is a quarter mile from the Gulf, yet five months after Katrina, there’s still a boat beached in my front yard. It’s an ugly boat. The fiberglass is flaking and dark stains mottle the lackluster hull. It’s the sort of small power skiff that’s used to fish in bayous or in our shallow bay. There’s no motor now. The interior - where fishermen used to land their catches, swap tales and drink cold beers out of coolers - is filled with branches, leaves and mud. This boat’s been around the block a few times. Literally.<br /><br />The boat didn’t arrive at my house in the normal way - on a trailer. It sailed the streets of my town, borne by the greatest storm surge in American history. Coming to rest at my porch like some battered gondola from Venice, it carried four souls to safety, four names that would have been added to the long list of Katrina’s dead. Augusta thinks it was steered by a spirit.<br /><br />Though some might call it a useless eyesore, it has a new life ahead as a shrine. Augusta has given me permission to make a planter out of it. She thinks it’s a fitting end to Lionel’s boat.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/key%20of%20sea%20post%20Katrina.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/key%20of%20sea%20post%20Katrina.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Webb School - Ellis's House - after the storm"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />I didn’t even know who Lionel was until the end of September, almost a month after the storm had passed. Volunteers from the outside had set up free food kitchens in a few locations around town and I'd go to the one closest to my house for a hot meal. I’d gotten my lunch and was looking for a seat when I ran into Augusta and Augusta-Inez. I embraced them with joy, but Augusta seemed confused at first. Her daughter had to remind her that I was “the Webb School lady.”<br /><br />I could understand the confusion. Even though they’d stayed with me for three days after the storm, they’d probably never seen me with my hair combed before. Augusta’s face lit up once she made the connection. We talked about the day of the storm. I admitted how frightened I’d been.<br /><br />“You know,” Augusta said. “I never was scared, that whole time. I’d prayed beforehand that the Lord would keep me from being afraid. Some people get heart attacks they get so frightened. I didn’t want that happening to me.”<br /><br />She asked me what I was going to do with the boat. I explained that I wanted to make a planter out of it to commemorate the event. Although the boat seemed ruined, I was trying to track the owners down for permission. All I had to go on were the barely legible registration numbers.<br /><br />“Why honey, that’s our boat,” Augusta said. This was news to me. I had thought it was a stray.<br /><br />“Let me tell you,” she said. “The morning of the storm, Donald came and got me from my room. He said we got to get out <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>. I didn’t understand until my feet hit the floor and I was standing in water.” Donald works for the local power company. He and his brother, Steve, stayed with their mother during the storm. Donald's teenaged son and nephew were next door with Augusta-Inez.<br /><br />At first, Donald thought the street flooding was from the heavy rains. He decided to move the company truck to higher ground. He began to put on his shoes, but by the time he got them tied, the water had risen over the tires. In moments, it began to seep through the floors of the house. Donald alerted Augusta and then swam across to his sister’s house to help them evacuate. There, he had to break down the front door – the six feet of water had created a vacuum. Donald and his nephew Otis made their way back to Augusta’s, fighting a heavy current and driving rain that felt like “needles in the eyes.”<br /><br />Meanwhile, Steven helped Augusta down the front steps, now covered with several feet of water. “He was going real slow,” Augusta said. “Just like I was a baby. Then Otis came back with Donald. He yelled, ‘I’ll give my life for my grandma!’ He grabbed me around the waist and tucked me under his arm like I was a piece of wood. He dragged me next door to my daughter’s house so fast, I still can’t believe it. It was like he was running across the top of the water.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(End of Chapter 7 excerpt)<br /></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-6701184327315633132010-01-04T16:17:00.000-08:002010-01-17T07:51:20.628-08:00Chapter 8 - the Edge of the Abyss<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lleVKArhzYI/S1Mv1x3d4GI/AAAAAAAABBw/U95FD16BMUY/s1600-h/Ellis+small.jpg"></a>In Bay St. Louis, at the intersection where Hancock crosses Washington, my life changed forever. Reality shifted like a plate in the earth and I suddenly found myself teetering on the edge of a chasm. The force of the storm ripped opened that same dark abyss for everyone on the coast, so I’m not alone. But for me, it happened in a heartbeat, the moment I saw that Katrina had stolen my town.<br /><br />The afternoon of the hurricane, when the winds began to die down, I still felt lucky. Everyone who’d taken refuge in my home was safe. Both Joe’s house and mine were standing, although damaged. Some of the houses around us had flooded and most had taken a beating, but the neighborhood seemed intact. A few months of clean-up and life in the Bay would return to normal. I’d forgotten that our houses were on the edge of an “island.” We’re on the fringes of the old town, built on some of the highest ground on the Gulf. Less than a block away, the elevation drops off dramatically.<br /><br />Joe brought his camera and we ventured into the streets. Before we began our expedition, Joe took a photo of me in front of my house. I look at it now, hardly recognizing myself. The woman in the picture is at least 70 and has been hanging out in a wind tunnel. There’s a wry smile on my exhausted face, but there’s relief there too. I think the worst is over. I was wrong.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lleVKArhzYI/S1Mv1x3d4GI/AAAAAAAABBw/U95FD16BMUY/s320/Ellis+small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427734576877133922" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 412px; height: 300px;" border="0" /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Mississippi artist H.C. Porter created the painting for the book's cover</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> based on that photograph by Joe. It seems to capture the last few moments of my naivety.</span> </span></div><br />We wanted to get to the front, but our routes were limited. Roads were blockaded by uprooted trees or houses that had been shoved off their foundations. Our closest option was Washington, one street back towards Old Town. As we walked the two blocks to the beach, occasional bursts of rain pelted us and leftover gusts hurtled past. The damage we saw increased with every step. The street was covered with power lines and roofing tin, lumber and mangled cars. A few of our neighbors had emerged from hiding. Every face wore the same dazed expression, as if they were waking from a long and tangled nightmare.<br /><br />In the middle of the first block, a brightly painted table blocked a driveway. I paused. It was hand-crafted from a fine, light wood and in excellent condition. It looked as if it’d been placed at the curb for trash pick-up. I couldn’t understand why someone would be throwing such a nice table away. In fact, hadn’t I seen a similar table at my friend Keith’s house? But Keith lived two blocks away on Citizen, close to the beach. Suddenly, a little bomb of horror detonated in my throat.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/111%20Citizen%20St%209-18.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/111%20Citizen%20St%209-18.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"111 Citizen Street"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />As we approached the intersection of Hancock and Washington, we found it impossible to go further. We were just a block from the beach, but an enormous pile of rubble barricaded the road. Joe climbed onto the heap and began shooting photos, while I strained to see over the top. Finally, I summoned the courage to follow him up the mountain of debris. I clambered on to someone’s front door and gazed out at the apocalypse. The only word that came to mind was “Hiroshima.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(End of Chapter 8 excerpt)<br /></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-45961240659732142812010-01-03T16:19:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:20:36.013-08:00Chapter 9 - The Good LifeBefore the storm hit Bay St. Louis, the first thing I’d hear in the morning was a rooster crowing. He lived a few doors down and would get started well before dawn. It could be a charming way to wake, but lots of times I’d want to strangle him. It wouldn’t have done any good. As the sky grew light, he’d be joined by a variety of wild birds. Flocks of them would gather in the trees around my house and the volume of their chattering made it hard to sleep late.<br /><br />The morning after the storm, I woke with a new sort of life in a very different world. If the rooster hadn’t drowned, he was depressed. The other birds had either died or fled. The only thing I heard were the beating blades of a helicopter.<br /><br />The first thought in my head was, <span style="font-style: italic;">Help is here! It’s the National Guard!</span> Joe and I looked out the window and saw a chopper circling low, but it had no official markings. After a few minutes, we realized it was a probably a news helicopter, photographing the destruction below. Joe predicted help would be a long time coming. “They’ll be focused on New Orleans and forget about us,” he said. I didn’t believe him at the time.<br /><br />Then Joe launched into what would become a morning ritual and listed the day’s priorities. As a high school teacher, he’d had a lifetime to hone his organizational skills. I accepted the direction gratefully because a dense fog had settled over my own mind. Joe didn’t sugarcoat the situation: Life as we knew it was over. If we were to survive with sanity, we’d need to take extreme measures.<br /><br />The first extreme measure was to abandon our toilets. The water and sewage systems would be down for the foreseeable future. If we used the bathroom inside and flushed manually, sewage might back up into our houses. We’d need to set up a latrine and the only available place was the dark storage room beneath my house. The floor was covered with a dense, rank-smelling slime left by the surge. I shoved debris away from the door to make space for the five-gallon bucket Joe gave me. He removed a toilet seat from one of my real bathrooms and placed it over the rim of the bucket. I hung a roll of tissue from a nail on the wall. The new bathroom was ready for business.<br /><br />The next point Joe tackled was the fact that our homes were some of the few standing buildings in town that hadn’t flooded inside. We’d need to house and feed people - maybe lots of them and that would take some planning. Over the next few days, we’d set up an emergency shelter. We had plenty of dry bedding and enough food and water to last several days, even with a crowd. Used sparingly, Joe guessed the propane for his camp stove would hold out for a week. He pointed out that hot meals every evening would boost morale. We’d share cooking duties.<br /><br />My first priority however, was to see if anything could be salvaged from either my retail shop or jewelry studio. Joe loaned me a backpack and his bicycle – mine had both been ruined by the surge. I whistled for my dog Jack and he trotted beside the bike, eager for adventure. He was in a great mood. The stench that rose up from the mud-coated streets may have distressed me, but Jack found it invigorating.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Jack%20and%20debris%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Jack%20and%20debris%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Jack"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />It was slow going. I stopped frequently and splashed water from puddles onto the bike tires to remove mud that clung to the wheels like heavy mortar. Many times I was forced to carry the bike over and around fallen trees or sections of houses that blocked the route. The only moving vehicles I saw were the trucks of Georgia Power and an Oklahoma tree cutting company. Amazingly, their crews were already at work clearing the streets. Their chainsaws roared in the still heat of morning.<br /><br />Six blocks and half an hour later, I reached "The Lumberyard." It’s a renovated arts center owned by my friends Vicki and Doug. Just three weeks before, I’d moved my office and studio into an inviting space on the ground floor. Nothing looked inviting now. The gate to the center was blocked by a massive fallen tree. I climbed over it and trudged through the thick mud, shouting for Doug. The last I’d heard, he’d planned to ride out the storm there. He didn’t respond, so I guessed he’d left for Jackson with Vicki. Later, I’d learn that he’d evacuated all right – from the frying pan into the fire.<br /><br />It was obvious that a wall of water had crashed through the arts complex. It was located closer to the beach than my house, but on higher ground, so I was astonished at the damage. I peered into my studio through the plate glass windows. The room had been ransacked. My cherished tools had been churned with an evil black silt dredged from the bottom of the sea. Office equipment and files had overturned in the frenzy, while books and personal memorabilia had been hurled around the room. The shock of the sight almost brought me to my knees. Then, to ward off self-pity, I repeated a phrase that was already becoming a town mantra: <span style="font-style: italic;">No sniveling.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/studio%20meets%20Katrina%202.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/studio%20meets%20Katrina%202.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Studio Meets Katrina"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />I biked the two blocks to Main Street, where the debris field became too treacherous for riding. Main Street runs straight to the beach along the highest ridge of land in the Bay. On the first block from the front, I’d owned a Creole cottage built in 1850. I’d painstakingly renovated and for ten years, it had housed my gallery, studio and apartment. The older people in town called it “The Monkey House.” In the 1940’s, an eccentric woman had run a small, feisty newspaper in the front. She’d lived in the back with her large pet monkey that would periodically escape and terrorize the neighborhood children.<br /><br />A month before, wanting to downsize my business, I’d sold the building. I’d signed over the deed, but not my heart. The Monkey House had never flooded in a 150-year lifespan of serious storms and together, Mimi and I had safely weathered three hurricanes there. I held my breath as I rounded the corner. When I saw that it still stood, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. It’d lost part of the roof and taken on four to five feet of water, but the sturdy cottage shone like a beacon of hope.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/monkey%20house%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/monkey%20house%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Monkey House" after the storm<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />That hope dimmed as Jack and I continued towards the front. A thick hedge of wrecked cars, beams, furniture and utility poles made it impossible to even carry the bike. I left it behind and walked forward into the nightmare. The gallery where I’d rented a retail space was toast. Much of the roof had caved in, burying my display cases and jewelry. After twenty years, I couldn’t find enough left of my business to put into a backpack. I wouldn’t be alone - most of the old downtown had been demolished.<br /><br />The waterfront itself was unrecognizable. Main Street used to end at Beach Boulevard. Now, it abruptly dropped off to the Gulf below. The beach road was gone. Every structure on the beach side of the road was gone. The buildings on the near side hadn’t fared much better - the few surviving shells looked as if they’d been bombed. The entire front of one brick building had been sheared away. A fully furnished living room on the 2nd floor was exposed to the street, looking like a bizarre set for a Fellini film.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/living%20room%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/living%20room%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Living Room"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />The railroad bridge dissecting Old Town was no longer a bridge. Concrete pilings rising out of the water were all that remained, while the track itself twisted crazily into the Gulf, a roller-coaster ride gone berserk. I looked towards the four-lane Bay bridge in the distance. Only scattered supports bore witness to the fact it had even existed.<br /><br />A few of my neighbors joined me at the literal dead-end of Main. They slouched against the edge of an asphalt slab like worn shipwreck survivors. I nodded and they nodded back. There wasn’t much to say. We surveyed the absolute eradication of our town in silence.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/the%20corner%20of%20Beach%20and%20Main.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/the%20corner%20of%20Beach%20and%20Main.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Corner of Beach and Main"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />Walking back towards my bike, I came upon a wedding photo face up in the mud. I studied the eager, hopeful faces, but didn’t recognize them. Where were these people now? Tears ambushed me again. Like some madwoman, I carefully worked to dislodge the picture from the mud, ignoring the magnitude of the ruin around me. I somehow hoped to save the photo and return it to the owners, but it fell to pieces in my hand - a shredded symbol of the countless losses around me. I wailed aloud from rage and frustration. Jack was the only witness to this tantrum and he burrowed his head beneath my arm. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he wanted to make it better. I pulled him against me tightly and cried into his fur.<br /><br />I headed back up Main Street and saw my friend Doug. My spirits lifted immediately as we greeted each other with enthusiastic hugs. Doug always exudes a relaxed humor and that morning was no exception. He’s a hurricane hunter by profession - flying planes into the heart of storms for a living probably gives one a certain immunity to anxiety.<br /><br />As I’d guessed, he’d evacuated the arts center before the storm. He’d stayed with six friends at the Bay Town Inn, a historic bed and breakfast on the beach. He reported that all had survived. I wouldn’t find out until later exactly what they’d survived: The Bay Town Inn no longer existed. When I pressed Doug for details that morning, he answered with characteristic understatement: “It was one heck of a ride.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(End of Chapter 9 excerpt)<br /></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-86687544466843309052010-01-02T16:21:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:22:35.070-08:00Chapter 10 - The Story of the Bay Town Inn<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Bay%20Town%20Inn%20.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Bay%20Town%20Inn%20.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Bay Town Inn Before"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo courtesy of Ann Tidwell</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/BTI%20after.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/BTI%20after.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Bay Town Inn After"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">___________________________________<br /></div><br /><br />Nikki Nicholson straddled the oak branch, lying face down and hugging it with all her might. Her small dog, Maddy was tucked beneath her stomach like a baby. She pressed the dog closer to her, wondering how they’d possibly survive. Each wave that washed over the tree threatened to tear them from the limb and drag them into the seething surge. Nikki had always figured she’d be killed in a plane crash. Now, it looked like all those hours of airport anxiety had been wasted. In a bizarre twist of fate, she was caught in a tree, facing death by hurricane. It seemed like a very strange way to die.<br /><br />Doug Niolet reached up from his perch on the branch below and held onto Nikki’s boots for dear life. As a professional Hurricane Hunter, forty-eight hours before he’d piloted a plane through the eye of the storm. Now, he was in the center of Katrina again, hoping his branch wouldn’t break. Doug wasn’t sure he was going to die, but he wasn’t sure he’d make it either. He’d seen the others disappear.<br /><br />After the Bay Town Inn disintegrated around them, seven friends had been forced into the fury of the storm. In the chaos, they’d been separated. Three of them made it to a large oak. The other four had vanished. Doug had watched in horror as Kay Stevens was pulled beneath the water. She didn’t resurface. Her husband Dan had made it to a cluster of smaller trees nearby, but soon after he’d disappeared as well. The elders of the group, Dick and Nadine Stamm, had floated away together on a small section of roof. They’d actually waved good-bye as they sailed past on the makeshift raft. Doug waved back and started praying the rosary. It had been his grandmother’s favorite prayer.<br /><br />Kevan Guillory had been the last person to make it to the tree. His branch faced the Gulf, so he’d warn Nikki and Doug when a breaker was about to hit. The three friends were trapped for the duration - they couldn’t go higher and they couldn’t go down. Whenever the sea slammed into them, Kevan would bury his face in the resurrection ferns that grew on the branch and ask himself one question: “What in the cornbread hell led us to this?”<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/BTI%20interview.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/BTI%20interview.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Telling the Story"<br /><span style="font-size: 85%;">Nikki, Doug and Kevan (l. to r.) tell their story while I'm typing it onto my computer</span><br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">************<br /></div><br />Nikki and Kevan became worldwide celebrities the day after the storm when CNN repeatedly aired a short interview with the two survivors. But the network missed the best parts of the story. Exactly who are these people? What kept them all from panicking in the worst of circumstances? And the question that Kevan asked of himself is one of the most compelling – what led seven mature, intelligent people to ride out the storm in a beachfront bed and breakfast?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(End of Chapter 10 excerpt)<br /></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-87759970639575694242010-01-01T16:23:00.000-08:002010-01-11T16:24:15.377-08:00Chapter 11 - Room Number FiveDoug peered out the window, straining to see through the sheets of rain. The building across the street had vanished. Large sections of the restaurant churned in the water covering the front yard. Frenzied waves drove the debris against the foundations of the Bay Town Inn, shaking the house with every slam of the surge.<br /><br />Kevan and Doug announced it was time to move the nest to the 2nd floor. Room Number Five was the obvious choice. It was centered in the back of the house, directly at the top of the stairs. The room was flanked on one side by a walk-in closet and on the other by a bath.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Room%20Number%205.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Room%20Number%205.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Room Number Five"<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">photo courtesy of Ann Tidwell</span><br /></div><br />The group began hauling their possessions and supplies up the stairs. The Stamms depended on several medications and Nadine made sure she had them all with her in a black garbage bag. She also carried up the portable radio, even though the reception had been reduced to static.<br /><br />Nadine knew they were in for a “very challenging time.” She settled on a daybed, with Kay at her feet. Kay chanted a soothing mantra, while Nadine repeated more traditional prayers. When Nikki commented on their composure, Nadine smiled. “It’s in God’s hands now,” she said serenely.<br /><br />The men remained below trying to hold the doors against the Gulf of Mexico. The waves pounded against the front of the house as if an outside army sensed victory and had taken up battering rams. The noise was deafening. Doug took a last look through the cracks in the plywood. The front porch was no longer attached to the building. “That’s extreme,” he thought. He warned the other men that it was time to go and they fled up the steps, crowding with the women into Room Five.<br /><br />Kevan was the last to leave. “Just as I turned to go upstairs,” he said, “the water broke through. A gush raged through the house. At the same time, water poured in the back from the kitchen. I’d taken my glasses off, but could see the waves coming up the stairwell. They just slashed against the back wall where the nest had been. Then the entire staircase broke loose. It went crashing through to the back of the house. I wondered, now how we are going to get down from the second floor? That’s when I first realized we really had a problem.”<br /><br />At the top of the stairs, Kevan veered off into the doorway of a bedroom directly to the left. From this vantage point, he could see the rest of the group huddled in Room Five, but he could also look down into the gaping chasm below. Breakers smashed through the bottom floor, hurling antique furnishings against walls that were beginning to break apart. Wave after wave mauled the house with a feral ferocity, ripping away sections as he watched. Finally, the entire front of the building groaned in surrender and fell away into a gorging sea.<br /><br />The doorway to Number Five suddenly opened directly onto an ocean writhing in fury. The front rooms no longer existed. The floor of the hallway had been sucked into the surf. The room behind Kevan began to distort as it pulled away from the back of the house. Nikki screamed when she saw Kevan’s danger. He leaped towards the others from the crumbling remains of his perilous perch. Propelled by adrenaline, he crossed a six-foot rift that dropped away to certain death below. Indiana Jones couldn’t have done it better. He made it to the threshold of Room Number Five and was pulled by the others into the last safe haven.<br /><br />But it wasn’t a haven for long. Number Five became the only survivor of the house when the remaining back rooms on both sides were pulled away. As the final supports of the first floor gave way, it settled onto the heaving surface of the sea. The walls and ceiling of the room began to cave in on the group. The men struggled to keep it from collapsing onto them while the floor rippled beneath their feet. They weren’t able to save the front wall. Their last protection from the elements was inexorably drawn into the water.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(End of Chapter 11 excerpt)<br /></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1133710709680389832006-01-19T07:26:00.000-08:002009-10-15T11:58:43.504-07:00Under Surge, Under Siege<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><a href="http://www.baysaintlouiscity.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Bay St. Louis, MS</span></a> is a small arts colony located on the Gulf Coast. These journal entries and essays examine the town’s astonishing community spirit, which flourishes despite the horrific disaster and an arduous, on-going aftermath. To enlarge images, double-click on them.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm pleased to announce that the manuscript for this book has been completed and will be published in the summer of 2010 by the <a href="http://www.upress.state.ms.us/"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">University Press of Mississippi </span></a>under the title <span style="font-size:130%;">"Under Surge, Under Siege, the Odyssey of Bay St. Louis and Katrina." </span> Check back often for more information!</span><br /><br />This project was also awarded a <a href="http://coastwriter.blogspot.com/2007/07/literary-fellowship.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Fellowship for Literary Excellence by the Mississippi Arts Commission</span></a> (July 2007). Two complete chapters (The Story of the Bay Town Inn and Room Number Five) were published in the Summer 2008 edition of <a href="http://www.unc.edu/depts/csas/southern_cultures/index.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Southern Cultures</span></a> - the literary journal for the UNC - Chapel Hill Center for Study of the American South.<br /><br />The opening chapter, "Language of Loss" was awarded First Place Runner-up in the essay division of the 2006 William <a href="http://www.wordsandmusic.org/competition.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Faulkner-William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition</span></a>. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" > In the 2007 competition, the chapter "Five Pounds of Potatoes" was</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" > a semi-finalist in the same division.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br />For additional information, access my <a href="http://www.webbschool.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Webb School </span></a>and <a href="http://www.coastwriter.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">professional </span></a>sites. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thanks to all of you who have encouraged me over the past four years in this attempt to document the story of my community.</span><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Chapter 1 - The Language of Loss</span></span><br />______________________<br /><br />There's a man living in my driveway now and I don’t find that at all unusual. He makes his bed in the back of his small SUV and sleeps there with his little dog. Many afternoons he can be found sitting behind the wheel, reading the paper, his Shitz Su nestled on his lap. He calls his car “home.” It’s part of the new vocabulary that’s emerging on the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina.<br /><br />The man is the grandfather of Anna, who’s nine years old and one of my new residents. She and her parents stay at my house for now because the storm took their own. Anna tells me that the Shitz Su is fussy and will pick fights with my dogs, so her grandfather would rather stay in his car than intrude. I’ve tried to insist that he come inside – we’d find him a bed to sleep in - but I think that now he’d rather be in the one place he can call his own.<br /><br />He’s not the only one. I have other friends living in tents in their driveways or in cramped travel-trailers rather than taking refuge with family in other towns. They want to stay connected with the place that has been their home, even if the structure is no longer standing. It may not seem very practical, but practicality flew out of the window along with everything else when Katrina tore through Mississippi two months ago.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/katrina%20patina.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/katrina%20patina.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Katrina Patina"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />The community that remains behind on the coast has evolved into a new animal – some fantastic creature I’ve never seen before. It’s fiercely loyal, incredibly hardy and deeply determined. It’s developed a wicked sense of humor and doesn’t whine very often. No matter your loss, too many others have lost more. It’s bad form to complain.<br /><br />And this new community is developing its own language, with an extensive and colorful vocabulary. There’s “mucking out.” That used to mean cleaning out a horse’s stall. Now it’s something you do to the inside of your house. “Gone-Pecan” is used frequently – it’s a designation for anything that got taken out by the storm – houses, businesses, cars, family photos. It’s interchangeable with “Got-Gone.”<br /><br />Friends meeting in the meal tents or the FEMA lines will ask each other, “How’d you make out?” Too many times the answer is “I got slabbed,” meaning nothing of the house remains except the concrete foundation. If one of them still has walls standing, the answer will be along these lines: “I came out pretty well – I only got six feet of water.” The homeless friend will offer congratulations. This is the only place in America where having six feet of mud and water violently invade your house is considered lucky.<br /><br />When we leave the region and go someplace that wasn’t affected by the storm, we call it “the outside world.” The outside world has cable TV and working phones. You can walk out your door and look at a neighborhood instead of rubble. You can drive to any number of gas stations or stores and they’re actually open. You don’t have to stand in line four hours to buy a washing machine or talk to a FEMA agent. A chainsaw isn’t a necessary household item. You can call an insurance agent and actually talk to someone. There isn’t a 10 o’clock curfew. And in the outside world, the word “Katrina” is just a name instead of an adjective.<br /><br />Here, we have “Katrina-mind.” That refers to blanking out, forgetting something absurdly simple, like your own phone number or the name of your best friend. We say “Katrina-ware.” That’s the paper and plastic we mostly eat from now. There’s the “Katrina Cough,” a persistent hacking from breathing all the silt brought in by the storm. This dust hangs in the air and coats everything with a fine, malevolent grit.<br /><br />A portable toilet has become a “Katrina Latrina.” Fetid water that has hidden in corners and plastic boxes, a dark brew of multi-colored molds that emits an unmistakable stench, is “Katrina Juice”. And my favorite new phrase is “Katrina Patina.”<br /><br />Anything that survived the storm is coated with sludge, discolored, mangled at least to some degree. It’s got that “Katrina Patina.” Jewelry, artwork, tools, photographs, furniture, clothes – all have been transformed by the storm into something vaguely recognizable, yet inalterably changed. Friends, at the end of a long day of mucking, covered with grime and sweat and a substance resembling black algae, will refuse an embrace. “Stay back,” they’ll warn. “I’ve got the Katrina Patina.”<br /><br />Even after a scalding shower, scrubbing with soap and disinfectant, the Katrina Patina remains, marking every one of us. It doesn’t wash off. We, as well as our belongings, are vaguely recognizable, inalterably changed. We can only hope some of it wears away as the years pass.<br /><br />Yet beneath that patina - under the sludge and the mud, the loss and the mourning - a bright determination flourishes. Our spirit as a community is evolving as surely as our vocabulary. We’re fluent in the language of loss now, but we’re also learning more about the language of love.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Mural%20Sunset.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Mural%20Sunset.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Sunset Mural"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">This beachfront mural in Bay St. Louis by artist Chris Hill survived the storm, but now has the "Katrina Patina"</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(text and photos copyright 2005 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1133706135409180502006-01-18T06:17:00.000-08:002007-04-01T19:47:44.794-07:00The Ties That Bind<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 1/03/06</span><br />_____________________<br /><br /><br /><br />We’re already forgetting our town.<br /><br />A few days ago, I found a photo of Bay St. Louis before the storm. It's a digital shot I'd taken last winter, during one of my sunset walks on the beach. I enlarged it on my computer screen and sat before it, staring.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/coast%20before%202%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/coast%20before%202%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Bay St. Louis before the Storm"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson<br /></span></div><br />Anna, who’s just turned ten, walked into the room with her mother, Kim. They’ve been living with me in the four months since Katrina destroyed their home. They were surprised to find me crying and checked out the photo causing my grief. Kim understood immediately. Their home had stood a block from where I’d taken the picture. Now their house was gone. All the houses in the photo were gone. The image of our old, familiar town had already faded and we were both stricken by a renewed sense of loss. But Anna didn’t get it. She peered more closely at the picture.<br /><br />“That’s beautiful!” she said. “Where is it?”<br /><br />Her mother started crying too.<br /><br />________________________<br /><br />Katrina robbed us of our town. If you’re not from here, you can’t conceive of the damage. You may have seen pictures, but photos represent only a tiny window view of the disaster. A single image can't begin to convey the scale of the obliteration. Most of you have probably witnessed the aftermath of a tornado. Now, in your mind's eye, try to picture miles and miles of that same sort of splintered devastation. One can drive the coast for hours and find nothing that escaped harm.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Beach%20neighborhood%20Pan%209-12.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Beach%20neighborhood%20Pan%209-12.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Beach Neighborhood"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /><br /><br /></span></div>The damage is unprecedented in three hundred years of recorded history. Katrina drove a 35 foot wall of black water that barreled in from the Gulf like a gigantic bulldozer. Structures that had seen dozens of severe storms - including Hurricane Camille - buildings that had been standing solidly for over a century, are simply gone. The old Spanish Customs House in the Bay, built on high ground in 1789, is scattered over a four block area. Only the brick floor remains.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Jordan%20River%20Estates%20mailer.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Jordan%20River%20Estates%20mailer.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Jourdan Rver Estates"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />Mountains of debris will take years to completely clear. Most of my friends and neighbors lost everything they owned, many without flood insurance because we lived in a "no flood" zone. Some of my friends are living in tents or trailers. Some have temporarily evacuated, some have left for good. The ones that return sift through the remains of their lives and come back at the end of the day covered with mud, holding a small bag of odd items they've salvaged. They’re happy if they found something like their mother's tea-cup.<br /><br />The storm stole more from us than homes or personal possessions - it took a way of life. I don’t want Anna to forget that life. I don’t want any of us who lived here to forget. And I want people who never knew this place to understand exactly what we lost. So let me tell you about Bay St. Louis before the storm. I’ll try to paint the landscape that I loved so well, create a picture of this village by a sleepy sea.<br /><br />Ancient oaks lined the coast, framing large and elegant houses - many of them built in the 1800’s. Behind this dignified vanguard, cottages clustered along narrow, shaded lanes. These neighborhoods were mixed in more ways than one. Professors lived next door to plumbers, young families next to retirees, black next to white, rich next to poor. I loved that – it flew directly in the distorted face most outsiders have pasted on the state of Mississippi.<br /><br />The architectural styles of the homes varied as much as the people who lived in them. Cheek to cheek, the Creole cottage danced with the Victorian, the Greek Revival with the bungalow. In those lush yards, you could imagine the lingering ghosts from an era of ease. They didn’t want to leave. Nobody who came here wanted to leave. This place pulled at the hearts of any who have them. It promised peace and made good on its word.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Brignac%20Grounds.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Brignac%20Grounds.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Brignac Grounds"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />We were safe here. The simmering city anger that threatens harm was far away. Many of us casually left car keys in the ignition or forgot to lock our doors. That feeling of security was rooted in our sense of community. If you’d lived here, you wouldn’t have known everyone in town, but sometimes it would have seemed like it. A trip to the grocery store or post office was a social outing. Checkout lines were always alive with chatter about kids and family. You would have heard the question, “How’s your mama?” several times a day.<br /><br />Children of the Bay didn’t realize it, but they lived in a Norman Rockwell portrait of a kinder time. Parents could take toddlers to the beach and relax their guard. They didn’t have to worry about treacherous undertows and surf, because the shallow water lapped at the shore as if it were a placid lake. Older kids would walk down to the beach in groups or bike together down sparsely trafficked streets. If they recognized you, they’d wave and try to ride faster. They didn’t want you to stop them and ask how their mama was doing. They were on a mission: To have fun and be free.<br /><br />I’d feel like a kid myself when I’d go out for my daily bike ride. The free-wheeling feeling of childhood, buoyant like a helium balloon, swelled in my chest when I’d pedal through the streets. I knew I must have looked strange – a middle-aged woman, sun-hat shading my face, one dog riding in my basket, another trotting alongside - but it didn’t matter here. A little eccentricity was welcome in the Bay.<br /><br />Biking at night was even better. I could imagine that I was living in the 1930’s as I silently glided past shuttered shops and cottages lit by antique lamps. The magic was palpable on soft, humid summer evenings. It was as if some alchemist had distilled the essence of a small southern town and poured it over the ground of Bay St. Louis. Our town motto is “A Place Apart,” and it was.<br /><br />Three mornings before the storm, I rode my bike to the beach for the last time. No premonition of doom followed me. The dawn was breaking and a diffused pink light tinted the town. It seemed like I moved through a fairy tale, one with a happily-ever-after ending. Would I have appreciated it more if I’d known it was my last time? I don’t think so. I knew how lucky I was.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/The%20Bike.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/The%20Bike.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Bike"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*************<br /></div><br />Despite Katrina, I still feel lucky. I’m learning new lessons every day. And of all the lessons I’ve learned since the storm upturned this idyllic coast, this seems the most important: A sense of community is the most undervalued asset in this country today.<br /><br />In those first black days after the storm, we were cut off from the outside world, isolated and alone. Yet, I watched a couple who had lost all they owned driving over from Pensacola repeatedly. They brought truckloads of needed supplies and distributed them around town. I saw the two elderly brothers on my block, the only ones in the area who had a generator, welcoming strangers in to charge cell phones and drills.<br /><br />I witnessed the Miracle of the Shrines - neighbors would pick through the rubble from houses of friends and salvage the few personal belongings they could find. They would set these items up at the edge of the property. One could drive down the street and pass Irish crystal vases, family portraits, pottery or silver candlesticks, neatly arranged at the curb, awaiting the owners who had evacuated.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Seaside%20Shrine.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Seaside%20Shrine.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Seaside Shrine"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson<br /></span></div><br />People are still stressed beyond comprehension, yet they continue to give. I’ve witnessed so many acts of kindness that my faith in the goodness of most humans has been restored. Yes, theft occurs, cross words are exchanged, hoarding happens. But overall, because we feel bound to each other, we’ve taken care of our neighbors.<br /><br />No wonder so many of us want to stay and rebuild. Each day, we exist surrounded by destruction and it's a hard, hard burden to bear. But this community possesses a spirit that the winds and the surge of Katrina weren’t able to steal. The storm only strengthened those qualities that connect us.<br /><br />I used to sing a hymn in church when I was a kid - "Blessed be the Ties That Bind." Now I understand that those ties can go beyond family, beyond religious affiliation, beyond political leanings or race or economic status. They're ties of the heart and can still be found in the remains of a little town called Bay St. Louis.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Citizen%20Street%20in%20January.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Citizen%20Street%20in%20January.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Citizen Street, January 2006"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(text and photos copyright 2005 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1133711546123088852006-01-15T07:46:00.000-08:002007-06-16T16:37:45.522-07:00The Dethroning of Camille<span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 12/04/05</span><br />___________________________<br /><br /><br />My insurance adjuster’s eyes bug out. “You <span style="font-style: italic;">stayed </span>for the storm?” he says. “I ought to get back in my car and go right now.” He doesn’t actually call me nuts, but his tone of voice says it for him.<br /><br />After waiting two months to see a representative from my insurance company, I would lay down in front of a train to prevent his departure. “It’s a Camille thing,” I stammer. Even as I say it, I realize it won’t make sense to someone from Ohio.<br /><br />I am right. This answer does nothing to convince him of my sanity. He narrows his eyes and asks another question and for this one, I can find no words. “What was it like?” he says.<br /><br />For months, I’ve wanted to write about my storm experience, but procrastinate with persistence. I circle that mental minefield with suspicion and tread in tentatively, knowing one misstep will blow my carefully constructed composure to smithereens. So I’ll sidle in the back way by starting with the history of Hurricane Camille. After all, she’s the reason I and hundreds of my neighbors chose to stay.<br /><br />One of the best quotes I’ve heard since the storm is that Camille killed more people in 2005 than she did in 1969. If your house survived that storm, it could handle the worst nature could throw at you. After all, Queen Camille broke every record in the book.<br /><br />Here’s a few statistics: Camille was the most intense storm to hit the mainland U.S. in modern history. Sustained winds were 190 mph, gusts to 220. The lowest storm pressure ever recorded on the mainland (909 mbs) was measured in Bay St. Louis. The tidal surge was estimated at 22-27 feet, an all-time record for our country.<br /><br /><br />Camille was our town’s yardstick for catastrophe. Before Katrina, when guests asked me how I felt about living in a hurricane prone area, I had blithe and confident answers. “Bay St. Louis is on a high ridge of land,” I’d explain smugly. “This neighborhood didn’t even flood in Camille.” If I was shopping for real estate, the first question I’d ask is, “Did it flood in Camille?” If the answer was no, I rested easy, knowing that it would be eternally high and dry.<br /><br />Insurance agents were equally as confident. They’d tell you, “If your property didn’t see water in Camille, don’t waste your money on flood insurance.” Lots of my friends heard the same line, but no one really blames the agents. We were all insurance poor, paying vast amounts just for the windstorm policies. Why not save the money if you were located on some of the highest ground on the Gulf?<br /><br />The numerous historic houses on the coast bolstered our community confidence even higher. Homes that were 100-150 years old lined the shore. The sturdy Spanish Customs house, right up the street from me, had stood overlooking the beach since 1789 and faced off countless storms, including Camille. These buildings were monuments to indestructibility, daily reminders to keep the faith.<br /><br />Camille was called a “hundred year storm.” What were the chances of another Camille striking in our lifetime? And if another monster storm were to occur in that hundred years, could lightning possibly strike twice in the same place? Throw in the astronomical probability of a storm worse than Camille making landfall in the same area within thirty years and you have odds that would be the dream of any bookie. It’s a bet the most timid gambler would have taken in a heartbeat. I certainly did.<br /><br />In the days before Katrina hit, the name Camille became a mantra while the community prepared for a “bad one.” Everyone on the Gulf Coast takes hurricanes seriously, but many of my neighbors were Camille veterans. While we were boarding up, filling our bathtubs, checking our batteries, I heard over and over, “The weather people are alarmists. They’re predicting a 20 foot surge, so maybe it’ll get to 15. And even if it’s 20 feet, Camille was way worse. We didn’t take water in ‘69. We’ll be fine.”<br /><br />Outsiders may not understand this reasoning. Before any storm, the weather stations and public authorities screech in strident tones, “Evacuate now!” But while Coast residents pay attention to the wind speed of storms, we know from generations of experience that tidal surge will present the most danger. If your roof blows off (and it’s happened to me in the past), it’s dramatic, but not usually life-threatening.<br /><br />If you have sturdy shelter on high ground, you have two choices when a storm approaches: You can fight bumper to bumper traffic which crawls along – and it can take 6 hours to move 50 miles - hoping to find a motel room two states away. Or you can trust the surge predictions, batten down the hatches and stay put.<br /><br />As Katrina moved into the Gulf, family and friends around the country pled with me to evacuate. I invoked the name of Camille, holding it up like a banner, a bright talisman to ward off my fears. I was too exhausted to attempt a long drive and resisted last minute pressure to retreat to Diamondhead - a community five miles north. I trusted my own stout historic house more than any new and untested structure. “The only thing I’m really worried about is the water and this property didn’t even flood in Camille. They’re predicting a much lower surge for this storm,” I declared again and again.<br /><br />Now, when people asked me why I stayed, my standard line is, “If I’d known we were going to be hit by a 35 foot tsunami, I would have been in Nebraska.” Despite the advances in science, weather forecasts are not infallible. My neighbors and I had trusted that a 20 foot surge would be the worst-case scenario. I should have remembered that my thesaurus lists an interesting synonym for “prediction.” That word is “guess.”<br /><br />The afternoon of the storm, when the waters had receded from the coast and the winds had relented somewhat, I picked my way through the rubble and gazed in shock at the splintered, unrecognizable remains of my historic neighborhood. In a single morning, hundreds of years of heritage had been erased. Elegant houses and quaint cottages were crushed or left twisted in the middle of streets. Even the Spanish Customs House had vanished completely, the lot filled with tangled heaps of debris. Worse yet, we knew without doubt that beneath the mountains of timbers and trees, lay bodies of our neighbors and friends.<br /><br />Queen Camille has been dethroned. It turned out she was just the dress rehearsal for loss, a dry run for true disaster. Katrina took our homes, our livelihoods, members of our community - but my friend Kat pegged one of the most important things: The storm stripped us of our illusion of security.<br /><br />So when my insurance adjuster asks his final question, I have a final answer. “Would you stay again?” he asks.<br /><br />“No,” is my very short reply.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/waveland%20camille%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/waveland%20camille%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"All that remains of the Waveland City Hall"<br />photo by Ellis Anderson<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(text and photos copyright 2005 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1134597520461575842006-01-14T13:34:00.000-08:002008-06-08T18:24:33.143-07:00The Dominos of Denial<span style="font-weight: bold;"> from my storm journal - 12/14/05</span><br />__________________________<br /><br /><br />At first, I thought the street was flooding from the hours-long downpour of rain, but the thin film of water covering the road quickly became a stream. An orange cat bounded pell-mell across the yard, headed to higher ground. A cooler sailed by at a fast clip, followed by a sheet of tin from someone’s roof. When the trunk of a large tree careened past - looking like a kayak caught in rapids - adrenaline began to roar through my veins. The roots of my hair rose up in a futile effort to desert the rest of my body. Denial wasn’t possible any more. I was watching a storm surge charging in from the Gulf of Mexico.<br /><br />I’d always prided myself on being cool in a crisis, yet now, only one thought ran through my head, repeating like a record on an unbalanced jukebox: “You idiot. You should have gone to Diamondhead.”<br /><br />Diamondhead is a community five miles north of Bay St. Louis. Friends who had evacuated to ride out the storm there had begged me to join them. I had resisted. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “No surge will make it back to my house, I’m a quarter mile from the beach,” I assured them. “It can’t be worse than Camille.”<br /><br />But now, Katrina had me feeling like I was trapped in the Alamo, surrounded by an enemy whose strength had been vastly underestimated. No reinforcements would arrive, no escape was possible. If the walls were breached, my survival would be in doubt. How did I find myself in that precarious position? The decisions had fallen into place like dominos of denial, ending with my resolution to ride out the storm.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Citizen%20St.%20surge%20rising%20mailer.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Citizen%20St.%20surge%20rising%20mailer.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Surge Rising on Citizen Street"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /><br /><br /></span></div>Three days before I’d been packing for a trip to North Carolina for my dad’s 84th birthday celebration. Katrina was already in the Gulf, but our town was well outside the cone of the predicted path. How could the storm alter course enough to affect my plans? After fretting through the morning, I packed my car and hit the road that Friday afternoon. I was on the far side of Montgomery when my cell phone rang.<br /><br />“The storm’s changed course and it’s headed straight here,” said my friend Lori. “You’ve got to come back.” To someone in another part of the world that might sound like advice from a madwoman, but it made perfect sense to me. I had to prepare my house. I pulled off the interstate, sat in the parking lot of a fast food joint and made calls to several other friends. After an hour of listening to conflicting reports, I regretfully turned the car south and headed home, just to be on the safe side.<br /><br />Late that night, I stopped in a motel and slept for a few hours, continuing the drive at dawn on Saturday. When I neared Mobile, I was struck by a sudden resentment that my vacation had been cut short. I veered off the interstate and headed down to Dauphin Island, slightly to the south and west of Mobile. I’d always loved the place and wanted to play tourist for a few hours.<br /><br />Once I crossed the causeway onto the island, the atmosphere changed. An eerie sense of doom hung in the air like a thick fog. I drove to the west end of the island and saw that it was already underwater, although the storm was still two days from landfall. Waves had engulfed the pilings of several raised houses, giving them the appearance of abandoned oil-rigs. A few crews were out boarding up windows, but for the most part, it looked as if residents had given up any attempts at protection.<br /><br />I stopped for breakfast in the only open café. There were few diners and while I ate, I listened to the local waitresses terrorize the tourists with stories of past storms. It was amusing, but the sense of crisis was contagious. I didn’t linger for more coffee. Knowing the stores at home would be mobbed, I shopped at an Alabama grocery store, stocking up with gallons of water, some canned goods and a large bag of dog food. I also filled the tank of my car with gas, blissfully unaware that it would be for the last time. On the road back to the Bay, an escalating urgency made me ignore the speed limits.<br /><br />My home in Bay St. Louis is a renovated schoolhouse - The Webb School - built in 1913. My contractor friends assure me that it’s as strong as a fortress. It’s a raised building, set on solid concrete pilings, ten feet tall. I’d already had the largest of the many windows boarded over, but there was still a lot of work to be done. The next twenty-four hours were a blur as I put my hurricane preparation system into effect.<br /><br />The list is long: Take down every piece of art and store it in the most protected closets (a strong storm can vibrate the walls so much, they crash to the floor). Move all the potted plants and outdoor furniture to safety beneath the house. Ditto the car. Cover the important furniture with tarps in case the roof blows off. Pack up all the pottery and sacred books in plastic crates. Fill up the bathtub. Check the battery supply and make sure all the flashlights were working. Make backup discs for the computer.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Key%20of%20Sea.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Key%20of%20Sea.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Webb School - Ellis's House before Katrina"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />By Sunday afternoon, I was exhausted. The squalls were beginning to roll in, with thin bands of clouds hurling through a sky tinged with a freakish yellowish cast. As I worked, images from the Wizard of Oz kept flashing in my head. I saw myself as Dorothy, racing for the root cellar while a relentless tornado bore down on her. The wicked witch cackled in the background.<br /><br />I checked the internet for the latest information on the storm. It looked bad, but not as bad as Camille. My house hadn’t taken any damage with Camille. My property hadn’t flooded in Camille. Camille, Camille, Camille - the very worst that could happen. Another domino fell and I made the decision to stay. After all, in thirty years of living on the Gulf Coast, I’d ridden out numerous tropical storms or hurricanes. What could be different this time?<br /><br />My 92-year-old friend Mimi agreed. She’d recently been confined to a nursing home in the Bay and they’d decided to bus all the patients to Jackson to sleep on a gym floor. She felt like the journey would kill her and instead of evacuating, commanded her son Jimmie bring her to my house. Mimi and I had spent a total of four storms together through the years. A Camille veteran, she was not afraid of this one.<br /><br />As Jimmie and I helped her up the steps into my house, I jokingly asked her, “Where’s the family silver?” Usually, when she’d evacuate her low-lying house, she’d bring a little carpet-bag crammed with sterling heirlooms. I’d always thought it was the epitome of Southern charm. This time, it’d been forgotten in the rush and there was no going back. We both made light of the oversight, assuming it’d be safe. But Mimi had seen her home and her silver for the last time.<br /><br />When Jimmie and his mother were comfortably settled in, I walked next door to ride out the storm with Joe Tomasovsky. He’d moved in as my neighbor just three months before, after retiring from a long career as a photography teacher in Florida. We’d been friends for years and had only started “seeing” each other that spring.<br /><br />Joe had lived most of his life on the Gulf Coast where hurricanes were part of the package. After considering the weather reports, he’d decided to stay in his house. It wasn’t as high off the ground as my own, but it’d weathered many storms in the past century - the previous owner had told Joe she’d only sustained $30 worth of damage in Camille. Joe made a last ditch attempt to send me packing to Diamondhead, but my mind was made up. I was convinced surge wasn’t an issue and felt safe in his time-tested house. I decided to stay with Joe. Besides, it might even be a “bonding experience.”<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Ellis%27s%20Neighborhood%20copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Ellis%27s%20Neighborhood%20copy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Map of Ellis and Joe's neighborhood in Bay St. Louis<br /><br /><br /></div>In Joe’s living room, Cleo the squirrel, leapt around in a large cage. Joe rehabs baby squirrels, and Cleo had been his latest orphan. He’d released her as a mischievous adult into his yard shortly after he’d moved from Florida, but she still showed up from time to time, performing antics and begging for nuts. That afternoon, she’d appeared on his porch after a long absence. She was completely wet, leading Joe to believe she’d returned from afar to take refuge. He’d interrupted his work to assemble a cage and brought her inside. Cleo didn’t seem to resent her lapse into captivity. She darted around the inside of the cage with a manic energy, pausing only to accept a peanut from my hand.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Joe%20and%20Cleo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Joe%20and%20Cleo.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Joe and Cleo"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />All preparations complete, we tried to make phone calls, but the lines were overloaded. We couldn’t get through to Joe’s daughter who lived in New Orleans. We only hoped that Robyn had evacuated to Baton Rouge as planned. When I finally connected with my parents in North Carolina, I urged them not to listen to the news. “They always make a catastrophe out of any storm,” I said. “You may not hear from me for a few days because the lines will be down, but don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”<br /><br />We spent the rest of the evening on the computer, pulling up every weather site we could find. They were all still predicting a local surge of 20-22 feet, although one or two doomsday sites warned it could be as high as 25. A friend called from Florida and reported the news that buoys in the gulf were registering waves 55 feet high, giving me my first real burst of alarm. But waves aren’t the same as surge, I told myself. I wasn’t going to allow alarmists to cause me extra anxiety. Fatigue finally overcame foreboding and we fell asleep to the sound of fitful winds slamming through the trees.<br /><br />We woke about two in the morning with gusts hitting the house like fists. Rain lashed at the windows. The light in the kitchen went out and we knew we’d seen the last of electricity for what we naively imagined would be a few days. The rest of the night was punctuated by sharp cracks as trees fell and heavy oak limbs snapped. When something hit the house, one of us would leap from bed to make sure the roof hadn’t been compromised, then we’d drift back into an uneasy sleep.<br /><br />The morning brought dim light, but no let-up in the winds. My cell phone rang about 8 o’clock. Lori, hunkered down with friends in Diamondhead, had managed to get through. “Heads up,” she said. “We just heard on the weather radio that the storm surge is supposed to be worst in Waveland and Bay St. Louis. It’s going to hit between 8:30 and 9. They’re saying it could be 20-22 feet.” Her voice sounded calm. She didn’t tell me that she’d dreamed both Joe and I had perished in the storm and thought it was a premonition.<br /><br />Joe and I patrolled the house aimlessly, looking for leaks, trying to keep busy. The walls were shaking from the force of the storm. Curtains billowed into the rooms, so I kept checking the windows to make sure they were closed. I found none open. Despite the extra protection of storm windows, the thundering winds still penetrated the house. Cleo hid in her nesting box, only the tip of her tail visible. It looked like an enviable place to be.<br /><br />At nine o’clock, I began to feel more at ease. According to Lori’s report, the surge should have already hit and was probably receding. That would mean we were halfway through the storm with no major mishaps. I could see many sheets of tin had blown off the back of my own roof, but wasn’t terribly concerned. It’d be a little wet inside. Mimi and Jimmie would be fine. This was going to be just another bad storm. We’d probably forget its name in a few years.<br /><br />Then around quarter past nine, Joe called me into the front room where he’d managed to force open the door. Erratic gusts slammed against him and he gripped the doorframe to remain upright. He was looking up the street towards the beach. I fought to join him as sharp blasts of air ripped through the house like psychotic poltergeists on a rampage.<br /><br />“The street’s flooding,” he shouted to be heard over the wind. “Has it done that before?” I shrugged. “No, but we must have had 7 or 8 inches of rain in the past few hours.” Joe pointed out that the grass in his yard was beginning to be covered by water too. “My yard floods sometimes too,” I said, a little more doubtfully. But ten minutes later, when the water had already reached a foot and was rising steadily, the awful reality of the situation was clear. The last domino had fallen. I was about to spend the longest two hours of my life.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Joe%27s%20yard%20surge%20rising%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Joe%27s%20yard%20surge%20rising%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Surge Rising in Joe's Backyard"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(text and photos copyright 2005 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1136826969232386002006-01-12T07:25:00.000-08:002008-06-08T18:25:58.496-07:00The Fourth Step<span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 1/07/06 </span><br /><br />_____________________<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The First Step</span><br /><br />My cell phone became a high-tech rosary. My fingers fumbled as I punched number after number into the keyboard. Even when I managed to enter a correct number, I’d only hear a busy signal. Lines were either down or overwhelmed. I rehearsed the one question I’d ask if I was lucky enough to make outside contact: Where is the eye of the storm? If it was passing, the surge was peaking. If the hurricane was still at sea, we were experiencing just the beginning of a tsunami.<br /><br />Phone in hand, I paced from room to room, unconsciously looking for a way to escape. In Joe’s office, I eyed the attic pull-down, remembering the old New Orleans adage about keeping an axe in the attic. Yesterday, I’d joked about the tradition. Joe had never heard of it, so I had to explain that people who retreated to an attic because of rising waters could be trapped there and drowned. If an axe were in the attic, they could at least hack a hole in the roof. It had seemed funny the night before - now I wondered if I’d be climbing up there soon.<br /><br />My pacing took me to the kitchen door and I peered out into the storm. The Gulf of Mexico covered the patio and yard, but it looked more like the Amazon river. Sinister dark eddies swirled against the stairs to the house. Five steps rose from the ground level to the porch landing. The first was already submerged, the second was under attack.<br /><br /><br />Mesmerized by the sight, I almost dropped the phone in surprise when I heard a voice. I’d somehow gotten through to my friends Regan and Mark, weathering the storm at their house several miles inland. Regan had no new reports. Their radio had gone out and the last they’d heard was that the eye should have passed at nine.<br /><br />Regan suggested that we try to make it back to my house. I moved to another window and looked longingly towards the massive white building. Through the sheets of rain, it beckoned like a lighthouse. But the short path between Joe’s house and mine had disappeared beneath muddy rapids, seething with debris. The current ran against us.<br /><br />“Ahh, honey,” Regan said, her tone heavy with pity. She put Mark on the line, but our call was cut short. Their roof was blowing off. It was the last phone conversation I’d have for three days.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Joe%27s%20yard%20before.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Joe%27s%20yard%20before.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>“Joe’s Yard Before the Storm”<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div> <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Joe%27s%20yard%20during%20surge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Joe%27s%20yard%20during%20surge.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>“Joe’s Yard During the Storm”<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Second Step</span><br /><br />Still working the phone, I joined Joe on the back porch. He seemed unperturbed by the gusts of wind pummeling him and held his camera to his eye as he framed shots of his yard. The raging river was rising – the second step had been overtaken and water lapped hungrily at the third.<br /><br />A flying sheet of tin sent us scurrying for cover and once inside, I put my hand on his arm. In a shaky attempt at humor, I asked Joe if he’d put the axe in the attic. “Ellis,” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice, “You’ve already asked me that three times. No. The axe is in the garage.”<br /><br />I realized then how addled I was. I had no recollection of asking before. We gazed at the garage, only twenty feet away, separated now from the house by a rushing torrent.<br /><br />Joe explained that if the water rose much higher, the house could float off the pilings. “When the water comes into the house,” he said, “we have to get out.”<br /><br />Some details stick in my memory like glints of glitter. He used the word “when” instead of “if.” Another wash of raw terror slid through my body. I looked out into the raging winds and across the expanse of black, pitiless water. An incredulous voice in my head protested: <span style="font-style: italic;">Are you crazy? Just shoot me in the head right now and get it over with!</span><br /><br />I hadn’t spoken aloud, but my face must have registered horror. Joe’s teacher persona took control. Suddenly, he was directing students during a bomb threat or fire drill. “We need to look for floatation devices,” he said. “See what you can find.”<br /><br />I salvaged the remains of my composure and began roaming the rooms on the bizarre hunt. It’s amazing how few things in most houses will double as life preservers. Furniture, books, beds, toilet seats, computers - nothing offered any buoyancy. The voice in my head shouted as I searched: <span style="font-style: italic;">There are no frigging floatation devices in this house!</span> Then, I remembered the Tupperware stash in the kitchen cabinets. I actually laughed aloud at the image of Joe and I swimming for our lives clutching plastic leftover containers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Third Step</span><br /><br />I returned to the kitchen to make my report and noticed the water had overtaken the third step. Joe had continued shooting while I’d searched and didn’t seem surprised at my failure. I understood then that he’d given me the job to focus my attention and disperse my panic.<br /><br />He decided that I was calm enough for swimming lessons. Joe is an avid kayaker and knows the ways of wild water. His measured voice commanded my attention - he might have been in a high school classroom lecturing students on darkroom technique. He began with a reminder about the futility of fighting currents. I already knew this from experience, but his next piece of information surprised me.<br /><br />“Don’t try to reach out and grab something in front of you. The water can push you into it and hurt you – you could go under. Turn around in the water and try to catch something that’s going by or already passed.” He noticed my skepticism. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s really important you remember that.”<br /><br />My inner movie theatre began projecting a surrealistic film. <span style="font-style: italic;">An Ester Williams version of myself backstroked across Joe’s lawn. I avoided the pecan tree in front of me. Instead, I gracefully wrapped my arms around the palm to the side, embracing it like a lover. I wore a bathing cap, accented with a spray of hibiscus flowers.</span> Joe must have wondered why I smiled. I assured him I wouldn't forget his advice.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/coming%20up%20the%20steps.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/coming%20up%20the%20steps.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> “Coming up the Steps”<br />photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /></div> <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Fourth Step</span><br /><br />I looked at the battery clock on the kitchen wall. It read 10:15. The hands had not moved in hours. I decided it was broken, but a glance out the door proved that time had passed. The water had marched past the fourth step and was relentlessly working up towards the landing. A few more inches and it would begin to invade the house.<br /><br />The water surrounding the house reminded me of the Mississippi river during spring flooding. When I lived in New Orleans, I used to walk my dogs on the riverfront and watch the malicious, writhing currents hurl freighters around the bends as if they were paper boats in a whirlpool. I’d be in that water soon, with 150 mile an hour winds screeching overhead.<br /><br />I decided to take a break and collect myself before entering the maelstrom. The safest place in the house seemed to be Joe’s office. He’d screwed plywood over the storm windows that in turn, protected the inner windows. Three degrees of separation made the room feel very secure. I collapsed on the sofa and tried to meditate.<br /><br />The rational, zen part of myself began a deep breathing routine. The hysterical, screaming part repeated the warning from the night before – fifty-five foot waves in the Gulf! My breathing got even deeper when my head did the math: <span style="font-style: italic;">We were at 25 feet of elevation. The remaining thirty feet would more than cover the roof</span>. Suddenly, I wanted to vomit.<br /><br />I struggled to get a grip. A phrase from the sci-fi novel “Dune” popped into my head. “Fear is the mind-killer.” Whatever was to come in the next few hours, I knew that panic would paralyze me. I’d need every iota of self-possession if I wanted to survive. My eyes closed and I called serenity to me, repeating a phrase from my old-hippie lexicon: Be Here Now.<br /><br />My pulse slowed, the adrenaline abated. Feeling at peace with the universe, I opened my eyes. In front of me, the bank of boarded windows afforded a sense of security. Then a blast of wind hit the side of the house so hard, the entire wall of glass actually bulged into the room, undulating like a sail of a boat. I leapt up and fled into the kitchen. Apparently, there was a hurricane version of the secret to inner peace - Be Somewhere Else Now.<br /><br />Joe was checking on Cleo in the living room. I wondered how she would fare if we had to release her into the storm. How could either animals or humans survive that fury without shelter? Many of my neighbors had stayed in their homes and those houses closer to the beach would be underwater by now. All over town, families would be struggling for their lives.<br /><br />Calling 911 wasn’t an option. Even if the phones had worked, no one would have answered. The people who might have helped us needed help themselves. Later, I would learn that the entire Waveland police force - 27 officers - were hanging on to a tree in their parking lot. At the Emergency Operations Center, 35 people were trapped in a dark building with water rising. They passed around a flashlight and a marker, writing their names on their arms to make body identification easier.<br /><br />I checked the step gauge. The water hung at the four plus mark. The clock seemed to be working again and I watched its second-hand revolve with a speed that mimicked three-hundred year old tortoises. Five eternal minutes passed before I allowed myself to look back at the steps. A tiny twig had been stranded on the top of the fourth step by the retreating surge.<br /><br />“Joe! Joe!” I shouted. “It’s going down!”<br /><br />Joe joined me at the kitchen door and forced it open. He stepped out onto the landing and examined the water line. For the next ten minutes, we watched silently until the surface of the third step was revealed. Our hands slapped together in a spontaneous high-five, as I danced a jig of joy around the kitchen. The eye had passed and the tide had turned. Luck had saved us from the surge. The worst was over. But I should have remembered the lesson I’d learned in Joe’s office: Security is simply another illusion.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Joe%27s%20front%20porch%20surge%20rising.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Joe%27s%20front%20porch%20surge%20rising.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> “The View from Joe’s Front Porch”<br />photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /></div> <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(text and photos copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1138077618306871122006-01-06T20:26:00.000-08:002007-04-02T06:11:57.578-07:00The Passing of the Eye<span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 1/23/06</span><br />_____________________<br /><br /><br />The eye may have passed, pushing the surge back to the sea, but the storm was only half over. The clock read 11:30. Katrina had been raging for over six hours, with at least six more to go.<br /><br />Joe and I were checking his front rooms for leaks when we heard knocking at the kitchen door. Our eyes widened in disbelief. Who would be politely visiting in the middle of a hurricane? But the rapping came again, insistent and much too rhythmic to be caused by the fitful winds that still shook the house. I hurried into the kitchen and found Jimmie and my neighbor Paul patiently waiting on the landing.<br /><br />I pulled them into the house, where they shook the rain off themselves like big dogs climbing out of a pond. I had lots of questions, all fighting to be first in line. The winner was one about Mimi.<br /><br />Jimmie assured us that she was fine. “The boat people are watching her,” he said. I couldn’t quite get my head around that. <span style="font-style: italic;">Boat people?</span> James began to reel off a jumble of details, but they bounced off my exhausted brain like children on a taut trampoline:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My house had become a shelter for the neighborhood. The first arrival was Paul. Paul’s apartment across the street had lost the roof and then began to flood. He’d grabbed his kitten and waded to my house to take refuge with Mimi and Jimmie. The two men had tried to minimize the damage inside by patching broken panes of glass and putting out pots to catch the numerous leaks. In the frenzy, Jimmie had been blown from a ladder while trying to secure a transom window. He’d landed solidly on his hip, but could still manage to walk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Then a boat had floated to my house with four people clinging to the sides. Jimmie helped the wet survivors inside and made them as comfortable as possible. The new arrivals said they were neighbors of mine from down the street, but Jimmie couldn’t remember their names. When the water had gone down, he and Paul decided to cross the yard to Joe’s house to check on us. The boat people agreed to keep an eye on the sleeping Mimi.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Jimmie said that my two dogs, Frieda and Jack, were safe and seemed to be enjoying the adventure. The night before I’d made the hard decision to leave them at my house for the storm. I was worried they’d add to Cleo’s anxiety if I’d brought them to Joe’s. Both dogs loved Jimmie - who'd sat for them many times before - so this good news relieved me of a nagging guilt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But the house hadn’t fared as well as I’d imagined. Jimmie reported that water poured through the ceilings and cascaded down the walls. Light fixtures had filled with rain and smashed to the floor, scattering glass everywhere. Four transom windows had blown out and hurricane force winds whipped through the interior. Jimmie and I had parked our cars beneath the house for protection. Both had been submerged in the surge and were certainly totaled.</span><br /><br />The afternoon before, I’d mentioned to Joe that I’d taken the precaution of putting my musical instruments and family photos in the trunk of my car. It was part of my hurricane routine. If the roof came off, at least my most sacred possessions would be safe. “I think you should put them upstairs,” he said. His tone of voice had a peculiar resonant quality when he spoke that single line, as if he were an oracle channeling a warning. I didn’t argue, although reason was on my side. Hedging my bet, I had moved the guitar and violin and half of the family photos upstairs. I was suddenly very grateful to Joe.<br /><br />Jimmie finished his recital and then raided our Advil stash for his pain. He and Paul set out back for my house. Almost as soon as they’d left, water began invading Joe’s living room. The limbs that had hit his roof in the night had caused more damage than we’d first thought. We worked without pause for the next few hours. I handled the bucket brigade inside – mopping, emptying the many containers, catching new leaks as they sprang from the ceiling. Part of the ceiling eventually collapsed. Meanwhile, Joe sorted through his garage, which had flooded and lost the roof. He worked frantically to save the photography equipment he’d stored there, but it was mostly wasted effort.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Buckets%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Buckets%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"Joe's Living Room" (note Cleo's cage in the corner)<br />photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /></div><br />Around mid-afternoon, the gusts and rain began to slacken. I slid on my raincoat and began to fight the wind, trekking back to my own house. The well-worn path had become an obstacle course. I leapt over branches, lumber, roofing tin and railroad ties. My three huge oaks still stood, but they’d lost half their branches and were stripped of leaves. The yard was a thicket of cruelly amputated tree limbs.<br /><br />Coming in through the back door, I didn’t recognize my own kitchen. A grim confetti of glass shards covered every surface. The entire ceiling dripped water, so it appeared to be raining inside. Pots and pans placed to catch the leaks had been outnumbered and sat overflowing in the shallow pool that covered the floor. I sloshed through to my living room.<br /><br />Frieda was napping on a wet sofa, but Jack met me with his normal exuberant welcome, hoping it was time for a bike ride. In typical doggie fashion, he seemed unaware that anything was out of the ordinary. I found Mimi in bed, nested in the one relatively dry corner of the house. She held a radio to her ear and waved me off when I asked what she needed. Her only complaint was that “the blasted news only talks about New Orleans. There’s not one word about the Gulf Coast.” We didn’t know that this would be a permanent trend.<br /><br />I forced one of the front doors open and looked over the railing. The boat below canted to one side, the bow nosed into my azaleas. A dirty cotton rope secured it to my porch railing. I checked out the rest of the neighborhood. Most of the surrounding houses still stood, though many had been shorn of their roofs. The cabinet shop across the street had been completely demolished by the winds. Looking up the block to the west, my view was obstructed by an entire house resting in the middle of the street.<br /><br />I went looking for the “boat people” and found two of them in the dining room. I recognized them as my neighbors who lived on Citizen Street, about a block closer to the beach. Augusta and her daughter, Augusta-Inez, had houses next to each other. Both were soaked through and shrouded with towels. Jimmie had served them cheese and crackers on a blue glass plate. The refugee kitten played hide-and-seek with my dogs beneath their chairs.<br /><br />Tired to the bone, we sat passively around the table, indifferent to the blasts of wind tearing through the broken windows and around the high-ceilings. I offered them some water and we drank from the plastic bottles, while Augusta gave me an abbreviated version of their escape.<br /><br />She, her daughter and two grown sons had been floundering in the rapidly rising water in the middle of Citizen Street. They’d been on the brink of drowning, trying to make it to higher ground. A boat had floated by and they’d grabbed hold, managing to steer it to my house – the only raised building in the neighborhood. It was an astonishing tale, but I didn’t realize then that it was actually a ghost story. I wouldn’t hear the full account until more than three weeks had passed.<br /><br />We were quiet for a few minutes. Finally, to make some conversation, I said, “It’s got to be over soon.” Both women nodded their heads. We didn’t understand that our ordeal was just beginning.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Augusta%20and%20her%20house%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Augusta%20and%20her%20house%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"Augusta and her house, after the storm"<br />photo by Ellis Anderson<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(text and photos copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1138078708873941642006-01-05T20:46:00.000-08:002007-04-01T20:34:54.019-07:00Lionel's Boat<span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 1/23/06 </span><br /><br />________________________<br /><br />My house is a quarter mile from the Gulf, yet five months after Katrina, there’s still a boat beached in my front yard. It’s an ugly boat. The fiberglass is flaking and dark stains mottle the lackluster hull. It’s the sort of small power skiff that’s used to fish in bayous or in our shallow bay. There’s no motor now. The interior - where fishermen used to land their catches, swap tales and drink cold beers out of coolers - is filled with branches, leaves and mud. This boat’s been around the block a few times. Literally.<br /><br />The boat didn’t arrive at my house in the normal way - on a trailer. It sailed the streets of my town, borne by the greatest storm surge in American history. Coming to rest at my porch like some battered gondola from Venice, it carried four souls to safety, four names that would have been added to the long list of Katrina’s dead. Augusta thinks it was steered by a spirit.<br /><br />Though some might call it a useless eyesore, it has a new life ahead as a shrine. Augusta has given me permission to make a planter out of it. She thinks it’s a fitting end to Lionel’s boat.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/key%20of%20sea%20post%20Katrina.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/key%20of%20sea%20post%20Katrina.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Webb School - Ellis's House - after the storm"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />I didn’t even know who Lionel was until the end of September, almost a month after the storm had passed. Volunteers from the outside had set up free food kitchens in a few locations around town and I'd go to the one closest to my house for a hot meal. I’d gotten my lunch and was looking for a seat when I ran into Augusta and Augusta-Inez. I embraced them with joy, but Augusta seemed confused at first. Her daughter had to remind her that I was “the Webb School lady.”<br /><br />I could understand the confusion. Even though they’d stayed with me for three days after the storm, they’d probably never seen me with my hair combed before. Augusta’s face lit up once she made the connection. We talked about the day of the storm. I admitted how frightened I’d been.<br /><br />“You know,” Augusta said. “I never was scared, that whole time. I’d prayed beforehand that the Lord would keep me from being afraid. Some people get heart attacks they get so frightened. I didn’t want that happening to me.”<br /><br />She asked me what I was going to do with the boat. I explained that I wanted to make a planter out of it to commemorate the event. Although the boat seemed ruined, I was trying to track the owners down for permission. All I had to go on were the barely legible registration numbers.<br /><br />“Why honey, that’s our boat,” Augusta said. This was news to me. I had thought it was a stray.<br /><br />“Let me tell you,” she said. “The morning of the storm, Donald came and got me from my room. He said we got to get out <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>. I didn’t understand until my feet hit the floor and I was standing in water.” Donald works for the local power company. He and his brother, Steve, stayed with their mother during the storm. Donald's teenaged son and nephew were next door with Augusta-Inez.<br /><br />At first, Donald thought the street flooding was from the heavy rains. He decided to move the company truck to higher ground. He began to put on his shoes, but by the time he got them tied, the water had risen over the tires. In moments, it began to seep through the floors of the house. Donald alerted Augusta and then swam across to his sister’s house to help them evacuate. There, he had to break down the front door – the six feet of water had created a vacuum. Donald and his nephew Otis made their way back to Augusta’s, fighting a heavy current and driving rain that felt like “needles in the eyes.”<br /><br />Meanwhile, Steven helped Augusta down the front steps, now covered with several feet of water. “He was going real slow,” Augusta said. “Just like I was a baby. Then Otis came back with Donald. He yelled, ‘I’ll give my life for my grandma!’ He grabbed me around the waist and tucked me under his arm like I was a piece of wood. He dragged me next door to my daughter’s house so fast, I still can’t believe it. It was like he was running across the top of the water.”<br /><br />Reunited for the moment on Inez’s submerged porch, the family of six decided they had to set out for higher ground. Donald told his nephew and son to go on ahead and the two boys swam towards Third Street. The four adults thrashed and struggled in the current, the water well above the heads of the two women. Then Augusta looked back towards her house.<br /><br />“That boat was tied to the trailer in my yard,” she said, “but somehow it got loose and came out of the driveway. Then it made a sharp turn right towards us. It wasn’t on one side of the street or another. It came right up the middle, just as smooth as you please. We all grabbed hold tight to the sides - we couldn’t get in, the water was too deep. Then Donald turned around and saw a big wave headed our way. He was shouting, ‘Go, go, go!’”<br /><br />“We made it to the school,” Augusta told me. “The boys had beat us there and were up on the porch. We got up the steps, then the door flew open and this big man said, ‘Come in! Come in!’”<br /><br />Jimmie helped them into the house, while Donald stayed to tie up the boat in case the water kept rising and they’d need it again. He didn’t see his family go inside. He admitted later that he had a moment of panic when he reached the top of the stairs and they had all disappeared. The winds were so fierce, he wondered if they’d blown off the porch. Then the door opened again and Donald was pulled in to join his family.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Augusta%20and%20Donald%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Augusta%20and%20Donald%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Augusta, Donald and Lionel's Boat"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />But there was more to the story.<br /><br />Augusta continued. “That boat belonged to my son, Lionel. He used to come over from New Orleans when he was free and use it out on the Bay. He loved to fish. He’d just graduated, got his PhD in business from Vanderbilt and was headed over one weekend. That was in 1981. He was bringing his three-year-old daughter - a beautiful child. They were driving across Lake Ponchartrain when a drunk ran them off the bridge and into the water. They both drowned. That was in February, on Friday the 13th. It was 13 days before they found his body too. Thirteens all over the place.”<br /><br />“I just never had the heart to get rid of that boat. It stayed in my yard for twenty-five years, never moved. Then when we were drowning in the street, water up over our heads, that boat floated right to us. Now how did that boat get untied off that trailer and come directly to us? I think my son Lionel did that.”<br /><br />Goosebumps rose on my arms in salute to the story. I wiped at my eyes with a rough paper napkin. People moving around us in the food tent ignored my tears. Public weeping wasn’t unusual these days.<br /><br />“So you keep that boat, honey,” Augusta said. “You go ahead and make your planter out of it. That’d be good, real good.”<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Augusta%20and%20boat%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Augusta%20and%20boat%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"Augusta and Lionel's Boat"<br />photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(text and photos copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1139452285735012602006-01-04T18:24:00.000-08:002007-04-01T20:41:11.001-07:00The Edge of the Abyss<span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 2/7/06</span><br />_____________________________________<br /><br /><br />In Bay St. Louis, at the intersection where Hancock crosses Washington, my life changed forever. Reality shifted like a plate in the earth and I suddenly found myself teetering on the edge of a chasm. The force of the storm ripped opened that same dark abyss for everyone on the coast, so I’m not alone. But for me, it happened in a heartbeat, the moment I saw that Katrina had stolen my town.<br /><br />The afternoon of the hurricane, when the winds began to die down, I still felt lucky. Everyone who’d taken refuge in my home was safe. Both Joe’s house and mine were standing, although damaged. Some of the houses around us had flooded and most had taken a beating, but the neighborhood seemed intact. A few months of clean-up and life in the Bay would return to normal. I’d forgotten that our houses were on the edge of an “island.” We’re on the fringes of the old town, built on some of the highest ground on the Gulf. Less than a block away, the elevation drops off dramatically.<br /><br />Joe brought his camera and we ventured into the streets. Before we began our expedition, Joe took a photo of me in front of my house. I look at it now, hardly recognizing myself. The woman in the picture is at least 70 and has been hanging out in a wind tunnel. There’s a wry smile on my exhausted face, but there’s relief there too. I think the worst is over. I was wrong.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/After%20the%20storm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/After%20the%20storm.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"After the Storm<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />We wanted to get to the front, but our routes were limited. Roads were blockaded by uprooted trees or houses that had been shoved off their foundations. Our closest option was Washington, one street back towards Old Town. As we walked the two blocks to the beach, occasional bursts of rain pelted us and leftover gusts hurtled past. The damage we saw increased with every step. The street was covered with power lines and roofing tin, lumber and mangled cars. A few of our neighbors had emerged from hiding. Every face wore the same dazed expression, as if they were waking from a long and tangled nightmare.<br /><br />In the middle of the first block, a brightly painted table blocked a driveway. I paused. It was hand-crafted from a fine, light wood and in excellent condition. It looked as if it’d been placed at the curb for trash pick-up. I couldn’t understand why someone would be throwing such a nice table away. In fact, hadn’t I seen a similar table at my friend Keith’s house? But Keith lived two blocks away on Citizen, close to the beach. Suddenly, a little bomb of horror detonated in my throat.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/111%20Citizen%20St%209-18.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/111%20Citizen%20St%209-18.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"111 Citizen Street"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />As we approached the intersection of Hancock and Washington, we found it impossible to go further. We were just a block from the beach, but an enormous pile of rubble barricaded the road. Joe climbed onto the heap and began shooting photos, while I strained to see over the top. Finally, I summoned the courage to follow him up the mountain of debris. I clambered on to someone’s front door and gazed out at the apocalypse. The only word that came to mind was “Hiroshima.”<br /><br />On the corner, I saw the home of my friends Alison and Dave. The stately historic house was oddly distorted, as if it were melting. Doors and windows had been punched out of their frames. Someone else’s roof had crashed into the porch, one corner resting in what used to be their living room. The yard was heaped head-high with entire walls and floors from other houses, large appliances and furniture, cars and riding mowers. Worse yet, theirs was the only house standing on that side of the street. On the other side, just three battered shells remained. Everything else had been crushed.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Washington%20St.%20afternoon%20of%20storm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Washington%20St.%20afternoon%20of%20storm.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Washington Street, Afternoon of the Storm"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(The corner of Alison and Dave's house on the right)</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />From memory, I began to count the houses that had once lined the block. I got up to sixteen before my tears began. Washington Street boasted some of the highest elevation on the Gulf of Mexico, 25 feet above sea level. If this neighborhood had been destroyed, I knew the rest of the coast didn’t have a prayer. Waveland would be gone. Pass Christian would be gone. Long Beach, Clermont Harbor, Lakeshore and Cedar Point, gone, gone, gone. I was looking at the tip of an incomprehensible iceberg. Thousands of homes had been completely obliterated. Bay St. Louis had been three hundred years in the making and had survived dozens of direct hits by storms. Katrina had annihilated most of the town in the span of a single morning.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Waterfront%20Property.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Waterfront%20Property.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Waterfront Property"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">the remains of beach houses in Waveland after the storm</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />I heard a voice call my name. I shakily climbed down from my perch and saw my neighbor Betsy. She stood in front of the collapsed remains of her house, yet seemed unconcerned about her own loss. She asked if I knew where our friend Phil was. I hadn’t talked to him in several days. Betsy said that he’d planned on riding out the storm in his Hancock Street house, a few doors down from hers. We looked over at the building. It had floated off the foundations. No one who stayed would have survived. Betsy had somehow commandeered some firemen who were searching the ruins for his body.<br /><br />I’d seen enough. I looked around for Joe, but he’d disappeared while I was talking to Betsy. Stricken to my core, I headed for home. Although I’d walked that route hundreds of times, it had never seemed so long and lonely.<br /><br />At the corner by my house, a fire truck was parked in the middle of the street. Several of my neighbors gathered around two stunned firemen. A pack of skittish dogs, loosed by the storm, circled the small crowd, hopeful of finding their owners. I heard a young fireman trying to reassure a man with a gashed lip, “This isn’t as bad as Camille,” he said with bravado. I didn’t have the heart to correct him.<br /><br />Jimmie met me on the front porch. His mother was sleeping comfortably. Mimi may have been 92 and frail, but she was hardy. We discussed the gravity of the situation and decided that she needed to go to the hospital. She had a catheter and sanitation would quickly become an issue with no running water. Jimmie alerted the firemen, who’d promised they’d send someone to pick her up shortly. None of us knew that the hospital – almost two miles inland - had been destroyed as well. Three more endless days would pass before help of any kind arrived.<br /><br />A woman I didn’t recognize came to the foot of my steps and asked if I had any water. The man with the gashed lip was her boyfriend and she wanted to get him cleaned up. I invited them both inside. He was an older man and climbed the steps with difficulty. Blood covered his face and the front of his shirt, but he seemed unaware. His girlfriend explained that they lived around the corner and the house had caved in around them. The man was a diabetic and had lost his insulin in the mayhem. He silently sipped the orange juice I brought him, while his girlfriend tended his wounds with bottled water and a paper towel. “Baby, baby,” she crooned as she cleaned off the crusted blood. She told me that the firemen had promised to take them to the hospital. They both thanked me as they walked back to the fire truck. I never saw them again.<br /><br />The light was fading and so were the dregs of my energy. I put out flashlights, snacks and the last of the dry bedding for Augusta and her family and went over to Joe’s. He’d cooked a hot meal on his camp stove and insisted that I eat. I forced a few bites down, commanding myself not to retch. Joe had opened all the windows that weren’t boarded, allowing the remnants of the storm to air out the house. He told me to enjoy my last cool night for a long while– tomorrow we’d be sweltering, with no fans or air-conditioning to diminish the heat.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Looking%20East.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Looking%20East.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Looking East"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />I must have slept at last, for when I woke it was as dark as the desert. At first, I didn’t remember the storm. When I did, I tried to convince myself it’d been a bad dream. The night told the truth. I heard no cars passing, no trains, no crickets or frogs or sweet-singing mockingbirds. No street or porch light cast a shadow. I stared out the window, but the blackness was unrelenting. The only thing I could see was the vision of my town in ruins. Homes and lives, hopes and dreams, an idyllic way of life - all gone with the wind. Margaret Mitchell had thought that the Yankees were the ultimate force of destruction, but she hadn’t imagined a Katrina. None of us had.<br /><br />“Are you awake?” Joe whispered.<br /><br />“Yes,” I answered. “I’m crying.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/strange%20fruit%209-20.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/strange%20fruit%209-20.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Strange Fruit"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(text and photos copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1140970602249245452006-01-03T08:11:00.000-08:002007-04-01T20:50:18.776-07:00The Good Life<span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 2/25/06</span><br />_____________________________<br /><br />Before the storm hit Bay St. Louis, the first thing I’d hear in the morning was a rooster crowing. He lived a few doors down and would get started well before dawn. It could be a charming way to wake, but lots of times I’d want to strangle him. It wouldn’t have done any good. As the sky grew light, he’d be joined by a variety of wild birds. Flocks of them would gather in the trees around my house and the volume of their chattering made it hard to sleep late.<br /><br />The morning after the storm, I woke with a new sort of life in a very different world. If the rooster hadn’t drowned, he was depressed. The other birds had either died or fled. The only thing I heard were the beating blades of a helicopter.<br /><br />The first thought in my head was, <span style="font-style: italic;">Help is here! It’s the National Guard!</span> Joe and I looked out the window and saw a chopper circling low, but it had no official markings. After a few minutes, we realized it was a probably a news helicopter, photographing the destruction below. Joe predicted help would be a long time coming. “They’ll be focused on New Orleans and forget about us,” he said. I didn’t believe him at the time.<br /><br />Then Joe launched into what would become a morning ritual and listed the day’s priorities. As a high school teacher, he’d had a lifetime to hone his organizational skills. I accepted the direction gratefully because a dense fog had settled over my own mind. Joe didn’t sugarcoat the situation: Life as we knew it was over. If we were to survive with sanity, we’d need to take extreme measures.<br /><br />The first extreme measure was to abandon our toilets. The water and sewage systems would be down for the foreseeable future. If we used the bathroom inside and flushed manually, sewage might back up into our houses. We’d need to set up a latrine and the only available place was the dark storage room beneath my house. The floor was covered with a dense, rank-smelling slime left by the surge. I shoved debris away from the door to make space for the five-gallon bucket Joe gave me. He removed a toilet seat from one of my real bathrooms and placed it over the rim of the bucket. I hung a roll of tissue from a nail on the wall. The new bathroom was ready for business.<br /><br />The next point Joe tackled was the fact that our homes were some of the few standing buildings in town that hadn’t flooded inside. We’d need to house and feed people - maybe lots of them and that would take some planning. Over the next few days, we’d set up an emergency shelter. We had plenty of dry bedding and enough food and water to last several days, even with a crowd. Used sparingly, Joe guessed the propane for his camp stove would hold out for a week. He pointed out that hot meals every evening would boost morale. We’d share cooking duties.<br /><br />My first priority however, was to see if anything could be salvaged from either my retail shop or jewelry studio. Joe loaned me a backpack and his bicycle – mine had both been ruined by the surge. I whistled for my dog Jack and he trotted beside the bike, eager for adventure. He was in a great mood. The stench that rose up from the mud-coated streets may have distressed me, but Jack found it invigorating.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Jack%20and%20debris%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Jack%20and%20debris%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Jack"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />It was slow going. I stopped frequently and splashed water from puddles onto the bike tires to remove mud that clung to the wheels like heavy mortar. Many times I was forced to carry the bike over and around fallen trees or sections of houses that blocked the route. The only moving vehicles I saw were the trucks of Georgia Power and an Oklahoma tree cutting company. Amazingly, their crews were already at work clearing the streets. Their chainsaws roared in the still heat of morning.<br /><br />Six blocks and half an hour later, I reached "The Lumberyard." It’s a renovated arts center owned by my friends Vicki and Doug. Just three weeks before, I’d moved my office and studio into an inviting space on the ground floor. Nothing looked inviting now. The gate to the center was blocked by a massive fallen tree. I climbed over it and trudged through the thick mud, shouting for Doug. The last I’d heard, he’d planned to ride out the storm there. He didn’t respond, so I guessed he’d left for Jackson with Vicki. Later, I’d learn that he’d evacuated all right – from the frying pan into the fire.<br /><br />It was obvious that a wall of water had crashed through the arts complex. It was located closer to the beach than my house, but on higher ground, so I was astonished at the damage. I peered into my studio through the plate glass windows. The room had been ransacked. My cherished tools had been churned with an evil black silt dredged from the bottom of the sea. Office equipment and files had overturned in the frenzy, while books and personal memorabilia had been hurled around the room. The shock of the sight almost brought me to my knees. Then, to ward off self-pity, I repeated a phrase that was already becoming a town mantra: <span style="font-style: italic;">No sniveling.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/studio%20meets%20Katrina%202.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/studio%20meets%20Katrina%202.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Studio Meets Katrina"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />I biked the two blocks to Main Street, where the debris field became too treacherous for riding. Main Street runs straight to the beach along the highest ridge of land in the Bay. On the first block from the front, I’d owned a Creole cottage built in 1850. I’d painstakingly renovated and for ten years, it had housed my gallery, studio and apartment. The older people in town called it “The Monkey House.” In the 1940’s, an eccentric woman had run a small, feisty newspaper in the front. She’d lived in the back with her large pet monkey that would periodically escape and terrorize the neighborhood children.<br /><br />A month before, wanting to downsize my business, I’d sold the building. I’d signed over the deed, but not my heart. The Monkey House had never flooded in a 150-year lifespan of serious storms and together, Mimi and I had safely weathered three hurricanes there. I held my breath as I rounded the corner. When I saw that it still stood, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. It’d lost part of the roof and taken on four to five feet of water, but the sturdy cottage shone like a beacon of hope.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/monkey%20house%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/monkey%20house%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Monkey House" after the storm<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />That hope dimmed as Jack and I continued towards the front. A thick hedge of wrecked cars, beams, furniture and utility poles made it impossible to even carry the bike. I left it behind and walked forward into the nightmare. The gallery where I’d rented a retail space was toast. Much of the roof had caved in, burying my display cases and jewelry. After twenty years, I couldn’t find enough left of my business to put into a backpack. I wouldn’t be alone - most of the old downtown had been demolished.<br /><br />The waterfront itself was unrecognizable. Main Street used to end at Beach Boulevard. Now, it abruptly dropped off to the Gulf below. The beach road was gone. Every structure on the beach side of the road was gone. The buildings on the near side hadn’t fared much better - the few surviving shells looked as if they’d been bombed. The entire front of one brick building had been sheared away. A fully furnished living room on the 2nd floor was exposed to the street, looking like a bizarre set for a Fellini film.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/living%20room%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/living%20room%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Living Room"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />The railroad bridge dissecting Old Town was no longer a bridge. Concrete pilings rising out of the water were all that remained, while the track itself twisted crazily into the Gulf, a roller-coaster ride gone berserk. I looked towards the four-lane Bay bridge in the distance. Only scattered supports bore witness to the fact it had even existed.<br /><br />A few of my neighbors joined me at the literal dead-end of Main. They slouched against the edge of an asphalt slab like worn shipwreck survivors. I nodded and they nodded back. There wasn’t much to say. We surveyed the absolute eradication of our town in silence.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/the%20corner%20of%20Beach%20and%20Main.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/the%20corner%20of%20Beach%20and%20Main.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Corner of Beach and Main"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />Walking back towards my bike, I came upon a wedding photo face up in the mud. I studied the eager, hopeful faces, but didn’t recognize them. Where were these people now? Tears ambushed me again. Like some madwoman, I carefully worked to dislodge the picture from the mud, ignoring the magnitude of the ruin around me. I somehow hoped to save the photo and return it to the owners, but it fell to pieces in my hand - a shredded symbol of the countless losses around me. I wailed aloud from rage and frustration. Jack was the only witness to this tantrum and he burrowed his head beneath my arm. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he wanted to make it better. I pulled him against me tightly and cried into his fur.<br /><br />I headed back up Main Street and saw my friend Doug. My spirits lifted immediately as we greeted each other with enthusiastic hugs. Doug always exudes a relaxed humor and that morning was no exception. He’s a hurricane hunter by profession - flying planes into the heart of storms for a living probably gives one a certain immunity to anxiety.<br /><br />As I’d guessed, he’d evacuated the arts center before the storm. He’d stayed with six friends at the Bay Town Inn, a historic bed and breakfast on the beach. He reported that all had survived. I wouldn’t find out until later exactly what they’d survived: The Bay Town Inn no longer existed. When I pressed Doug for details that morning, he answered with characteristic understatement: “It was one heck of a ride.”<br /><br />Further up Main, the houses had flooded but were still mostly intact. I met a truck inching through the debris towards the front. The driver was Ernie, owner of a popular beach bar. Ironically, he’d named it “The Good Life,” - something we’d all had a shot at in the Bay. “Have you been down there?” he said, pointing to the Gulf. I nodded my head, knowing what he was going to ask next. I didn’t want to break the news to him, but I was trapped. “How is it?” he asked. Tears came to my eyes when I said, “Ernie, it’s all gone.”<br /><br />He shook his head and choked for a moment. Then he smiled. “Cheer up, baby,” Ernie said, patting me on the shoulder. “There’ll be another Good Life.”<br /><br />I knew he wasn’t talking about his bar. Before he left, Ernie offered his help. “Honey, let me know if you need anything,” he said. He drove away to look at the eroded bank where the sea had devoured his dream.<br /><br />I didn’t have time to escape before another friend pulled up with her two teenaged sons in the back seat. I was both glad and horrified to see them: Their home had faced the beach. “What’s it like?” she asked. I didn’t want to lie. “The whole front’s gone,” I said. She looked stricken, so I started to be evasive. “But I haven’t actually been down to your house….” My neighbor took a deep breath, looked back at the impassive faces of her sons, and attempted a smile. I wished her luck as they left. It didn’t do any good. Later, I’d see for myself that only the pilings of their home remained.<br /><br />I’d always understood why messengers got shot, but now I wondered why more messengers didn’t shoot themselves. I had to get off Main before I ran into anyone else. Jack and I navigated back streets the rest of the way home. The temperature was in the high nineties and even Jack was dragging. By the time I arrived, I was drenched with sweat and liberally spattered with mud.<br /><br />Augusta and most of her family had gone to see what they could salvage from their houses, while Donald had walked to his job at the local power company. He’d been teamed with some Georgia Power linemen and they’d dropped off juice and bottled water for the household. I helped myself to a juice while I rested in the shade of the porch.<br /><br />Jimmie joined me and we discussed his mother, Mimi. On my ride, I’d heard from a neighbor that the hospital had been destroyed. It was clear to us now that no ambulance would arrive, no medics. Mimi was bedridden for the most part and Jimmie was concerned about sanitation. He’d been helping clean her, but she was understandably mortified. I was mortified myself – I hadn’t understood the situation fully. I’m not a nurse, but agreed to try my best.<br /><br />I went into the bedroom where Mimi lay atop the sheets, listening to the news on her battery radio. She’d kept it pressed against her ear since the storm began, even when she slept. With no air conditioning or fans, the room was stifling, but Mimi never complained. I asked how she was feeling.<br /><br />She didn’t waste time with niceties - she knew why I’d come. “Oh darling,” she protested. “I don’t want you to do this. I feel so useless. I want to get up and help you, but all I can do is lay here and be a burden. Just give me some water. I can take care of myself.”<br /><br />Pretending to be stern, I told her to quit fussing. I spread out garbage bags across the bed and cleaned her with water from my bathtub reservoir and a pack of disinfectant wipes. I was terrified I’d do something wrong; if her catheter became infected, without antibiotics, her life could be at risk. Mimi kept trying to apologize and I chattered to distract her until we were finished. For lack of other disposable options, I cut up some old t-shirts and swaddled her with them, joking about the new fashion statement. I helped her into a clean gown and then with fresh water, sponged off her face and hands. “Thank you,” she said. “That feels wonderful!” Then she asked, “Do you have any perfume?” We both laughed and I gave her a spritz of my favorite. <br /><br />Mimi dozed off listening to the news of her hometown, New Orleans. It wasn’t good. The levies had broken; most of the city was underwater. I only hoped Joe’s daughter, Robyn, was in Baton Rouge with her sister. Briefly, I thought of my other friends who lived in the city, then slammed that mental door tightly shut. There was nothing I could do for New Orleans and I needed to focus on the troubles at hand.<br /><br />I took two more treks on the bike that day. The first was to the foot of the Bay Bridge pilings, two miles away. Doug had told me that it was the one place in town where cell phones would work. A small crowd had gathered, but few people actually talked on their phones. I tried my own cell phone. No signal. Finally, I asked one woman whose phone was working if I could make a quick call to my parents. She kindly agreed, but the signal died before I could enter the number.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Bay%20Bridge%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Bay%20Bridge%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Bay Bridge"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br />Around sunset, Joe and I biked to Saint Stanislaus, a school close to my house. The campus overlooks the beach and we’d heard it was another cell phone hot spot. The sun was beginning to set and it was the time when many residents used to exercise along the beach. That evening, people had come only with the hope of making a simple phone call to let loved ones know they were alive.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/sunset%20at%20the%20beach%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/sunset%20at%20the%20beach%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Sunset at the Beach"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />No one was having any luck, but I saw several people I knew, including my friends Grady and Sally. They’d evacuated with their three children to Grady’s office at Stennis Airport, more than six miles north of the coast. Even there, the water had risen over six feet. I was staggered at the news - that meant the entire southern part of the county had been inundated by the surge.<br /><br />Grady and Sally were both shaken. Not only had their home been destroyed, they’d had an ugly run-in with some would-be looters. While they and some friends were picking though the rubble of the house, two men had confronted and threatened them. The incident ended without violence, but my idealistic bubble burst when I heard their story. Although Bay St. Louis was an extraordinary community, apparently it wasn’t perfect.<br /><br />I can’t remember eating dinner that night. Between the heat, the exhaustion and the stress, I’m sure I didn’t care. The final defeat of the day came when I realized I’d lost the new prescription glasses I’d gotten three days before. Somehow, the case had popped out of my pocket while I’d been biking. Finding it in the debris and mud would be impossible. It was a relatively small loss, yet utterly disheartening.<br /><br />Joe chose to camp out in his driveway, to escape the heat inside. I crawled into my loft bedroom in the center hallway of my own house. I’d covered the bed with plastic before the storm, so it was still relatively dry. James and his mother slept in rooms to one side of me, Augusta’s family spread out on the porch, where it was cooler.<br /><br />Despite the story of the looters, I left the windows and front doors open for cross-ventilation. I don’t have screens anywhere in my house, because I don’t need them. I have bats. A small colony nests between two beams under my house. They’re my secret treasures, patrolling my yard in the evenings, devouring every bug that dares come near. That night, two bats somehow got into my room, something that had never happened before. At first I was anxious, wondering if they’d accidentally land on me as I slept. Finally, I decided to be grateful I had personal guardians for the evening. No mosquito would draw my blood this night. In the eerie silence, I heard the membranes of their wings fluttering, felt swift movements in the air close above my face. The darkness was thick as velvet. The entire coast was stripped of artificial light and through the open windows, I looked out at stars I’d never seen before.<br /><br />As I lay in bed, the bats winging overhead, I thought about The Good Life. The neon sign for the bar had always amused me. It rarely worked perfectly, although Ernie had tried many times through the years to fix it. Sometimes, it said “The _______ Life.” Sometimes it just read “Good,” and occasionally just “The.” It seemed like a metaphor for my life in general. Years before, I’d written a poem about the sign. It wasn’t a very good poem, but it seemed prophetic when I remembered it that night:<br /><br />The Good Life<br /><br />The “Good” part is burned out<br />What remains is “Life.”<br />It glows a steady phosphorescent blue<br />against the dark sky over the Bay<br /><br />The red border flashes<br />off and on<br />with typical neon anxiety.<br />The caption underneath<br />blinks as well:<br /><br />“live entertainment”<br /><br />E.A. 1996<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/The%20Good%20Life.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/The%20Good%20Life.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Good Life" - two weeks after the storm<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(text and photographs copyright 2006 Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1143220835049855622006-01-02T08:52:00.000-08:002007-11-12T17:45:29.407-08:00The Story of Bay Town Inn<span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 3/21/06</span><br />_______________________<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">When I ran into my friend Doug Niolet the day after the hurricane, he told me that he'd ridden out the storm with six others at the Bay Town Inn, a beachfront bed and breakfast. That morning he didn't elaborate - his only comment was "it was quite a ride." At the time, I didn't even know that the local landmark had been completely demolished during the storm. It would be weeks before I heard some of the jaw-dropping details. Then in late October, Nikki Nicholson, owner of the Inn and one of the survivors, asked me if I'd write up an account of the story.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">All seven of the people who chose to stay in the Inn are my friends and neighbors. I don’t need a writer’s imagination to fill in the details – I’m simply recording their story, interweaving five of the individual accounts. The other two survivors declined to be interviewed. I've changed their names to Kay and Dan Stevens to respect their privacy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The experience of this group is riveting because they barely escaped with their lives. Yet they overcame what must have been an imperative to panic and took care of each other, offering what they could despite their personal peril. While this account may be extraordinary, it's not unusual - I've heard dozens of others that are similar. It's actually a typical example of the way people on the coast helped others - both during and after the storm. This may be the story of Bay Town Inn, but it's also the story of our town.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Bay%20Town%20Inn%20.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Bay%20Town%20Inn%20.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Bay Town Inn Before"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo courtesy of Ann Tidwell</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/BTI%20after.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/BTI%20after.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Bay Town Inn After"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">___________________________________<br /></div><br /><br />Nikki Nicholson straddled the oak branch, lying face down and hugging it with all her might. Her small dog, Maddy was tucked beneath her stomach like a baby. She pressed the dog closer to her, wondering how they’d possibly survive. Each wave that washed over the tree threatened to tear them from the limb and drag them into the seething surge. Nikki had always figured she’d be killed in a plane crash. Now, it looked like all those hours of airport anxiety had been wasted. In a bizarre twist of fate, she was caught in a tree, facing death by hurricane. It seemed like a very strange way to die.<br /><br />Doug Niolet reached up from his perch on the branch below and held onto Nikki’s boots for dear life. As a professional Hurricane Hunter, forty-eight hours before he’d piloted a plane through the eye of the storm. Now, he was in the center of Katrina again, hoping his branch wouldn’t break. Doug wasn’t sure he was going to die, but he wasn’t sure he’d make it either. He’d seen the others disappear.<br /><br />After the Bay Town Inn disintegrated around them, seven friends had been forced into the fury of the storm. In the chaos, they’d been separated. Three of them made it to a large oak. The other four had vanished. Doug had watched in horror as Kay Stevens was pulled beneath the water. She didn’t resurface. Her husband Dan had made it to a cluster of smaller trees nearby, but soon after he’d disappeared as well. The elders of the group, Dick and Nadine Stamm, had floated away together on a small section of roof. They’d actually waved good-bye as they sailed past on the makeshift raft. Doug waved back and started praying the rosary. It had been his grandmother’s favorite prayer.<br /><br />Kevan Guillory had been the last person to make it to the tree. His branch faced the Gulf, so he’d warn Nikki and Doug when a breaker was about to hit. The three friends were trapped for the duration - they couldn’t go higher and they couldn’t go down. Whenever the sea slammed into them, Kevan would bury his face in the resurrection ferns that grew on the branch and ask himself one question: “What in the cornbread hell led us to this?”<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/BTI%20interview.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/BTI%20interview.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Telling the Story"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Nikki, Doug and Kevan (l. to r.) tell their story while I'm typing it onto my computer</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">************<br /></div><br />Nikki and Kevan became worldwide celebrities the day after the storm when CNN repeatedly aired a short interview with the two survivors. But the network missed the best parts of the story. Exactly who are these people? What kept them all from panicking in the worst of circumstances? And the question that Kevan asked of himself is one of the most compelling – what led seven mature, intelligent people to ride out the storm in a beachfront bed and breakfast?<br /><br />As with most Katrina stories, this one begins with Camille. Thirty-five years before, the “storm of the century” had charged directly into Bay St. Louis with a 27-foot tidal wave and gusts of over 200 miles an hour. Heeding evacuation warnings, Dick and Nadine Stamm left their home in the lower elevation Cedar Point neighborhood. They took refuge in the 2nd Street Elementary School. The school was only a block from the beach, but it’d been built on the “bluff” of old town - some of the highest ground bordering the Gulf of Mexico.<br /><br />It was a good decision. The Stamm’s own house on Cedar Point flooded, but the couple weathered Camille at the school with no problems. When the storm relented at daybreak, Dick walked to his boss’s house that faced the beach. He found his employer and three children unharmed. Their stately historic home was high and dry. The monster storm had only broken a few windows of the sturdy building. This was the house that would later become Bay Town Inn. This was a house the Stamms thought they could count on.<br /><br />Decades later, when Katrina took aim for the Bay, the Stamms again considered their options. Nadine was now in her late seventies and Dick was 81. Although they were both active and vital, they were concerned about attempting the drive to their daughter’s house a hundred miles north. News reports warned of impossibly clogged highways.<br /><br />The Stamms debated and then called their friend, Nikki Nicholson, owner of the Bay Town Inn. Nikki assured them of a warm welcome at the bed and breakfast. The last of her paying guests departed Sunday morning, so she had plenty of room. They’d all be very comfortable, even if they lost electricity.<br /><br />Nikki had no qualms about staying in her house or in sheltering others for the storm. She’d purchased the Bay Town Inn three years before from Doug’s mother-in-law. During the transition, she’d become great friends with the family and integrated easily into the close-knit artists’ community. Nikki knew the house was a Camille veteran, but she also understood the principles of structural integrity. Built in 1899, it’d been constructed to withstand storms from the Gulf. Large beams ran the length of the building - it was solid as a rock. They don’t make houses like that anymore.<br /><br />So when Dan and Kay Stevens called, she didn’t hesitate to offer them refuge as well. Kay’s an artist who worked part time at the Inn. The Steven’s house was located in Waveland. Although it was well back from the water, Kay wanted to be on the safe side and move to higher ground. The Bay Town Inn seemed the perfect solution, because their large dog limited their evacuation options.<br /><br />The chain of events that led Doug Niolet to stay began three days before the storm. When he reported to work at Keesler Air Force base on Friday, he wasn’t slated to fly. Another pilot had problems, so Doug volunteered to take the Friday night mission. For six hours, he flew in and out of Katrina’s eye. When he entered the hurricane, it had just passed over Florida and had weakened to a “1.” By the time he headed back to Keesler early Saturday morning, the storm had intensified to a “3.”<br /><br />Saturday afternoon, Doug was back in the Bay boarding up his various properties. His old friend and partner, Kevan, worked alongside. The two men moved around town, securing doors, screwing plywood over windows, stacking sandbags where heavy rains might cause drainage problems. At one point, Kevan asked Doug’s opinion of the storm.<br /><br />“Well,” Doug said. “It’s not the worst storm I’ve ever flown into, but somebody’s world will never be the same.” He didn’t realize he was talking about his own.<br /><br />Doug finally slept Saturday night, assuming he’d be flying again the next morning. But by Sunday, the base had decided to move operations to Houston. Relieved of work obligations, he and his wife Vicki came up with a game plan.<br /><br />Doug was inclined to stay through the storm. He’d be able to help Kevan with final preparations and then get a jump-start on the clean-up afterward. At the same time, he was uncomfortable with the thought of his wife remaining with him. He urged her to evacuate. Vicki wasn’t really worried about her husband’s safety if he chose to stay - several times a year, he was required to attend survival training exercises - but she wasn’t as confident with her own emergency skills. She and her mother packed and headed for Jackson early that afternoon.<br /><br />Doug and Kevan spent the rest of the day boarding up various buildings and houses, including the Bay Town Inn. They were old hands at the procedure and by the end of the day, they’d completed most of their goals. They still had a punch list of last minute tasks, but since the storm wasn’t predicted to hit until late Monday morning, they figured they’d have time the next day. The group of seven gathered at the Inn. Kevan, a native Cajun and an excellent cook, baked a crawfish pie for dinner.<br /><br />After the meal, they retired early. Kay and Dan slept in the small guest cottage directly behind the main house. Kevan went next door to keep watch on a friend’s place at 200 Beach. It was a solid brick building that had also made it through Camille unharmed. He moved into the 2nd floor for the night. Doug had originally planned on staying at the Lumberyard, the Niolet’s art center. But in the end, he decided that the Stamms and Nikki might appreciate some extra moral support. The die was cast. Doug, Nadine and Dick Stamm and Nikki took rooms on the first floor of the Inn.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/BTI%20evening.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/BTI%20evening.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Bay Town Inn in the Evening"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo courtesy of Ann Tidwell</span><br /></div><br />When Nikki got up at three in the morning, she found Doug listening to storm reports on the television. The hurricane had moved faster than expected and was already in full swing. She made a pot of coffee for him and then headed back to bed. Doug eventually returned to his room as well, but was too disturbed to sleep. Forecasters still predicted surges to peak at 18-20 feet, yet one announcer had made a comment that stuck in his head: <span style="font-style: italic;">No one really knew for sure.</span><br /><br />Doug lay in bed wondering if it were too late to leave. He tried to reassure himself that no matter what happened, the building would still be standing in the end. The house sat on land that was over 25 feet above sea level. It’d been built an additional five feet off the ground. Even if the surge rose to an unheard of thirty feet, the house wouldn’t flood. It hadn’t in 1969. And this storm would never match the ferocity of Camille.<br /><br />At five in the morning, he gave up on sleep. Nikki joined him in the kitchen for coffee. The pot she’d made earlier was still warm, although they’d lost electricity an hour or so before. Frustrated that the television didn’t work, Doug remembered a battery-operated TV that he had at the Lumberyard Arts Center, four blocks away. He decided to go get it and called on Kevan to ride shotgun. His friend grumbled at being roused so early, but agreed it might be a good idea. The Stamms were still sleeping and since Nikki was reluctant to be left without company, she joined the men for the expedition. She kept her notepad in hand as they climbed into Doug’s truck. Nikki was determined to keep a thorough record of events.<br /><br />They drove along the beach road, which was built a good twenty feet above sea level. Water lapped across the top of the pavement, so the three assumed they were seeing the peak of the predicted surge. Power wires flailed like streamers in the wind, tree branches tumbled across their path. Turning onto Main Street, Doug answered a phone call. It was his daughter, Courtney, demanding to know where he was.<br /><br />Doug’s answer was spontaneous as a nearby building blew away. “Whoa!” he said. “Look at that roof going off!”<br /><br />Courtney was livid when she realized her father was still in the Bay. She began shouting at him, “Dad, you’re not qualified to hunt hurricanes on the ground!”<br /><br />Doug tried to reassure her and signed off. He continued slowly down the treacherous roads. It took the group almost thirty minutes to retrieve the television, but they made it back the bed and breakfast without mishap. Kevan returned to his post next door, while Doug tried to get more news. It had been a wasted trip. The battery TV worked, but stations were no longer broadcasting.<br /><br />In a last ditch attempt for information, he called his headquarters in Houston to ask when the eye of the storm would pass. The mission commander, Roger, was incredulous to hear that Doug was still in the Bay and asked his exact location. The answer turned out to be another inadvertent prophecy.<br /><br />“Why, we’re diving off the first floor of the bed and breakfast,” Doug cracked. “And we’re getting ready to go up to the 2nd floor and do high dives.”<br /><br />Roger wasn’t amused, but promised to call back shortly with the information.<br /><br />About seven o’clock, events began a rapid downhill slide. The wind peeled plywood away from some of the windows and rain started pushing beneath the exterior doors. Doug called Kevan and asked for help at the Inn. He also tried calling back his commander for the all-important location of the eye. There was no answer. His cell phone wasn’t getting through.<br /><br />To get back to the Inn, Kevan had to wade across a lawn now covered with ankle-deep water. Several times he had to stop and crouch down. The thundering gusts threatened to carry him off. Directly across the street, he saw that The Dock of the Bay was beginning to show signs of defeat. The popular restaurant was built on the bluff overlooking the beach. Kevan saw that bit by bit, the building was dismembered by the wind.<br /><br />Once inside, he helped as the others began taking emergency measures. The group built a “nest” in the most sheltered part of the building. They chose a nook in the center of the house, behind the massive staircase on the first floor. They furnished it with blankets and pillows, flashlights and water. Everyone sealed their most valuable belongings - wallets, laptops, personal papers – into plastic bags and piled them in the nest. Nikki even thoughtfully protected her current needlepoint project.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/BTI%20staircase.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/BTI%20staircase.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Staircase of the Bay Town Inn"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo courtesy of Ann Tidwell</span><br /></div><br />Her last contact with the outside world came when she answered a phone call from a friend about 8 a.m. As Nikki talked, she looked out the back windows and noticed the water rising on her patio. When her friend asked if the worst had passed, she saw her grill begin to float. “I don’t think so,” she said with foreboding.<br /><br />At 8:30 the Stamms took a coffee break and sat at the kitchen table. They were calm - in fact, according to Dick, “dumb and happy.” Through the windows, they could see Demontluzin Street, which ran along one side of the house. It was quickly becoming a river. Suddenly, they saw their car cruise by, floating away down the street. Kay’s car had been parked in front of the guest cottage. Now it butted against the walls of the small house repeatedly, riding a rising surf. The headlights flashed as the car alarm signaled an emergency.<br /><br />Nadine retreated to the nest and took over the job of news gatherer. She pressed the portable radio to her ear and searched the airwaves with quiet composure. Dick went into the dining room off the kitchen to check for leaks. A renegade gust of wind broke a window, blasted through the house and slammed the door behind him. When he struggled to open it, the air pressure in the house worked against him. The rest of the group came to his rescue. Together, they were able to force back one of the giant pocket doors leading from the dining room to the hallway and finally release Dick from his prison.<br /><br />The guest cottage in the back had its own problems. It had been built at ground level. When the water first started slipping under the doors, the Stevens decided to make for the main house. Together, they struggled across the patio in chest-high water, important papers held over their heads. Kay managed to somehow hang on to her dog’s leash as he swam.<br /><br />They burst in through the kitchen door of the house, grateful to have reached refuge. But the air pressure was still playing tricks. When the back door opened, the tremendous suction broke open the massive front door, which had been boarded over. Doug and Kevan raced to wrestle it back into submission. They used a portable drill to screw the door shut.<br /><br />While the Stevens dried off in the kitchen, the rest of the team worked furiously as the storm found new ways to breach the walls. Dick barricaded off the laundry room, which had lost part of the roof. Nadine reluctantly made the sad report that the storm was intensifying, while Doug wedged various utensils against the kitchen windows to keep them shut. Kevan and Nikki decided to check on the 2nd floor.<br /><br />Upstairs, rain was being forced through the windows, so the two grabbed some towels. When they tried to secure one window, glass exploded into the room. Shards sliced into Kevan’s chin and foot. They gave up and pushed a heavy armoire in front of the opening. Nikki found some hydrogen peroxide to put on Kevan’s cuts and they joined the others on the first floor.<br /><br />Downstairs a new battle was being waged to fortify the front door. The water now reached two feet over the level of the porch. Waves beat furiously against the house, trying to gain entrance. The men used a shutter from an upstairs closet to wedge against the door. They overturned a table and braced it against the shutter. Finally, to complete the emergency barricade, they jammed a cutting board between the table and the foot of the stairs. In the end, they had a contraption that exerted considerable force against the door.<br /><br />Kevan became the official lookout. The enormous front and side windows of the house were boarded over, but the plywood left a small gap at the top. He dragged a stool around the rooms, standing on it to peek over the boards. After looking through one of the front windows, he quietly called Doug over to him.<br /><br />“Don’t say anything to the others,” he said. “But you’ve got to see this. The Dock of the Bay is in the front yard.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Dock%20of%20the%20Bay.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Dock%20of%20the%20Bay.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Dock of The Bay Restaurant After the Storm"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Vicki Niolet</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(text and photos copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky)</span><br /></div><br />Note: Vicki Niolet has just published a book of photographs depicting Bay St. Louis after the storm. It's called "Parting Shots." If you're interesting in purchasing a copy, e-mail her at vniolet@earthlink.netEllis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1144511034067811392006-01-01T06:03:00.000-08:002007-11-12T18:55:35.227-08:00Room Number Five<span style="font-weight: bold;">from my storm journal - 4/7/06</span><br />___________________<br /><br />Doug peered out the window, straining to see through the sheets of rain. The building across the street had vanished. Large sections of the restaurant churned in the water covering the front yard. Frenzied waves drove the debris against the foundations of the Bay Town Inn, shaking the house with every slam of the surge.<br /><br />Kevan and Doug announced it was time to move the nest to the 2nd floor. Room Number Five was the obvious choice. It was centered in the back of the house, directly at the top of the stairs. The room was flanked on one side by a walk-in closet and on the other by a bath.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Room%20Number%205.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Room%20Number%205.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Room Number Five"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo courtesy of Ann Tidwell</span><br /></div><br />The group began hauling their possessions and supplies up the stairs. The Stamms depended on several medications and Nadine made sure she had them all with her in a black garbage bag. She also carried up the portable radio, even though the reception had been reduced to static.<br /><br />Nadine knew they were in for a “very challenging time.” She settled on a daybed, with Kay at her feet. Kay chanted a soothing mantra, while Nadine repeated more traditional prayers. When Nikki commented on their composure, Nadine smiled. “It’s in God’s hands now,” she said serenely.<br /><br />The men remained below trying to hold the doors against the Gulf of Mexico. The waves pounded against the front of the house as if an outside army sensed victory and had taken up battering rams. The noise was deafening. Doug took a last look through the cracks in the plywood. The front porch was no longer attached to the building. “That’s extreme,” he thought. He warned the other men that it was time to go and they fled up the steps, crowding with the women into Room Five.<br /><br />Kevan was the last to leave. “Just as I turned to go upstairs,” he said, “the water broke through. A gush raged through the house. At the same time, water poured in the back from the kitchen. I’d taken my glasses off, but could see the waves coming up the stairwell. They just slashed against the back wall where the nest had been. Then the entire staircase broke loose. It went crashing through to the back of the house. I wondered, now how we are going to get down from the second floor? That’s when I first realized we really had a problem.”<br /><br />At the top of the stairs, Kevan veered off into the doorway of a bedroom directly to the left. From this vantage point, he could see the rest of the group huddled in Room Five, but he could also look down into the gaping chasm below. Breakers smashed through the bottom floor, hurling antique furnishings against walls that were beginning to break apart. Wave after wave mauled the house with a feral ferocity, ripping away sections as he watched. Finally, the entire front of the building groaned in surrender and fell away into a gorging sea.<br /><br />The doorway to Number Five suddenly opened directly onto an ocean writhing in fury. The front rooms no longer existed. The floor of the hallway had been sucked into the surf. The room behind Kevan began to distort as it pulled away from the back of the house. Nikki screamed when she saw Kevan’s danger. He leaped towards the others from the crumbling remains of his perilous perch. Propelled by adrenaline, he crossed a six-foot rift that dropped away to certain death below. Indiana Jones couldn’t have done it better. He made it to the threshold of Room Number Five and was pulled by the others into the last safe haven.<br /><br />But it wasn’t a haven for long. Number Five became the only survivor of the house when the remaining back rooms on both sides were pulled away. As the final supports of the first floor gave way, it settled onto the heaving surface of the sea. The walls and ceiling of the room began to cave in on the group. The men struggled to keep it from collapsing onto them while the floor rippled beneath their feet. They weren’t able to save the front wall. Their last protection from the elements was inexorably drawn into the water.<br /><br />Seven people and two dogs found themselves in a shifting shell, open to the fury of the storm. “Hello, Gulf of Mexico,” Doug thought. He realized that the room had become a little boat and “one that was about to sink.” Gusts blasted them with bullets of rain. As they fought to keep the ceiling from falling onto them, the room twisted in the water. The open front of Number Five now faced towards the rear of the lot. A large oak tree that grew in the backyard came into view.<br /><br />Doug shouted to be heard over the wind, urging his friends to enter the water and make for the tree. Nadine, still calm, answered resolutely. “I’m not going into the water,” she said. “I can’t swim.” Dick Stamm held her close against his side. He was going nowhere without his wife.<br /><br />The group faced eminent death, but the Cajun in Kevan couldn’t resist the opening for a good line. As he strained against the ceiling to hold it in place, he looked at Doug and grinned. “Houston, we have a problem,” he yelled.<br /><br />Kevan and Doug didn’t need to speak next to determine their roles. Doug ushered Nikki into the dark and raging surge with the Stevens, while Kevan stayed with the Stamms, waiting for a miracle.<br /><br />Dan Stevens persuaded his wife to release their dog from its leash. He led Kay into the water and together, they fought their way to the tree. Dan helped Kay grab hold of a sturdy branch, then was pushed ahead by the current. He finally managed to catch a clump of smaller trees further up the street.<br /><br />Nikki held her dog close to her. She scuttled crablike across the debris floating on top of the water, using it like a series of rafts. When she arrived at the tree, she saw that Kay was pinned against the trunk by the same tide of wreckage. Yet Kay took Maddy into her arms, allowing Nikki to climb onto a limb. When Nikki was secure, Kay handed up the dog.<br /><br />Doug kept his head above the water, but the mass of floating debris knocked against him with every swell of the sea. When he reached the tree, he was able to pull himself above the deadly layer of lumber. Once anchored on a branch, he grasped the hand of Kay, who was still pinned. Each undulation of the water pinched her between the debris and the trunk of the tree, threatening to cut her in half. He couldn’t manage to pull her from the water, so hung onto her arm in desperation.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Kevan and the Stamms got their miracle. A section of roof floated by. It began to butt up against the open part of Room Five, as if beckoning to the Stamms. Kevan struggled to hold back the last remaining walls as Dick helped Nadine slide into the water. Her husband encouraged her as she did the unthinkable. “You can do it,” he said. “You can do this. I’m right here with you.”<br /><br />Nadine says that she “felt miraculous guidance with every step. Our bodies were not harmed in any way. I didn’t step on nails. Nothing even caught our clothes. We tried to catch a tree trunk, but the Lord didn’t want that, so we floated on a little branch. The water doused over me once and then went down to above my waist. When we got to the piece of roof, Dick said, ‘I’ll help you up.’”<br /><br />Once on-board their makeshift raft, Nadine lay down. Dick spooned against her back and covered her body with his own to protect her from the cold and rain. He couldn’t see where they were going, but it didn’t matter. He was with his wife.<br /><br />As they drifted away, Nadine lay against the shingles, still clutching the plastic bag that held their medications. Dick’s arms surrounded her as if they were nesting birds. Their friends noticed the extraordinary expression of peace on both faces. “The Stamms were together and that was all that counted - the two of them were ready to face anything, even death. They may have been floating away to never-never land, but it looked like they’d be alright with that as long as they died together.”<br /><br />Kevan had entered the water right behind the Stamms and made it to the tree in time to wave good-bye as they passed. He joined Doug in more attempts to pull Kay from the water, but even their combined strength couldn’t free her. Kay was in agony from the heavy debris battering her torso. If the brutal beating continued, the men realized she would soon die. Finally, in a desperate effort to save her, they shoved at the debris pile with all their strength, trying to push it away from her body. But Kay was impossibly tangled in the mass of lumber. As she moved away with the debris, they were forced to release their hold on her. Kevan was the last to let go of her hand. He watched in horror as she lost consciousness and her face slipped beneath the water. He was certain she was dead.<br /><br />The island of debris carried Kay up the street towards where Dan clung to the top of a flimsy crepe myrtle bush. To get his attention, the three in the oak screamed together, “loud enough to be heard in Biloxi.” But the gusts whipped away their cries and the pile washed past Dan unnoticed. The friends saw it move swiftly up Demontluzin Street, following the path of the Stamms. Kay’s head did not break the surface again. Shortly after, Dan disappeared from their view as well.<br /><br />For the next two hours, Nikki, Doug and Kevan clung like barnacles to the oak. At times, Nikki would reach over to Kevan and touch him for reassurance. He encouraged her by shouting, “Just hang on! As long as you don’t lose your grip, you’ll be O.K.” Maddy squirmed beneath her with typical terrier impatience, but Nikki only tightened her grip. After all they’d been through together, she wasn’t about to lose her dog now. She thought about her brother the priest and her mother, who had passed away. She wondered if her mother was watching her from the other side.<br /><br />To steady her, Doug held on to Nikki’s boots dangling from above. He tried to watch the storm, but it was difficult to see anything. When he opened his eyes, the rain drove into them. If he shut them, the salt stung ferociously. He silently continued praying for his own life and those of his companions, yet he felt a quiet acceptance. He ended his prayers the way he always did: Thy will be done.<br /><br />Kevan spent the long hours “kissing the tree” and contemplating his surreal situation. He marveled over the events of his life that had led him to that particular place and time. Kevan wasn’t sure why he’d ended up hanging on to a tree in the middle of a monster hurricane, but he had a sense that he was fulfilling an odd destiny. His humor never failed him. After one particularly violent round of waves had submersed the trio, he shouted down to Doug. “Niolet, next time you want to go hunting a hurricane in a tree, don’t call me!”<br /><br />Finally, Kevan noticed the wind shifting to the South. Nikki watched as the water began to recede slowly. Suddenly, she felt as if she had regained the ability to breathe. It began to look like they might just make it after all. The group waited another endless hour before they thought about leaving their roost.<br /><br />As the surge retreated back into the Gulf, a new problem emerged – how were they going to get down? Doug was on the lowest branch, which was still at least eight feet from the ground. He’d lost a shoe in the escape, so was reluctant to jump into the muddy water that still covered the yard. While it looked fairly shallow, he could see part of a picket fence directly beneath him, strung out like a line of pungee stakes.<br /><br />Doug realized that for some reason, he was wearing a towel around his neck. He supposed it had been white at one time - now it was completely brown. He draped it over his branch and lowered himself tentatively into the water below. Nikki readied herself to go next.<br /><br />Then, from her vantage point of the branch, she looked in the direction of State Street, the next block over. She noticed two figures waving to get her attention. They shouted across the debris and the wide lake of standing water that separated them from the tree. No one could hear their words over the wind, but Nikki was jubilant when she recognized one of the men as Dan Stevens. Dan and the stranger were dragging a makeshift ladder and apparently wanted to help. However, the group agreed that crossing the lake would be too risky. They signaled that they were safe and continued on their own.<br /><br />Nikki handed Maddy off to Kevan and using Doug’s towel technique, scrambled down with his assistance. Kevan gently lowered the dog and followed. They turned in the direction of the only high ground in sight – an enormous pile of sand. It had been deposited by the surge at the foot of DeMontluzin, where the street had once met the beach road.<br /><br />Exhausted, the three friends rested on the mound for several minutes and tried to get their bearings. The sense of disorientation was overwhelming. They could barely recognize each other – a sticky, black silt covered them head to toe. Even the landscape around them was no longer familiar. They might have been standing on the surface of another planet. There was no sign of the Bay Town Inn, nothing to mark where it had stood. The stretch of beach road that had formerly been lined with buildings was now barren. The street itself had been eaten away.<br /><br />They picked their way across the shredded remains of their town to a neighbor’s house that was somehow still standing. The bottom floor had been demolished, but the upstairs had survived intact. In the kitchen, the group found Cokes and V-8 juice, which they gulped down. On the 2nd floor, they rummaged through closets, hunting for clothes. Doug and Kevan were delighted to discover new men’s bathing suits in their sizes. Everyone changed out of their wet rags, then found dry beds and collapsed. Storm-force winds hammered the house, ripping off sheets of metal roofing overhead. Kevan was kept awake by the racket, but Nikki and Doug were asleep in minutes.<br /><br />Just a block away, the Stamms were sleeping too. Their raft had floated up DeMontluzin, passing over a large oak that had fallen across the street. When the water began to recede, the tree acted as a roadblock, preventing the raft from being swept out to sea. The roof section had settled gently onto a thick layer of mud. Dick helped Nadine down and they slogged across the street to a row of standing houses. Dick chose one that looked as if it’d had only flooded a few feet inside. He broke in through a side window and gallantly opened the front door for Nadine. The food in the refrigerator was still cold, so they ate for the first time since early morning. In one of the bedrooms, a four poster king-sized bed provided a luxurious resting place. The antique had been set up on wooden blocks, so even the bedding was dry. They lay down and both slept soundly, despite the winds still raging above them.<br /><br />By mid-afternoon, they were wakened by a call from the front door. A trustee from the county jail was making a house-to-house search for survivors. He introduced himself as Jeff and told the Stamms he’d escort them to the sheriff’s office and jail a few blocks away. Nadine had lost her slippers in the surge, so Jeff rooted through the closet until he found a pair of men’s shoes she could wear.<br /><br />The jail had been converted to a makeshift MASH unit. When they arrived, the Stamms were relieved to find Dan and Kay already there. Kay was alive, but in grave condition. During a search of the neighborhood, two deputies had found her and carried her back to the jail.<br /><br />Semi-conscious, she lay on a thin bed under layers of blankets, shivering from exposure and shock. Everyone was concerned about internal injuries she'd almost certainly sustained from the battering. Her breathing was labored. Powerless, Dan sat by her side as she gasped. The local hospital was in ruins and the roads leading there were impassable. Medical help would have to come from the outside world and it wasn’t going to come quickly.<br /><br />Dan wasn’t in such good shape himself. At first, he’d made his stand against the surge by hanging tenaciously on to the flimsy crepe myrtle bushes. Finally, he found refuge in a wind-beaten house on State Street, about half a block from where the Inn had stood. A man who had stayed there for the storm helped him inside. When the water went down, the neighbor went with Dan to search for Kay. Shortly after, the two had spotted Nikki, Doug and Kevan climbing out of the tree and attempted a rescue. By the time the Stamms arrived at the jail, Dan been reunited with his wife. Dick and Nadine draped themselves with blankets and remained with the Stevens until the storm was spent.<br /><br />Kevan found them all there late in the day. When the winds had slackened, he and Doug had left their temporary refuge to check on other neighbors. They walked further inland to a friend’s house. It had flooded on the ground floor and lost a major part of the roof, but it could still provide shelter. They decided to make the home emergency headquarters. The two men broke in without guilt, then found the key to a truck parked in the driveway. The old truck surprised them by starting immediately. They commandeered it and were able to drive part of the way back to the beach to pick up Nikki.<br /><br />Doug and Kevan were on a roll - etiquette took second place to survival. They raided friends’ freezers for ice and food, taking it back to the “headquarters.” Then Kevan picked up the Stamms and the Stevens from the jail. He settled them for the night into another house Nikki owned on Carroll Street, a few blocks away. It had been battered and flooded, but the upstairs beds were dry. Kay was in a very fragile state. Despite the warm evening air and bundles of blankets, she shivered uncontrollably.<br /><br />Kevan “borrowed” a grill on the way back to join Nikki and Doug. They'd been joined by two other friends, who'd ridden out the peak of the surge in the cab of their floating pick-up truck. Kevan lit the charcoal and cooked a feast of fried baloney, which he rendered down to a crisp. Food had never tasted so good. The meal at the Inn the night before seemed a million years ago, in a fractured past. They ate in total blackness, the glow of the coals their only illumination.<br /><br />They didn’t talk a lot. Adrenaline had been replaced by shock. Each was absorbed by the new reality. Their beloved town was destroyed. Friends and neighbors had perished, or like Kay, teetered on the brink. Communication was impossible, so loved ones far away most likely presumed them dead.<br /><br />Yet, this new reality contained gold as well as grit. Friendship had new meaning and community had become something more than just a word. Courage wore a different face, one that could be lined with age. And faith had broken past the bounds of any church. It roamed freely like a spirit through the dark and broken streets of Bay Saint Louis.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/BTI%20brochure%20mud.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/BTI%20brochure%20mud.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Bay Town Inn Brochure"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Vicki found this sad reminder buried in mud after the storm</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Vicki Niolet</span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Epilogue</span><br /><br />Kay Stevens was flown to a Jackson hospital the next afternoon. She remained hospitalized for several weeks with multiple injuries and respiratory problems. Months later, she was finally given a release from medical care. Dan and Kay's home in Waveland was destroyed. They lost everything they owned. Seven months after the storm, they have moved to the western part of the U.S.<br /><br />Nikki bounced between different friends’ houses for months after the storm. In February, repairs were completed on her Carroll Street house and she was able to return to the Bay. At this writing (April, 2006), she’s working part time in New Orleans for the Convention and Visitors Bureau. She’d retired from there after 25 years, but after the storm returned to her job on a part-time basis.<br /><br />She’s hoping to build another Bay Town Inn when the major infrastructure of the town is back in place. “I’d love nothing better,” she tells me, “although I might build it back a little bit further from the beach.” Maddy misses all the treats and pats she got from doting guests when she was a bed and breakfast pet. The only obvious change in the dog since her traumatic experience is that she’s “more cuddly. She lost everything too,” Nikki says. “It’s not been easy for her either.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Nikki%20tree%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Nikki%20tree%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Nikki and Maddy"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">standing under "their tree" at the site of the Inn, April 2006</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />Kevan‘s cottage is located in the highest section of Bay Saint Louis. Although it lost part of the roof, it sustained little damage in comparison to the rest of the houses in town. He claims he’d stay for another hurricane, although nowhere close to the beach. He also says that he’s in the Bay to stay. “After making love to a tree for three and a half hours, you kind of feel connected to a place.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Kevan%20cropped%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Kevan%20cropped%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Kevan"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br />Doug Niolet is still an active Hurricane Hunter although he will retire later in 2006. He says his co-workers had a universal reaction the first time they saw him after the storm. First, they’d embrace him and tell him they were thankful he was alive. Then they’d say they were going to knock the s#@*! out of him for staying. His daughter, Courtney, finally forgave him, but made him promise that next time he’ll evacuate. Doug and his wife, Vicki, plan to remain in Bay Saint Louis and help rebuild.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Doug%20atop%20debris.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Doug%20atop%20debris.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Doug and the Debris"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Doug stands behind the site of the Bay Town Inn shortly after the storm</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Vicki Niolet</span><br /></div><br /><br />Vicki Niolet heard from her husband the day after the storm when he managed to get a call through on a borrowed cell phone. She returned to town on Wednesday. Their living quarters at the Lumberyard Arts Center had been wrecked, as well as her own art studio. But Vicki doesn’t need a studio to produce art – she began taking photographs immediately. Her moving photo study of Bay Saint Louis after Katrina was published in March 2006. It’s titled “Parting Shots.”<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/three%20by%20the%20oak%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/three%20by%20the%20oak%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Three by the Tree"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Doug, Kevan and Nikki</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br /><br />Dick Stamm says he heard that Jeff, the trustee, received a pardon for his heroic efforts the day of the storm.<br /><br />Nothing remains of Dick and Nadine’s house or any of their belongings. Since October, 2005, they’ve lived in a house next door to their daughter, in the countryside of South Louisiana. As of this writing, they have no plans to rebuild in Bay St. Louis. They say they miss it dreadfully. They always loved the community, but the storm brought new appreciation. Dick says that after the hurricane, there were no strangers in town, only family.<br /><br />They both credit their faith in God for their survival. I ask Nadine how she remained so calm during life-threatening circumstances. She ducks the question at first, praising the entire group for being cool and levelheaded. She says that none of them had time to be scared. She tells me that thinking back over events, she gets “spiritual goose bumps.”<br /><br />At last, Nadine hands me the answer in a nutshell. She quotes, “’I will give my angels charge over thee.’ And there’s another scripture that reads, ‘Let not your hearts be troubled.’ I believe that you’re only given what you can bear.”<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/god%20bless%20Vicki.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/god%20bless%20Vicki.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"God Bless This Tree"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Vicki Niolet</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(text and photos copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky. May be reproduced/posted elsewhere with permission)</span><br /></div><br />To purchase a copy of Vicki Niolet's book, "Parting Shots," contact her at vniolet@earthlink.netEllis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1147229851437066972005-12-31T12:55:00.000-08:002008-06-08T18:23:23.667-07:00On Our Own<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">5/7/06</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">This particular Katrina legend is short, but it speaks volumes for our town. It begins four days after the storm, when the National Guard finally arrived in the Bay. The commander strutted into the fire station to find Eddie Favre, the mayor of Bay St. Louis. Eddie’s cousin is the famous football player Brett Favre, but Katrina hadn’t cared about connections with celebrities, nor did she show respect for authority. Our mayor’s house had been flattened by the storm like thousands of others. He’d moved into the fire department and camped out on the floor.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The commander and his entourage must have made a formidable impression, dressed in their fresh camouflage uniforms and carrying rifles. They formally presented themselves to the mayor. Then the commander explained why they had come, announcing, “We’re here to prevent looting.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">An irate Eddie snapped back an order. “You leave my f**king looters alone!”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Or so the story goes. I hope it’s true. It’s a reply that everyone who was here in those first desperate days appreciates and applauds. My favorite version has our mayor adding, “If you see somebody carting off a TV, shoot ‘em, but if you see a person carrying away water or food, help ‘em out, for Christ’s sake.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I ran into the mayor after a city council meeting a few weeks ago and asked him if this was an accurate account. He neither confirmed nor denied it. Eddie just grinned and said, “We (the city workers) were having to loot ourselves. We had nothing. What were we supposed to do?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">What were we supposed to do?</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> It’s a question I’m still asking. As an American, I grew up with a sense of entitlement. I had confidence that if my community was ever in trouble, my government would be there like a shot to help out. I’d seen the immediate national response to the 9/11 disaster, when the entire country leaped to its feet and was on the scene in a heartbeat. I expected the same response when Katrina destroyed my town.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Different%20country%209-12.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Different%20country%209-12.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>“Different Country”<br /></div><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">But by the time government help began to trickle in on Thursday - four endless days after the storm - I felt angry, betrayed and forgotten. The Biloxi Sun Herald published an editorial on Wednesday, August 31st voicing the same disappointment:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">"…our reporters have yet to find evidence of a coordinated approach to relieve pain and hunger or to secure property and maintain order. People are hurting and people are being vandalized… Yet where is the National Guard, why hasn't every able-bodied member of the armed forces in South Mississippi been pressed into service? … reporters listening to horrific stories of death and survival at the Biloxi Junior High School shelter looked north across Irish Hill Road and saw Air Force personnel playing basketball and performing calisthenics."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">Calisthenics?</span> On Wednesday?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The fact that no one had arrived on Tuesday was almost understandable. Twenty-four hours after the storm, communications were still cut off, roads blocked by fallen trees and debris, bridges severed. Katrina had blown us back into the Dark Ages. Yet somehow a crew from CNN - that Maserati of mobilization - managed to make it into town. They briefly interviewed two of the Bay Town Inn survivors before they raced off to cover more dramatic happenings in New Orleans.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I also wondered how the crews of Georgia Power had arrived before the armed forces or the Red Cross. Less than 12 hours after the storm had passed, legions of them were everywhere, armed with chainsaws, clearing the streets. But hey – maybe they were on the Coast before the storm.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">However, Wednesday morning, I woke up certain that soon men in uniforms would be at my door, asking what they could do to help. They would offer food and water and whisk Mimi away to a hospital. My 92 year-old friend may have been tough, but the heat was wicked enough to wilt the hardiest athlete.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">As I tried to orient myself to a new day in the apocalypse, I wasn’t surprised to hear knocking at the front door. I raced to throw it open for the troops. Instead, I found my friend Hugh, looking very disheveled. At first, he misread my shock as dismay.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“I know I stink,” he explained. “I just got in from Lucedale. I’ve been sleeping in my car and haven’t had a shower in three days.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Smelly or not, I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life. Hugh was the first friend from the outside world who had made it back. He must have been surprised when I threw my arms around his neck and burst into tears.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Hugh owned both a cottage in the Bay and a house in New Orleans, where he worked as an environmental lawyer. On the Sunday morning before the storm, he’d evacuated from his home in the Bay and headed east with a convoy of friends. The vehicles became separated and Hugh’s car began to overheat from the stop-and-go traffic. Every motel was full. “Clerks would just laugh at me when I’d stop and ask for a room,” he said.<br /><br />The night was closing in when the storm began in earnest. Hugh took an exit towards Lucedale, a small town just to the west of Mobile, Alabama. He pulled into a private campground and eased his car against the back wall of the office, hoping the building would afford some protection from the winds. Hugh and his dog spent the long night together, riding out the hurricane in his car.<br /><br />In the morning, he was wakened from a fitful sleep by a rapping on his windshield. He opened his eyes and saw a man standing by the driver’s side window, dressed like a farmer in overalls and a straw hat. Hugh rolled down the window and the man asked where he was from.<br /><br />“I’m a refugee from New Orleans,” Hugh answered.<br /><br />“That’ll be fifteen dollars,” the man said, matter-of-factly.<br /><br />But for Hugh’s fifteen dollars, he also received hot meals - the owner of the RV park was not completely without mercy. Hugh ended up staying at the campground on Monday night as well. There was no place else to go.<br /><br />Before dawn on Tuesday morning, Hugh struck out for the coast to check on his house in the Bay. He ignored warnings from his host that marshal law had been declared and that authorities were arresting anyone driving at night. He worked his way southwest using back-roads that had become debris-strewn obstacle courses. Although he traveled less than a hundred miles, the trip took him most of the day.<br /><br />In the afternoon, Hugh finally made it to Highway 603. That’s the main route that runs from the north directly into Bay St. Louis and Waveland on the coast. He traveled south on the road until he reached the point where Interstate 10 crosses the highway, several miles north of the two towns. The east and west lanes of the interstate above appeared to be open, but the road ahead was blocked. A large group of vehicles had pulled over and about forty people waited outside their cars. When Hugh joined them, he saw the problem. An enormous lake of water still covered Highway 603 and no one wanted to chance flooding their cars by driving through.<br /><br />At the interstate overpass where Hugh stood – <span style="font-style: italic;">seven miles</span> from the coast – the surge had risen over ten feet. The hurricane had slammed the coastline with a record-breaking wall of water, but had also driven an impossibly high surge up any body of water leading to the Gulf. The Bay of St. Louis itself - along with every river and bayou - had channeled the raging tides far inland. For the first time in recorded history, the briny waters of the Gulf had covered most of southern Hancock County.<br /><br />Hugh joined the crowd and waited, wondering when the water would recede enough to continue. Then a red sports car pulled up to the scene.<br /><br />“It was a shiny little convertible and this beautiful woman was driving,” Hugh said. “She was all dolled up, like she was out for a Sunday drive – nice clothes, earrings and make-up, perfect hair. When she heard what the problem was, she shrugged and said, “Oh, I’m not worried about that.” Then she gunned her engine and peeled out of there at about a hundred miles an hour. That car just flew across that water. When she got to the other side, the whole crowd spontaneously broke out into a big cheer. It was like she’d made a touchdown. She just waved back at us and then tore off down the road.<br /><br />The “babe in the sports car” gave the rest of the group courage to slowly creep through the impasse and Hugh made it back to his house before dark. He was surprised to find that the water had stopped inches before it invaded his house. And although every large tree in his yard had been felled by the winds, none of the fifteen had directly hit the building. Even his new roof was miraculously intact. He’d collapsed onto his own dry bed and slept soundly.<br /><br />When Hugh had finished filling me in on his storm saga, he asked about the beached boat in my front yard. I told him the story of Augusta’s family, but he wouldn’t meet them until later – they’d already left for the day, hoping to salvage a few more mementos from their house. Hugh already knew Jimmie, so I introduced him to Mimi. Jimmie had helped her into her wheelchair and she sat at the dining table eating a breakfast of bananas and bottled water. Mimi may have been trapped and frightened, yet her courtly sense of dignity set the bar for the rest of us. She welcomed Hugh as if he were a gentleman arriving for high tea.<br /><br />The three of us listened as Hugh relayed more news from the outside world. Joe came over from his house and joined us. He didn’t comment - he’d already heard most of the grisly tales from New Orleans on his pocket radio. As Hugh talked, I watched Joe’s face. His features were firmly set in a stoic mask, yet I knew his mind must be whirling with anxiety, plagued by the possibility that his daughter Robyn might still be in the city.<br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">As Hugh wound down, Joe gave us the latest weather report. Severe storms were predicted that afternoon. Both houses had been ripped open by the hurricane and were extremely vulnerable. I could stand in my kitchen, look up and see sky. If we wanted to minimize further damage, we’d need to start immediately. Joe headed home to cover the worst parts of his own roof with some camping tarps he had on hand. Jimmie, Hugh and I collected sheets of battered tin from the street. There was no shortage of it - pieces of my own roof and from many other houses littered the ground. The challenge was to find sheets that weren’t too mangled or torn to be recycled.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Roofing%20Supplies.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Roofing%20Supplies.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>“Roofing Supplies"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Ellis's yard after the storm</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Ellis Anderson</span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The two men climbed up on my roof and perched thirty feet in the air. Although it was early morning, the heat was already stifling. I knew Jimmie must be still be in great pain from his fall during the storm, but he and Hugh began to piece the crumpled tin over a few of the tremendous holes. To me, the project looked hopeless – they were trying to put band aids on a landmine victim. Since I'm a silversmith and hammered metal for a living, I figured I’d be able to work alongside the men. I was wrong. I’d swing down the hammer with all my strength and the nails would just bounce around on the surface of the tin. Rarely in my life have I felt such frustration at being a woman.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Finally, the guys got tired of watching my ineptitude and suggested I try working on communications. They both gave me a list of numbers to try if I could get a call out. I grabbed my bike and headed for the bridge, about a four-mile round trip. Jack wanted to come, but I sternly ordered him to stay behind. Under the murderous sun, even my tireless dog would be at risk for heat stroke.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The Georgia Power crews had already cleared most of the main arteries, so the going was much easier than the day before. I ran into two other friends biking with the same mission and we pedaled on together. They’re members of the Baptist church in Old Town and told me that a relief center was already being set up in the building. We marveled at the fact that the churches and the power companies had hit the ground running, while there was no evidence of government help anywhere.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">At the foot of the destroyed bridge, a crowd had already gathered. People held up phones like antennae, walking around trying to get a signal. Someone would call out, “I have three bars!” and everyone would flock to the lucky spot. Frustrated and hot, I punched in number after number without result, my anxiety level rising as the battery level ran down. Finally, the Washington, D.C. number of my friend Lucy began ringing and I crossed my fingers. When she answered, we both wept with relief.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">She told me that my call to her the day before had actually connected for a moment without my knowledge. Lucy had heard my voice briefly, so knew that I was alive. Now she wanted details, but not knowing how many minutes we’d have before the tenuous connection was severed, I began to rattle off phone numbers. Lucy agreed to call a long list of strangers and let them know their loved ones had survived. Her top priority would be trying to get through to Joe’s younger daughter Andrea, who lived in Baton Rouge. Joe and I had been trying to imagine Robyn there, safe with her sister, but we needed confirmation for peace of mind.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Then Lucy asked me an odd question. “What do you guys need?” she demanded. “I need a list.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“We need <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span>,” I answered wearily.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">She persisted. “Give me specifics,” she said. I was confused. How could Lucy, a thousand miles away, possibly get us supplies? The Red Cross couldn’t even manage it. I vaguely promised to call her back with a list and signed off thinking that she’d been affected by some sort of delusional hysteria.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Before the battery ran out, I tried calling my parent’s house in North Carolina again. Their phone had been busy the first time around. For three days, I’d been tortured; imagining the fear my 84-year-old parents must have been experiencing. I visualized them sitting in front of the television, wringing their hands as they watched the mayhem, wondering if I’d survived. I snagged a connection and my mother answered the phone. Just hearing her sweet voice asking, “Hello?” triggered a stream of tears that poured down my cheeks.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Mom, mom! I’m alive, I’m O.K.!” I shouted into the phone.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Well, yes,” she said serenely. “Of course you are. Is anything wrong?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I had to laugh. It turned out that my parents had obeyed the command I’d given them the night before the storm. Neither of them had watched the news. They’d believed my warning about how the media tries to turn every hurricane into a major catastrophe.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">My sister, Diane, lives in a neighboring town. She kept our folks abreast of the basics, but she hadn’t been particularly concerned about my well-being either. All the news reports were about New Orleans, with a few snippets covering Gulfport and Biloxi. Since my town was never mentioned, my sister assumed it had come through unscathed. None of my family knew enough about Coast geography to realize that Bay St. Louis had been just east of the eye – the worst possible place. For once, I blessed the media for ignoring the Bay. I told my parents not to worry and recommended they continue their news boycott. Before my battery gave out, I promised to call again soon. It was a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep, but I wanted to reassure them.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I biked towards home and paused to look at the steeple from the Methodist Church on Main Street. It had been neatly amputated and lay sadly on its side. A car suddenly screeched to a halt beside me. Lori leapt out and we stood in the middle of the muddy street, embracing.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Church.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Church.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>“The Methodist Church”<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“I thought you were dead!” she cried. She confessed that on the night of the storm, she’d dreamed that Joe and I had both drowned. While Lori’s an incredible artist, I was relieved to learn she was a lousy psychic.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I greeted her husband, Cairo. The two of them had managed to make it down from Diamondhead, the community five miles north where they’d ridden out the storm. She told me that my other friends who had taken refuge there were safe as well. Because of blocked roads, Lori and Cairo weren’t able to reach their Clermont Harbor neighborhood further west on the coast. She’d given up hope though. After seeing the utter defeat of the Old Town bluff, she knew that her house and studio built on lower elevation hadn’t stood a prayer. She was right. When they finally made it back to Clermont Harbor two days later, not a single wall remained standing in the entire neighborhood.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">By the time I got back to the house mid-morning, another of the Diamondhead crew had arrived. Jan was a friend who owned a cottage a few blocks away on Sycamore Street. She’d fallen in love with Bay St. Louis two years before, purchased and renovated a small house on the bluff, then moved down from Pittsburg that spring. Katrina was her first hurricane experience. She asked me if I’d walk with her to check on her house. Mimi was napping, while Hugh and Jimmie still worked on the roof, so I agreed to go.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I called for Jack and pushed my bike beside Jan. Half a block from her house, a small cottage sat skewed across the street, looking like a prop from the Wizard of Oz. We paused, wondering if we should change our route. Then we saw that others were actually passing through the house to get to the other side. I hauled my bike up and across the splintered porch. Jan apologized to the couple who moved around the doorless and exposed rooms. They were trying to salvage some of their belongings while their home had become a pathway for strangers.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Sycamore%20Street.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Sycamore%20Street.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“The Cottage Crossing Sycamore Street”</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The mud didn't bother my dog Jack</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Photo by Ellis Anderson</span></span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We were both delighted to find Jan’s house still standing and at first glance, it appeared to be relatively unharmed. She heaved a grand sigh of relief and gratitude. I remember making some stupid, inane comment about how sometimes things turn out better than you think. Then Jan noticed that furniture from her dining room was strewn around her front yard. The dining room had been at the rear of the house. The yard was piled high with debris; we couldn’t pick our way back to see where the rear walls of the house had been blown out. We peered through the muddy front windows and saw that six feet of water had torn through the rest of the cottage, ruining everything.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Unable to enter her house, we were drawn towards to the beach, a block away. A few doors down, we ran into one of Jan’s neighbors. He smiled as he greeted us, and then gave an account of how he’d survived by hanging on to a magnolia tree. After listening to his story, I couldn’t believe the man could even talk, much less be in good spirits.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We slogged ahead. The closer we got to the front, the more my heart bled. Several houses past Jan’s, the neighborhood simply vanished. I stood in front of the slab that had been the house of my friends Al and Mark. A few weeks before, I’d enjoyed a dinner party on their patio. Afterwards, we’d lounged in the pristine pool that had been perfectly landscaped. It was softly lit on that warm night. We’d all joked about synchronized swimming, then jumped in and gave it a go ourselves. Al had “directed” the small group of friends, making me laugh until I cried. Now I just cried. Absurdly, all that remained of the 1920’s bungalow was the tiny Spanish style pool house. The pool itself was filled with an evil concoction of black sludge and debris, the stuff nightmares are made of.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Corner%20of%20Sycamore.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Corner%20of%20Sycamore.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“The Corner of Beach and Sycamore”</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Photo by Ellis Anderson</span></span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">In shock, Jan continued walking along the waterfront alone, while Jack and I turned towards home. My nostrils stung from the acrid stench that rose out of the steaming mud. There was no respite from the mid-day sun – all leaves had been torn from every tree. I biked slowly, but the four blocks back in the blinding heat exhausted us both. Jack panted desperately and I felt smothered by a coating of thick, sticky sweat. We stopped briefly at the home of two retired brothers who lived on Citizen Street. They had the only generator in the neighborhood and had opened their house to anyone who needed to charge cell phones. I plugged mine in for round two at the bridge that the evening.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Back home, I found that Hugh had gone to search for more drinking water. He and James had completed what temporary repairs they could under the circumstances. A few of the gaps in my roof were now covered and just in time – thunderheads gathered on the horizon. Jimmie and I used the last of our energy to haul in the furniture and bedding we’d put out to dry.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">When the rain began in the early afternoon, torrents poured from what was left of my roof onto the back deck. Jimmie and I were quickly soaked as we worked to position every available container under the eaves, catching it for later use. Then the cascades of rain beckoned to me irresistibly. I hadn’t had a shower in four days and didn’t know when I’d have another chance. I grabbed soap, shampoo and conditioner and stood beneath a gush of water. Modesty took a back seat to necessity as I scrubbed furiously to remove the layers of dirt. Never had a shower felt so good.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Jimmie had the same idea and bathed at the other end of the porch. My deck is built ten feet above the ground, so I could look down and see Joe showering in his own backyard. We laughed and waved. Later, I found out that people all over town had taken advantage of the same downpour and had happily rinsed the grime from their bodies.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Suddenly, I was struck by a bizarre idea. I may have been living in a Road Warrior environment, but my feminine genes would not be denied. I grabbed a razor from inside, came back out and began to shave my legs in the rain. When I was finished, I felt like a new woman. Invigorated, I raced around the house for the next half hour, mopping up water and emptying buckets. The patches had done little to stop the water from pouring back into the house. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The storm ended and I realized that Mimi would probably enjoy a real bath as well. Jimmie helped her into the wheelchair, rolling her onto the tiled kitchen floor. We set up her walker in front of it. Then Jimmie borrowed my bike and rode towards the hospital, hoping to bring back medical help for his mother. When he’d left, I helped Mimi undress. I brought in pots of water from the sacred bathtub reservoir and started from the top down, washing her hair first. It didn’t matter how much water got on the kitchen floor, it was already a new pool from the thunderstorm. While I bathed her, she alternated between sitting and standing with the support of her walker.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">After drying her off, I helped her into a “gown” I created from one of Joe’s old soccer shirts. I’d cut out the arms and slit it down the sides so it’d be cooler. Once her hair was combed, she asked for more perfume and some lipstick. I chose a color that complemented the red soccer shirt. Mimi liked the fact that her new gown was emblazoned with the name “Patriots.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">When I settled Mimi into bed for a nap, I walked next door to check on Joe. He was up on his roof working. Cleo the squirrel raced up and down the brick chimney as easily as if it’d been a tree. She’d gotten restless after being confined in the cage for three days, so Joe had released her. A branch the size of a large tree had fallen beside his living room window and Cleo had already made a nest there. From that vantage point, she could see through the window into the house. She liked to keep an eye on Joe.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Suddenly, a formation of military helicopters began roaring overhead. One after another, they passed low across the yard. The deep slapping of the blades reverberated through my body.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“They’re finally here!” I shouted to Joe, hoping to be heard over the racket. “The cavalry’s arrived!”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Joe shook his head. “Nope,” he yelled back over the thundering engines. “I heard on the radio that Bush is doing a fly-over on his way back from vacation. This is probably just his military escort.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I thought about Mimi, who was one of Bush’s biggest supporters and shook my head in disbelief. The president of the United States might be flying right over us, but he was light-years distant from the suffering below him.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The surprises didn’t stop there. We watched as an SUV pulled up in front of Joe’s house. We both gaped as his brother Jerry climbed out and greeted us casually, as if he were dropping in for a friendly visit. He’d driven 250 miles from Kosiesko, Mississippi, his home outside of Jackson. A retired military man, the warnings about roads being closed hadn’t daunted him. He’d taken the back routes, stopping often to cut his way through with the chainsaw he’d brought. Along the way, Jerry had joined many locals who were busily clearing their own sections of road, not waiting for the National Guard.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Jerry was planning to return home that evening and agreed to take Mimi and Jimmie with him to Jackson. Certainly there, she’d have access to medical care. That crisis resolved, Jerry revved up the chain saw and went to work clearing the driveway. Joe’s truck had escaped damage, but it was impossibly blocked in. Massive limbs of live oak had broken off in the storm and created a heavy barricade. Meanwhile, Joe and I teamed up to unload the boxes of food, water and ice that his brother had delivered. When we were finished, I went home to gather Mimi’s belongings for the trip.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Joe%27s%20driveway.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Joe%27s%20driveway.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Joe’s driveway after the storm”</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Later in the afternoon, Hugh returned to my house and found me resting in the shade of the front porch, hoping to catch a breeze. He offered me ride to the bridge for another communications attempt and I gratefully accepted. My legs ached. Hugh wove through back streets towards the Bay. Georgia Power crews were still hard at work. It seemed like their trucks blocked every turn, but we were grateful. In just two days, they’d become my heroes, working tirelessly and efficiently. I couldn’t help but wish that FEMA was a subsidiary.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">On one narrow ribbon of road, the SUV in front of us stopped short. A slip of a woman got out and waved to some people sitting on the remains of their front porch. She signaled them over to the car, opened the back and began handing out gallons of water, bottles of bleach and bags of fruit. When I recognized her as my friend Denise, I leapt from Hugh’s car and ran to greet her and her husband Mark, who was driving.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Denise told me that on Sunday, she and Mark had evacuated their beachfront home in Waveland, finally finding refuge in a Panhandle hotel with their four dogs and four cats. Wednesday morning, they filled their car with emergency supplies and drove the 200 miles to the Bay, knowing they’d be returning to a bare lot and a beaten town. I’d caught them in the process of distributing the goods door to door, giving freely to anyone they came across. Denise told me that they’d be back on Friday and asked what she could bring me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Then this woman who had lost everything she owned - all of her worldly possessions - gave me a bag of apples. This simple act of generosity rocked me to my core. Never had a gift meant as much. As we drove away, Hugh and I devoured the fruit. It seemed like months since I’d had fresh food. The tart taste of my apple was mixed with the salt of my tears.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We joined the other cell-phone hopefuls at the water’s edge, but I only managed to connect with Andrea before my battery died. My heart shriveled when she told me that Robyn was not with her in Baton Rouge. The last Andrea had heard, her sister had intended staying in New Orleans. She’d been unable to contact Robyn since Sunday night.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The ride home was depressing and seemed many miles long. I rehearsed the way I’d deliver the bad news before I came to a conclusion: There is no good way to tell a father that his daughter is trapped alone in a city gone berserk. However, I got a reprieve when we returned. Jimmie had found the hospital emergency room in a state of emergency. He and Mimi would be leaving shortly with Jerry. My household was overtaken by a flurry of activity as they prepared for departure.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We’d saved one clean housedress for Mimi. I helped her change out of the soccer shirt, combed her hair and looked on as she used a small hand mirror to carefully reapply the lipstick. I tucked the tube in her overnight bag and we hugged tightly. I didn’t want to let go, afraid this could be the last time I ever saw her.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Darling, you’re such a friend,” Mimi said to me. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help more.” The men carried her down the steps and helped her into Jerry’s truck. They drove away while I waved good-bye from the front porch, wondering if it was possible to run out of tears.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I was still sniffling when Jan trudged up the stairs, exhausted from her marathon walk. She’d spent the rest of the day wandering through the town on foot and her skin was sunburned to the point of blistering. Jan’s a retired therapist and had used her skills to comfort anyone she came across. Hugh and I listened as she repeated some of the stories she’d heard. The most tragic was that of a family who’d clung to a tree in the swirling surge. The wife’s strength gave out and with her last words, she charged her husband with the care of their small children. Then she let go of her branch and was carried away forever.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Joe brought over a meal he’d cooked on his camp stove using the groceries that his brother had delivered. The four of us ate on the front porch. None of us had much of an appetite, despite the enormous amounts of energy we’d expended in the grueling heat. Yet the ritual of a meal with friends provided an unexpected comfort.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Beach%20Blvd.%20at%20Sunset%20.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Beach%20Blvd.%20at%20Sunset%20.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Sunset on Beach Blvd."</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Photo by Joe Tomasovsky</span></span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">After dinner, I caught Joe alone and relayed my conversation with Andrea. His expression didn’t change, but something smoldered behind his eyes.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Are you O.K?” I asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Joe didn’t answer the question. Instead, he told me that Robyn could take care of herself. “I’ve got faith in her,” he said. "She’s tough and she’s smart.” Then he bid me goodnight, turned away and walked back across the yard alone. Since the inside of his house was as hot as a furnace, I knew he’d spend another night on the lawn chair in his driveway.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Augusta, Inez and Donald returned after dark to pack up their few belongings. Donald had secured them a place with friends in the country – one that featured the luxury of running water. We swapped news before they left, talking first about Augusta’s friends who had died in their house just a block away. The roof had collapsed, crushing them as they slept. Donald told us that many of his power company colleagues had spent the day in the low-lying Lakeshore area, using cherry-pickers to pluck bodies from the trees.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Then Augusta decided to lighten the mood. She captured our attention by using the soft drawn-out tone of an elder telling a ghost story to children around a campfire. The candles burning on the front porch heightened the eerie effect.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Well now,” she said. “I heard today that they found a body right here in this house. People are saying that they pulled a corpse from the attic of the old Webb School.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">All eyes widened and rolled towards the ceiling. Augusta chuckled at our reaction. She said, “I told them, stop being silly. My family and I have been staying there for three days. We would’ve been the first to know.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Augusta left with hugs and thanks. Donald promised to drop by more drinking water in the morning. Hugh headed for his house, leaving Jan and me alone on the porch. I pulled out a bottle of wine I’d been saving for a special occasion and we each drank a glass. Bats zipped across the porch, illuminated only by the flickering candles. Breezes brought welcome relief from the lingering heat, but they also carried something new, an ominous odor I didn’t recognize. I wondered if it was the smell of death. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We decided to leave the doors open for the night, even though there was no sign of any law enforcement. This was still Bay St. Louis and we weren’t worried about personal safety. As for the danger of looters, I was too exhausted to care. I’d witnessed so much pain and loss in the past few days, defending possessions seemed petty. I climbed into the loft and both dogs leaped up beside me. Jan made her bed on the sofa directly below. We blew out the candles.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The total blackness was something I’d only experienced before camping out in deep desert – it was unsettling to have it surround us in my home. The silence of the town was palpable. There were no cars passing, no hum of electricity, no night creatures chirping. We talked softly while we shared our doubts in the darkness, but our voices resonated through the house.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Why haven’t they come?” Jan asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I knew who she was talking about. She meant the National Guard or the Army or the Red Cross - somebody, <span style="font-style: italic;">anybody</span>. Where was our country?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I thought about Iraq. I thought about communication and transportation problems. I also thought about Mimi. If Jerry hadn’t arrived, she’d still be in the next room waiting for help. There were thousands of other Mimis who weren’t as lucky. None of the flimsy excuses I invented for my government that night offered any true justification. A balloon of abandonment swelled in my chest.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“I don’t know,” I finally answered. Then despite the heat, I pulled the warm bodies of my dogs closer to me for comfort, shut my eyes and tried to sleep.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">(text and photographs copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Joe Tomasovsky</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">may be reproduced or printed elsewhere with permission. Contact Ellis at ellis@datasync.com)</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1151270139303741532005-12-30T14:15:00.000-08:002006-08-24T21:52:59.363-07:00Willow in the Wind6/24/06<br />_____________________<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">When you’re in pain or afraid, the hours stretch. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Time distorts, extending itself in a way that both astonishes and horrifies you, like a snake coming out of a coil</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. For five days after the storm, Joe and I didn’t know if his daughter Robyn was alive or dead. Each of those days seemed like a year. I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to the horrific news reports. While Joe seemed confident in the resourcefulness of his daughter and her ability to survive, I privately wondered how anyone could escape that pit of chaos unharmed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Although Bay St. Louis had been crushed, it’s a tightly knit community where neighbors helped neighbors in the aftermath. The media made it sound as if the fabric of community in New Orleans had completely unraveled and it was each man for himself. That turned out not to be entirely true. Robyn’s strength, resourcefulness and flexibility did save her, but she was helped along the way by the “kindness of strangers.”<br /><br />_________________________________<br /></span><br /><br />Imagine a woman alone. She’s trapped in her apartment by poisonous floodwaters with a cat as her only companion. Communication isn’t possible, so she can’t call for help. The one radio station she can tune in tells stories of desperate people around her dying from starvation or bullet holes or from drowning in their own attics. She believes her father in a nearby town has been killed by a tidal wave. The sounds of helicopters relentlessly remind her that she’s smack in the middle of a war zone. She’s caught in a city that’s been wounded so badly, that some lash out at hands trying to help.<br /><br />This woman is no character created for a horror movie. She’s real and her name is Robyn Tomasovsky. When people describe her, they’re likely to use adjectives like “wispy” or “willowy.” Sometimes she jokingly refers to herself as a “skinny white woman.” But her fragile appearance belies the strength she possesses. The five perilous days she spent in New Orleans after Katrina proves the point.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Saturday, August 27th</span></span><br /><br />Robyn didn’t intend to ride out the storm in town. Like so many others, she was prodded into that dark corner by circumstance. The first she heard of Katrina was on Saturday night, a day and a half before the hurricane washed away her world. She was packing for a move and updating her resume when the mother of a friend called and asked what she was doing for the storm. Alone in her apartment, she’d been focused on her tasks, listening to CDs instead of the news.<br /><br />“What storm?” Robyn asked.<br /><br />The rest of the night she continued packing while monitoring weather reports. Her plan was to wait until Sunday afternoon before evacuating to her sister Andrea’s house in Baton Rouge. Hopefully, the storm would turn, as most before it had. If it didn’t, evacuation would be easier without having to fight the main exodus leaving Saturday. Normally, it took just over an hour to reach Baton Rouge, but standstill traffic on Saturday had stretched the trip to seven or eight hours at best.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunday, August 28th</span></span><br /><br />She was right. The next day, the city seemed nearly deserted. Only a few cars darted through the rain-drenched streets as the first of the feeder bands moved in. Robyn’s truck was low on gas and one of the tires dangerously low, so she made a circuit around town looking for an open service station. Unfortunately most businesses had already closed. Finally, she came across a single open station and filled both her tire and her tank. On the way back to her Mid-City apartment, she passed an open corner store and obeyed an impulse to stop. The shelves had been stripped. She made her selection from the dusty remains of stock and purchased cookies, candy, water and cat food.<br /><br />At home, she gathered her belongings and prepared her cat for the trip. Robyn began loading her truck, then paused to speak to her landlords, Hal and Charlie*. The two older men lived on the other half of the raised duplex and had heard the latest report: The storm had been reduced to a Category 2. They were staying put.<br /><br />Knowing the two older men would be next door in case of emergency and believing that the storm was no longer a major threat, Robyn decided to ride it out. To be on the safe side, she went through her normal hurricane preparation routine. She filled her bathtub and all available pots and pans with water. She readied her batteries and candles – even if the storm was only a “2,” she knew that the power would probably go out for a day or so. She parked her truck on the sidewalk across the street, under the eaves of a large metal warehouse. Even though that “high ground” was only six inches above street level, experience had taught her that the added elevation would probably save her vehicle from street flooding caused by heavy rains. She noticed that her landlords had taken the same precaution by pulling into a neighboring driveway.<br /><br />About 10pm, Andrea called, wanting to know why her sister hadn’t arrived yet. When Robyn explained her decision and the reason behind it, Andrea’s voice rose with fear.<br /><br />“Robyn,” she said. “The storm is a <span style="font-style: italic;">five</span>!”<br /><br />The rains poured down outside and winds already buffeted the house. At that point, Robyn realized that whatever number the storm was, she was now committed. The highway would be the worst place to be caught during a hurricane. Andrea wished her luck, begged her to stay in touch and they disconnected. They wouldn’t be able to speak again for five days.<br /><br />Robyn’s exhaustion overpowered the anxiety from her sister’s warnings, so she headed for bed. Before she went to sleep shortly after 11pm, she noticed the power went out. Her cat, Day, snuggled against her in the dark as high winds shook the walls and rattled the windows, but Robyn slept through what she imagined then was the worst part of the storm.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Monday, August 29th</span><br /><br />In the morning, it appeared that she’d made the right decision. The rains were still pelting down and gusts soared down the streets, yet the damage in her neighborhood seemed minimal. Once again, New Orleans had worked that hoo-doo magic that sent most storms veering off at the last moment, sparing the city. While she was concerned about her father on the Mississippi coast where Katrina had actually hit, Robyn knew his house in Bay St. Louis was on high ground. He certainly wouldn’t be having any storm surge problems.<br /><br />She busied herself tidying up the apartment. Robyn was transferring ice from her freezer to her refrigerator to preserve food, when two friends from around the corner surprised her. They’d decided to stay in town as well and had walked over to check on her. She hadn’t eaten yet, so accepted at once when they invited her back to their house for a Mexican lunch. Together the three sloshed around the corner through ankle-deep water, avoiding debris in their path.<br /><br />After a celebratory meal of quesadillas and chocolate brownies, Robyn left for home, escorted by her friends. The time was around one o’clock. They were stunned to find that in just one hour, the water had risen to their knees. The rains had ended, so they couldn’t imagine where the water was coming from. The direct route home was blocked by debris that had been blown onto the streets and was beginning to float. They were forced to detour around the block.<br /><br />By the time Robyn arrived at her apartment, her heart raced as she bounded up the flight of stairs to her door. The relief she’d felt earlier had turned into a panicky urge to flee. She quickly kenneled her cat and gathered her essentials to load into the truck. Stepping out onto her porch less than an hour later, she saw that the water had risen even higher – it would have been up to her waist. While the engine of her truck hadn’t been submerged, driving anywhere would be impossible. She waded up to the corner of Bienville Street – a main thoroughfare that ran from the French Quarter towards the suburb of Metairie. Bienville had become a canal. Water covered the street as far as she could see in both directions. A man slogging his way through the flood told her that towards the Quarter things were even worse. He said he’d heard the water was as high as 16 feet at one major intersection.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Robyns%20front%20gate%20part%20one.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Robyns%20front%20gate%20part%20one.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Robyn's front gate"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">her truck is across the street</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /><br /></span></span></div>Dumb-founded, Robyn returned to her apartment and dried off. Her land line was dead and her cell phone wasn’t getting out. The only station on the radio still broadcasting was WWL, a talk-show station in normal times. Now it had become a switchboard, fielding calls from rescue workers and officials and desperate people trapped around the city – some calling from their attics. Robyn remembers how one couple spoke while watching their own death approach, the water around them inching up their bodies. They left their names and address with the announcer so that their family could be notified. Evening approached and as Robyn lit candles, the enormity of the disaster began to overtake her shock.<br /><br />From her back window, she could look down into the back yard of a neighboring house. In the garden stood a statue on a pedestal. Robyn thought the bust was the likeness of some ancient Roman official – the laurel wreath crowning its head made it look like a “Caesar with hair.” She picked this statue to be her flood gauge. When she went to bed, she promised herself she wouldn’t worry unless the water came up to his chin. In the middle of the night, she peered down from her window and aiming her flashlight at the statue, could see that the water was up to his nose. She upped the stakes, telling herself it wouldn’t <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> be bad unless the water rose to his eyes. When she woke close to dawn, his eyebrows were covered. She decided to quit playing that game. It was obviously time to worry.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuesday, August 30th</span></span><br /><br />The news the next morning brought no comfort. The only word from the Mississippi coast was one ominous statement on the radio that Bay St. Louis had been completely wiped off the map and was “gone.” Robyn’s spirit sank, thinking of her father being washed out to sea. He didn’t <span style="font-style: italic;">feel</span> gone to her - they still seemed psychically connected - yet how could he have possibly survived?<br /><br />Shortly later, a conversation with her landlords brought more distressing news. The radio had warned that because of levy repair attempts, the water could rise as much as nine additional feet in parts of the city. So far, the upstairs of the duplex had remained uncompromised and only the vacant apartment and storage area downstairs had flooded. But nine more feet would bring the water close to the ceilings on the 2nd floor. They needed to find a safe refuge and find it fast.<br /><br />Robyn’s apartment is what people in New Orleans refer to as a “shotgun.” The rooms are lined up one after the other with no hallway. Supposedly, you could shoot a gun through the front door and the bullet would go out the back without hitting anything - if no one was in the way. Robyn began pacing through the rooms, from front to back, making laps as she tried to burn off nervous energy. The sensation of being trapped like a mouse in a cage brought with it an overpowering feeling of desperation. Soon, even her small sanctuary would be inundated. She tried to imagine swimming through water, holding the cat carrier aloft. It’d be an impossible feat.<br /><br />Finally, she sat on the bed, totally overwhelmed and on the point of giving up. She struggled to gather her wits and order her priorities. If her worldly possessions were going to be submerged, she first needed to protect important papers and sentimental treasures. She'd shaken off the paralysis of panic and had begun sealing her valuables in plastic food-storage bags when her landlords approached her with an idea.<br /><br />Hal and Charlie may have been on the far side of middle-aged, but they were active and resourceful. The two men had devised a plan to evacuate to the flat roof of the warehouse across the street. Charlie had already carried over an extension ladder and positioned it against the warehouse wall to provide access. If they all went up to the rooftop, they’d be safe even if the water rose an additional fifteen feet. Robyn didn’t hesitate to join them.<br /><br />Together, they ferried supplies across the street in water that came to Robyn’s chest (she measured herself later and found that the depth must have been 52 inches). Pets were included in the evacuation – Hal and Charlie brought their two parakeets and their own cat. Robyn easily moved Day in the carrier, but her landlords’ dog presented another problem. “Boots” was a large lab mix and no one would be able to carry her up to the roof. Robyn’s facility of communicating with animals came to the rescue – she patiently taught the large dog to climb the ladder. Robyn pushed from behind while Charlie pulled on Boot’s leash and together they coaxed the dog up the rungs, one by one.<br /><br />Their new refuge turned out to be a series of connected roofs – most of the entire square block was covered by various commercial and industrial structures built with adjoining walls. The roof was wickedly hot - the afternoon sun beat down ruthlessly and they had no place to hide. The two men created a lean-to from tarps, while Robyn made repeated trips back to their apartments, shuttling more supplies up to the roof.<br /><br />In between trips, she explored the territory and photographed the neighborhood below. Growing up with a photography teacher as a father, she’d learned the importance of recording history. And Robyn’s the sort of person who manages to find beauty in the most unlikely places. She took pictures of the iridescent patterns created by the oil suspended on the surface of the flood.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Robyn%20more%20colors%20Part%20one.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Robyn%20more%20colors%20Part%20one.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">patterns on the water</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Robyn%20colored%20water%20Part%20one.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Robyn%20colored%20water%20Part%20one.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Bienville Street from the warehouse roof</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /><br /></span></div>Late in the afternoon, the stranded trio hailed a motorboat passing below. Spirits soared as two people in scrub-suits steered the boat towards the warehouse. They identified themselves as staff from a nearby medical center and offered to take the trio to safety. At first, the group was jubilant and prepared to board the boat. Then their would-be rescuers told them that no pets would be allowed – only people. There was a long silence.<br /><br />The three didn’t have to discuss the option – none of them was willing to abandon their animal companions. The man and woman in the boat must never have owned any pets themselves, because they became impatient and then irritated at the group’s refusal to leave their animals behind. Without further discussion, they shrugged their shoulders and turned the boat away. The group was stunned when it became apparent that they were being left for good. Apparently, the sight of the dismay on their faces moved the man on the boat to act with a little compassion. Wordlessly, he hurled three small bottles of water towards the rooftop before the boat motored out of sight.<br /><br />As evening approached, swarms of ravenous mosquitoes attacked, hungry enough to bite through clothing. When the radio announced that the water was probably not going to rise dramatically, the men decided it’d still be prudent to stay in their new campground. Robyn had concerns about Day overheating in the carrier, so opted to take a chance and return to her apartment for the night. It might flood, but at least it had screens.<br /><br />The heat inside was maddening and no breeze penetrated her open windows. Gasoline coated the surface of the floodwaters and the noxious smell filled her room. Periodically, she spritzed herself with a spray bottle to keep cool. Outside, the normal night noises of the inner city had changed. Boats and refrigerators that had been stored in a nearby lot floated freely, clashing and clanging as they collided against each other. Robyn was reminded of her childhood, when she’d spent the night dockside at a river community.<br /><br />Drifting into an exhausted slumber, she took a final precaution. She draped one arm over the edge of the bed and rested her hand on the floor, hoping she’d wake in the night if water invaded her house.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wednesday, August 31st</span></span><br /><br />She woke to the sound of a helicopter, the first of many. The number of flights overhead escalated throughout the day until it became a constant stream. The noise grated against her tattered nerves. A quick inventory of her supplies didn't help matters – she’d finished the last of her drinking water. The rest of the food in her refrigerator had gone bad and she’d eaten most of the non-perishables she had on hand. Cleaning out her fridge, she threw out some bread that was beginning to mold. Later she retrieved it from the trash for lunch.<br /><br />Hal and Charlie descended from their rooftop camp and Boots proved how adaptable she was by backing down the ladder with a little help. The two men still had some food, yet their drinking water was gone as well. While Robyn had lost most of the water in the tub she’d filled before the storm because of a slow leak, she still had a good supply left in her pots and pans. It wasn’t very appealing to think about drinking water that’d been sitting in the open for three days, but neither was eating moldy bread.<br /><br />Other emergency measures included using the bathroom in a bucket. She lined the container with a garbage bag, tying it up and placing it into a covered can when she was finished. Plastic was proving to be a valuable commodity. She spent much of the morning debating which of her possessions deserved the chance of survival in one of her precious zip-lock bags. Robyn had more important items than bags to protect them. Like a squirrel hiding nuts, she shuffled contents, then moved the bags around her apartment again and again, hoping to find a high place that would be safe. She tried to observe her behavior objectively and realized that she must have looked like some madwoman rearranging deck furniture on the Titanic.<br /><br />Feeling stir-crazy, she returned to the roof of the warehouse, where at least she had a bird’s eye view of the neighborhood. The water that she crossed had developed an unpredictable character – sometimes it ran with a current and at other times it was as still as a lake. It was fouled with debris and trash and emitted a rank odor. She worried about the chemicals that it carried. The radio had warned of major toxic wastes that had been freed by the flood.<br /><br />Once she’d made the circuit of the roofs, she returned to her apartment, inspired by an idea. She began to create a perch on her own roof, so she wouldn’t have to wade across the river to see what was going on. Hal and Charlie helped her place boards across the railing of their porch onto the one next door, less than ten feet away. A ladder was placed atop this impromptu scaffolding. Using this method, Robyn was able to climb onto her own tiled roof. Over the next three days, the few neighbors who remained in the neighborhood would call out when they spotted her there. “Hey, Cat Woman!” they’d cry.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Robyn%20from%20her%20roof%20Part%20one.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Robyn%20from%20her%20roof%20Part%20one.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">"the neighborhood from Robyn's roof"</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /><br /></span></div>It became a day for visitors. The first was a neighbor she’d never met previously, Bobby. He was wading through the chest high water, checking on people from house to house. He chatted freely and they swapped rumors and news. She learned that Bobby was a Vietnam vet who lived just a few streets over. He assured her that he’d check in the next day just to see how they were doing.<br /><br />Even from her porch, Robyn could see down to the Bienville Street intersection. Boats cruised up and down Bienville as easily as cars. Most of them seemed to be fishing boats, the shallow, flat-bottomed kind used for navigating bayous. Since her block had more commercial buildings than houses, no one even looked her way. But later in the afternoon, a boat cruised up to her house, manned by two men in their early twenties. They introduced themselves as Peter and Danny* and explained that they were running a free delivery service for stranded neighbors, using the boat they’d commandeered. They were distributing supplies they’d pilfered from nearby grocery stores. The stores had already been looted, but still had a good selection of needed items. These modern-day Robin Hoods stocked her with water, batteries, a lighter, matches and candles, band aids and antibiotic ointment before they left, promising to return the next day.<br /><br />That evening, she sat alone in her apartment with her cat. Day was behaving strangely and refused to leave the post she’d established by the front door. She was an indoor cat, but she seemed to know that the apartment was no longer a safe haven. Robyn lit some of the candles that Danny and Peter had given her. The setting of the sun hadn’t done much to relieve the heat and the stench worsened by the hour. Now the air she breathed carried much more than the odor of gasoline. Every molecule of oxygen she drew in seemed tainted with a vile blend of decay from the dead bodies of people and animals, human waste and the colorful assortment of chemicals floating below. Helicopters still rumbled overhead - there’d been no let up in the racket all day.<br /><br />Sleep evaded her at first. Robyn worried about her father. If he were still alive, he would be frantic about her safety. She worried about her sister. Andrea would be in Baton Rouge, feeding her newborn son, wondering if he was going to have a chance to know his aunt. She looked around her rooms, at her furniture and possessions illuminated by the candlelight. She wondered which things would survive the water and which would perish. Finally, her natural optimism took a playful turn and she came up with a new game. She tried to imagine various belongings and furniture after they’d been immersed in water. Some of her possessions would be ruined, but the rank baptism might actually improve the looks of others. A good soaking might leave behind an interesting patina and give her newer pieces a little character.<br /><br />Her sleep was punctuated by nightmares that would continue to plague her for months. Most of the dreams had the common theme of rising water. Her mind spun out a series of vivid images from all the desperate calls she’d heard on the radio. One call had especially distressed her – it’d been from a mother trapped in an attic with several children, including a newborn. Robyn’s still uncertain about their fate:<br /><br />“The announcer begged anybody with a boat to go to that area and help them. I imagined them in the dark with the water and the bugs and the children and it just kills me still. I don’t know what happened to them.”<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thursday, September 1st</span></span><br /><br /><br />Thursday morning, Peter and Danny arrived in the flat boat with their daily delivery, just as they’d promised. Robyn and her landlords had been placed on their list of regular “customers.” Robyn told them that she was determined to leave, but everyone she’d been able to talk with had assured her it was impossible. She wanted to see with her own eyes.<br /><br />“If it’s true, put me on your boat and show me,” she demanded. The young men obliged and rode her around the neighborhood towards the interstate. By the time they returned to her house half an hour later, she’d been convinced of the futility of escape.<br /><br />Robyn took one more trip across to the warehouse roof to retrieve more of the supplies the group had left behind. She was more cautious this time – during a previous venture to Bienville Street, she’d heard a frightening story. A man on his porch had shouted down a warning to her. He said he’d heard on the radio that a three-foot shark had attacked a deputy. When she’d repeated this incredible rumor to her landlords, they said they’d seen a small alligator swim past the house, eyes emerging from the dark brew.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Robyn%20neighbors%20meeting%20Part%20one.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Robyn%20neighbors%20meeting%20Part%20one.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">from the warehouse roof</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> - neighbors meeting in the street</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Roybn Tomasovsky<br /><br /><br /></span></div>While she was crossing over to the warehouse, she noticed a yellow substance floating on the surface of the water. When she returned home, she found that her elbow was capped with a dark brown paste that was beginning to burn her skin. A putrid yellow slime also covered her shirt. She quickly shed all her clothes and was horrified to see that her whole body was covered with an oily film. She used a bottle of rubbing alcohol to scrub herself. The brown stuff on her elbow didn’t want to come off, even with the alcohol. Robyn didn’t go into the water again.<br /><br />Bobby came by on his regular rounds later and she voiced her concerns for his heath. She was worried about what effects the constant immersion in the toxic waters might have on him. Bobby shrugged it off. He reassured Robyn that he was a vet, he’d been through worse. He wasn’t about to stop checking in on his neighbors.<br /><br />She still dreamed of rescue. From her roof perch late in the afternoon, Robyn tried to flag down some of the helicopters flying over her house. An unremitting stream passed overhead and now she noticed that many of them were military aircraft. She had counted four basic types of choppers being used for rescue efforts and had already learned to identify them by their sound alone. From listening to the radio, she realized that these rescuers weren’t taking pets, but she hoped to persuade them to send someone who would. A few of the aircraft flew so low, she could clearly see the crew members, yet no one paid attention to the slender blond woman signaling them from her rooftop. At last, she gave up and climbed down from her post.<br /><br />The evening hours approached, but the long light of summer was still in the sky when WWL anchor Garland Robinette began broadcasting an interview with New Orleans mayor Ray Nagin. Robyn was instantly caught up by the mayor’s raw pleas for help. Later, outside sources would label the interview as sounding “rambling,” but she could relate to the disjointed despair. Nagin voiced the same sense of futility, the same frustration, and the same heartbreak that she and thousands of other New Orleans residents felt:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“You know the reason the looters got out of control? Because we had most of our resources saving people, thousands of people that were stuck in attics, man, old ladies… You pull off the doggone ventilator vent and you look down there and they’re standing there in water up to their freaking necks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And they don’t have a clue what’s going on down here. They flew over one time two days after the doggone event was over with TV cameras, AP reporters, all kind of goddamn – excuse my French everybody in America, but I am pissed…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">…one of the briefings we had, they were talking about getting public school bus drivers to come down here and bus people out here. I’m like, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. This is a national disaster. Get every doggone Greyhound bus line in the country and get their asses moving to New Orleans.’ ...They’re thinking small, man. And this is a major, major, major deal. And I can’t emphasize it enough, man. This is crazy…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">…We’re getting reports and calls that are breaking my heart, from people saying, I’ve been in my attic, I can’t take it anymore. The water is up to my neck. I don’t think I can hold out. And that’s happening as we speak….</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">…Now you mean to tell me that a place where most of your oil is coming through, a place that is so unique when you mention New Orleans anywhere around the world, everybody’s eyes light up – you mean to tell me that a place where you probably have thousands of people that have died and thousands more that are dying every day, that we can’t figure out a way to authorize the resources we need? Come on, man…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">…And I don’t know whose problem it is. I don’t know whether it’s the governor’s problem. I don’t know if it’s the president’s problem, but somebody needs to get their ass on a plane and sit down, the two of them and figure this out right now…. Don’t tell me 40,000 people are coming here. They’re not here. It’s too doggone late. Now get off your asses and do something and let’s fix the biggest goddamn crisis in the history of this country!”</span><br /><br />As Robyn listened to the interview, river sounds drifted up, sounds that didn’t belong in a neighborhood miles away from any normal waterway. The humid summer air used to carry the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle. Now it reeked of death. She was one woman, alone in this new world of sorrow, tapping into to the emotion of the voices on the radio. The willow bent. For the first time since Katrina came to town, Robyn cried.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">note: I've changed the names of several people who appear in this story. Those names are marked with an asterisk. Also the <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2005/US/09/02/nagin.transcript/"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">text of Nagin's speech</span></a> was taken from a transcript found on the CNN site.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Robyn%20roof%20part%201.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Robyn%20roof%20part%201.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;">the New Orleans skyline from the warehouse roof</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">(text and photographs copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Robyn Tomasovsky</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">may be reproduced or printed elsewhere with permission. Contact Ellis at ellis@datasync.com)</span></span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19566688.post-1154266806539575642005-12-29T06:39:00.000-08:002006-09-03T16:00:17.296-07:00The Long Road Home<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Friday, September 2nd</span><br /><br />When a stream of low-flying helicopters woke Robyn at dawn, she had no idea that her next sleep would be 36 hours away. What she did know was that hope couldn’t change her situation. The water was not going down. No one was coming to take her and Day to a safe place. She was stuck with scant supplies, dependent on two boys in a stolen boat to deliver food and water. Her apartment - normally pristine and orderly - was miserably hot, damp and filthy. A week’s worth of wet clothes lay strewn by the front door exactly where she’d shed them. The floors were coated with a sheen of toxic muck she’d tracked in, despite her best efforts to clean her feet.<br /><br />Robyn had gone down the rabbit hole and found herself in a world where security was just a memory. Outside her four walls, she had no influence or control - the Mad Hatter was in charge. But inside those walls, she saw changes she could make to improve her situation. She gathered some cleaning supplies and began to scrub the floors. By noon, she had almost finished sterilizing the front rooms when she heard Bobby call out from the street. They talked for a few minutes before she asked a favor. She wanted him to find some bird food - her landlords had run out of seed for their parakeets. The veteran burst out laughing, but promised to do what he could before he waded away to finish his rounds.<br /><br />Robyn worked on her house the rest of the afternoon. Late in the day, she was mopping the kitchen when she heard Bobby calling again. The words “bird food” were the only ones she could make out, so she raced to the front porch. Bobby stood chest deep in the water before her house, grinning in triumph although his hands were empty. Then something snagged Robyn’s eye. A burst of bright orange rounded the corner at the end of the street. Confused, she asked Bobby what was going on, but by the time the words were out of her mouth, two boats with Coast Guard markings had motored into view. Bobby had led the rescue teams to her house. For the second time in Robyn’s ordeal, tears streamed down her face.<br /><br />As the boats approached, she stood paralyzed by disbelief. One of the boats stopped in front of her gate, as casually as a cab. The two crewmen wore fire department uniforms and bright life vests. “Come on,” one called. “We’re taking you and your pets.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/rescuers%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/rescuers%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Rescuers"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div>Startled into action, she asked for a few minutes to gather her things. Then she alerted Hal and Charlie, insisting that they come along. In her apartment, she quickly kenneled Day, changed into some fresh clothes and grabbed a handful of clean underwear, her camera, two journals and a dictionary. She was ready to go.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/rescue%20guys%20near%2010%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/rescue%20guys%20near%2010%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"My Rescuers"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div>The firemen didn’t want her to get into the water, so they eased the boat in through the gate until it bumped against the submerged steps to her porch. Robyn handed across Day, then with one hand gripping the porch railing and the other the hand of a fireman, she stepped onto the bow. Once aboard, the firemen helped her into a fluorescent life jacket. Hal and Charlie boarded next, bringing only their dog. Their cat had escaped on the rooftop days before and they’d released the birds earlier in the afternoon, hoping they’d fend for themselves. The ever-adaptable Boots settled down at their feet at once, eager for another adventure. As the boat began to move towards Bienville Street, Robyn waved to Bobby and took his picture. The vet stood in the water and waved back. He wasn’t going to leave his post as long as anyone in his neighborhood remained.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Bobby%20Mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Bobby%20Mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Bobby"</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky</span><br /><br /></span></div>The boat floated through the flooded streets, the fireman on the lookout for other stranded survivors. A few blocks away, the stench that had surrounded Robyn’s house grew more powerful, intensifying until it stung her nostrils. Looking ahead, she saw what appeared to be bundles of clothes that had been carried by the current and pushed into a cluster at the end of a street. Before she could register exactly what she was seeing, Charlie said, “There’s those dead people.” Robyn lowered her camera and turned away in revulsion.<br /><br />To distract herself, she talked to her rescuers, who were members of the Phoenix fire department. They were part of a rescue team called Arizona Task Force One. The two men handled the boat with an expertise she wouldn’t have expected from desert dwellers. When they reached Canal Street several blocks over, the name of the street took on a new meaning. Boats filled with people moved up and down the lanes, making it seem like some surrealistic Venetian waterway.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/family%20on%20boat%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/family%20on%20boat%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Family in Boat"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky</span><br /><br /></div>Robyn’s boat didn’t pick up anyone else and eventually made its way to the intersection of Metairie Road and Interstate 10 - about two miles from her house. There the elevated freeway rose well above the floodwaters, but the ramps leading upward now serviced boats instead of cars. At the top of the overpass, the Mid-City neighbors gathered, several of them holding dogs or cats. They waited to board a collection of vehicles that included two large cargo trucks and a tour bus. Robyn roamed through the crowd, her camera capturing exhaustion, confusion and relief on the faces of survivors and rescuers alike. In two of the shots she framed, enormous plumes of smoke rose in the distance, streaming into the twilight behind the silhouettes of weary firefighters.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/my%20heros%20on%2010%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/my%20heros%20on%2010%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"My Heros on I-10"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/refugees%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/refugees%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Refugees on I-10"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/truck%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/truck%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Loading Up"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/refugees%20on%20truck%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/refugees%20on%20truck%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Back of the Truck"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div>Originally, the Task Force anticipated transporting 60 evacuees. By the time they left at dark, over 100 people and a variety of pets were in their charge. People piled into the backs of the covered trucks, but Robyn was lucky enough to be assigned a seat on the bus. Members of the rescue team clustered around the driver in the front and she sat directly behind them, Day’s carrier on her lap.<br /><br />Robyn and the others hadn’t been told exactly where they were going, but she hoped it’d be some Red Cross station where a nice nurse would meet her, offering a hot meal, a shower and a clean cot. She’d be able to use a telephone, let her family know she was safe and find out about her father.<br /><br />She listened closely to the firemen in front of her. After a while, she understood that they’d been given little or no instruction and seemed to be at a loss as to where to take the survivors they’d rescued. The general consensus was to drive west, but the direct route was blocked by the water. They were forced to head back on the interstate into the heart of the city and work their way out on back roads. As they drove slowly down the deserted freeway, they passed throngs of stranded people standing on the side of the road. For at least a mile, Robyn watched the faces of families huddled together, waiting with resignation. Some looked longingly at her bus as it passed. She noticed a few official cars scattered through the crowds at long intervals, but there were no signs of food stations or transportation.<br /><br />They passed the Superdome and had connected with a back road going west, when Robyn first heard the airport mentioned as a drop-off point. Apparently, it’d been set up as a National Guard camp and a clearinghouse for refugees. She knew from the radio that conditions there were abysmal, yet it was fifteen miles closer to Baton Rouge. At least she was moving in the right direction.<br /><br />By the time the convoy arrived at the airport, a thick darkness enveloped the city, unrelieved by any electric lights. As they turned onto the access road, the headlights of the bus illuminated two armed guards barring the way. Both were in uniform, although Robyn couldn’t make out the markings. One of guards cradled a large rifle in his arms.<br /><br />A member of her rescue team got off the bus and approached the guards, engaging them in conversation, gesturing towards the convoy. Robyn couldn’t hear the negotiations outside, but suddenly the short-wave radio by her driver crackled. She clearly heard a horrifying command as it pierced the quiet of the bus.<br /><br />“You have ten minutes to vacate the premises or we’re going to open fire on you and your refugees.”<br /><br />Incredulous, Robyn looked at the other passengers behind her. Several of them had also heard the threat and their eyes met with expressions of bewilderment and horror. The firemen on board remained calm and did not comment. Then the door to the bus opened and the liaison rejoined his group. All he said was, “OK fellas, pull out.” No other words were spoken. The convoy reversed its direction and headed back into no-man’s land.<br /><br />According to other witnesses, Robyn’s account of the event and the wording of the threat is precise. Although the firemen never knew for certain who issued that terrible warning, one of team later said, “It was total anarchy - anarchy that existed for days. I remember what one policeman told me. He said that we might be standing on American soil, but it wasn’t America any more.”<br /><br />One of the fireman walked down the aisles, handing out the only comfort he could offer – Snicker’s candy bars. He apologized over and over, wishing that his team could do more.<br /><br />“The thing I’ll take with me the rest of my life,” he said later, “is the way those individuals were so stoic and thankful. They knew we didn’t have any other options and they were thanking us for trying to help. There we were, the fire department from one of the largest cities in the country and we didn’t have more resources to offer them.”<br /><br />Robyn listened as the firemen tried to come up with a new plan of action. The radio communication between the convoy vehicles buzzed with questions and ideas. Her heart squeezed as they turned back towards the city. They began to backtrack on Airline Highway, the old main artery between Baton Rouge and New Orleans that runs parallel to the interstate. After traveling a few miles, they pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned strip shopping center. Across the street, a National Guard unit was setting up an encampment on a football field.<br /><br />Everyone got out of the vehicles, stretching their legs while their fate was decided. Robyn took the opportunity to slip behind the deserted stores and use the bathroom on the ground. When she returned, she and her fellow passengers were loaded onto another bus for reasons that were never made clear. As it pulled back onto the highway, the word quickly spread among the survivors that their new destination was the refugee camp at the interchange of Causeway Boulevard and Interstate 10.<br /><br />To those who’d been listening to radio reports, this news evoked anxiety that bordered on panic. The horrors of the Causeway camp had already become legendary throughout the city. While the bus headed towards the Causeway, Robyn checked her cell phone and was surprised to find it still held a small charge. Even though she hadn’t been able to get a signal since before the storm, she punched in her sister’s number.<br /><br />She was shocked as the call went through and Andrea’s partner answered. Jeb was excited to learn that Robyn was alive and in good hands. In the frantic few moments they had before her phone cut off, she assured Jeb that she’d call back shortly when she could tell him more. Then, staring at the dead phone in her hand, she realized she hadn’t even had time to ask about her father.<br /><br />When Robyn got off the bus at the Causeway camp, she found she’d been transported from purgatory straight into the heart of hell. The camp had originally been set up as a triage center for the critically ill, but by the time Robyn arrived on Friday night, most accounts estimate that it had swollen to between 5,000 and 7,000 want-to-be evacuees. Beneath the New Orleans underpass huddled the largest homeless colony in modern U.S. history.<br /><br />Masses of people stood or squatted on ground that was covered by a thick layer of garbage. Some used pieces of cardboard for seats or bedding. The only cots she saw were being used for critically ill patients, many of them elderly and unconscious. They lay in rows, without even a tent overhead to shelter them.<br /><br />Helicopters roared in and out of the camp without respite. The thrashing of their blades hurled a blizzard of trash through the air and the engine noise assaulted the ears of the weary crowds. Large generators added to the cacophony. The machines powered enormous work lights that glared down on the camp, adding to the surreal vision of despair.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/refugeecamp%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/refugeecamp%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Camp"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div>Robyn followed the other people from her bus to the back of a nearby truck where they were each handed a plastic spoon, a can of ravioli, a snack bar and a juice drink. She spotted Hal and Charlie in the crowd and worked her way through to them. Her landlords had heard that soon other buses would be arriving to take them to Houston, but as Robyn began talking to the people around her, she understood that no one was going anywhere soon. Some of those she approached had been in the camp for three or four days already. She heard that only three buses had arrived that day. No one could tell her who was in charge or where to ask for more information. Apparently, the authorities were as baffled as the civilians.<br /><br />Someone pointed out a generator where people lined up for the chance to charge their cell phones. Robyn left Day in the care of her landlords and stood for almost two hours before she was able to plug in her phone. While she waited, she struck up conversations with those around her. Everyone was in the same sinking boat – nobody wanted to stay, but no one could get out. Those with family on the outside had been told no civilians were allowed anywhere near the city. All anyone could do was to wait for official transportation that hadn’t materialized.<br /><br />When Robyn was finally able to plug in her phone and call her sister. Andrea had been waiting and answered immediately. First, she reassured Robyn that their father had survived without injury. Then she wanted to know where her sister could be picked up. Robyn didn’t know what to tell her. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was not going to stay in the camp. She told Andrea that she would walk west along the interstate. If her sister drove east, eventually they’d run into each other. They agreed to the threadbare plan and disconnected.<br /><br />Robyn rejoined her landlords, who had more bad news - the Guard was coming around to take people’s pets. Robyn wasn’t about to give up Day and it seemed clear that if she was going to leave, the time had come. She struck out for the camp perimeter. When she reached the edge of the camp, a policeman stopped her at the barricades.<br /><br />“You don’t want to go out there,” he warned. Robyn explained that her sister was planning to meet her on the interstate. The policeman told her that civilians weren’t being allowed past La Place, twenty miles away. Robyn was undaunted and shouldered the cat carrier. If she had to walk twenty miles, she might as well get started. Again, the policeman tried to stop her.<br /><br />“You’re going to get away from these lights and you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face,” he said. “It’s not safe out there, but I can’t hold you.”<br /><br />The policeman hadn’t been exaggerating. Once Robyn left the boundaries of the camp, the darkness became impenetrable. She tread carefully, feeling her way along through the littered streets. The cat carrier and the bag with her few chosen possessions grew heavier by the moment. Eventually, she turned back and could see only a faint glow from the camp behind her. Suddenly, a beam of light pierced the darkness and came to rest on her, blinding her with its glare. Robyn froze in terror, unable to move in any direction.<br /><br />Then a compassionate woman’s voice came out of the night.<br /><br />“It’s O.K. darling.”<br /><br />Robyn sighed with relief. She followed the beam of light to its source and found herself in a small camp of refugees. They told her that they’d also found conditions under the Causeway unbearable and had escaped earlier in the evening. There were 7 or 8 adults and three children gathered at the side of the road. One toddler slept on the ground, another wandered between the adults and a small baby rested in its mother’s arms. When they offered Robyn food, she politely refused. “I’ve got some almonds,” she said, not wanting to take what scant supplies they might have. They urged her to stay with them for the night, but Robyn declined. The fright had convinced her of the danger of walking alone. She left the group and returned to the circle of lights, thinking that if she were persistent, she could find some sort of transportation.<br /><br />When she arrived back at the camp, she approached several people before she understood that there was no hope of getting any ride out. Giving up Day or sleeping in such a place were both out of the question. Just past midnight, she made a decision to leave again, determined that she wouldn’t be so easily frightened this time around. As she neared the barricades, she spotted a familiar face. A gentle faced man with glasses was walking in the same direction, leading two dogs on leashes. One of the dogs was a Weimaraner and looked as if it might provide some protection.<br /><br />“Hey, weren’t you on my bus?” Robyn asked. “Where are you going?”<br /><br />The man hadn’t been on Robyn’s bus, but he’d been in the same convoy, riding in the back of a cargo truck. He introduced himself as Michael Homan, a professor of Bible at Xavier University. He was fleeing the camp in hopes of keeping his dogs. Later he would write, “I could not have ever told my children that I gave up the dogs to save myself.”<br /><br />His story was much the same as Robyn’s – he’d been trapped in his Mid-City house until he’d been picked up by boat and brought to the Causeway. In the hours that Robyn had stood in line to make a call, Michael had explored the camp. His own written account describes what he witnessed:<br /><br />“I saw murdered bodies and elderly people who had died because they had been left in the sun with no water for such a long time… I saw many people with Down’s syndrome, and casts, catheters, wheel chairs, all sorts of stuff… Total disorder reigned on the ground inside the camp. I was glad I had my dogs with me, as that place was anything but safe. People inside the camp told me that they had been there three days. They were sitting outside without food and water in near 100-degree heat just waiting for buses… I’ve traveled quite a bit, and I have never seen the despair and tragedy that I saw at this refugee camp. It was the saddest thing I have ever seen in my life. I am still so upset that there were not hundreds of buses immediately sent to get these people to shelters….”<br /><br />The two new friends cast their lots together and resolved to head for La Place. As they were leaving, they were approached by a man Robyn had spoken with earlier. His name was Carlos and he asked if he could join them. Robyn and Michael accepted him into their makeshift tribe and about one o’clock in the morning, the three began a journey that would last through the night. Robyn had spent much of her life working in the movie business and she tried to visualize how the group would look on film. No writer could have invented a stranger cast of characters: A skinny white woman atheist, a kindly professor of religion, an African-American oil rig worker, a black cat in a kennel, a Weimaraner and a small, white fluffy dog.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >1 am Saturday morning, September 3rd</span><br /><br />They trudged through the night headed northwest. Carlos said he knew a shortcut to Airline Highway, so they walked through dark neighborhoods that had been abandoned. Although Robyn is physically strong, it didn’t take long for her to tire. She’d been exhausted when they’d left the camp and the four-year-old sandals she wore had not been made for long treks through mud. She turned down repeated offers from the men to carry her cat – Day was her responsibility and her burden alone. She moved the carrier clockwise around her fatigued body: First she carried it on her right hip, then moved it to her right shoulder, up to the top of her head, down to her left shoulder and finally to her left hip. By the time the carrier had made the circuit, she had to stop. She insisted that the men to go on without her, but they refused. Exhausted as well, they all took a long break before continuing on together.<br /><br />As they walked through one neighborhood, they spotted a house with a candle burning on the front steps. Robyn called out a tentative, non-threatening “Hello?” Through the thick stew of the night heat, in the utter quiet of a ghost town, they all heard the distinctive sound of a shotgun being cocked. They picked up their pace and walked faster.<br /><br />Finally, fortune favored the persistent. They came across a shopping cart that had been abandoned on the side of the road. With relief, Robyn loaded it with her bag and cat carrier. Pushing the rickety cart over the trash-strewn streets in the dark wasn’t easy, but it allowed the trio to move faster. A mile or so later, Robyn struck the jackpot. She found a new Sam’s Club cart in good condition and promptly upgraded.<br /><br />Even in the dark, Carlos’s sense of direction never failed. About 4:30 in the morning, they spotted Airline Highway ahead. Smatterings of light promised electricity and the group walked faster. When they reached Airline, Robyn found that they’d arrived back at the shopping center where she’d switched buses hours before. She took the opportunity to go to the bathroom behind the buildings in the same place she’d used earlier. Across the street, a sentry at the National Guard encampment watched them without comment. They didn’t bother asking him for help.<br /><br />Still headed in the direction of La Place, they walked west along the highway. All of them were reaching the end of their endurance and Michael’s feet were bloody, yet it seemed reaching La Place was their only option. They watched commercial buildings they passed, looking for an outside outlet where Robyn could charge her phone. While they no longer had hopes of Andrea being able meet them on the interstate, Robyn wanted to let her sister know their situation.<br /><br />The group decided if they split up, they’d find a working outlet faster. They were approaching a large intersection and Robyn veered off alone towards a Goodyear station set back from the corner. The broken windows tattled on the looters who had been there before her. Scoping out the territory, she noticed a man across the street at a bus stop. Although he seemed preoccupied with trying to fix a bicycle, her street-wise intuition picked up a weird vibe. She wondered if he might be a look-out for looters who might still be inside. She approached the building cautiously and checked the outside outlets. None of them worked.<br /><br />She pushed her cart up to the intersection, where the three had agreed to meet. Michael had arrived before her and she was surprised to find him engaged in conversation with the bicycle man. She shot her friend a questioning look. Michael defended his new acquaintance and explained that the man was just one more stranded soul trying to get out of town, but Robyn wasn’t convinced. The trio left the bicycle man behind and continued together down the side street to check out another group of commercial buildings nearby.<br /><br />They had no better luck on the side street and decided to return to Airline. At the intersection where they’d rendezvoused earlier, they’d all noticed a Spur station on the corner. Lights from the coolers inside had beckoned them with the promise of electricity, but they’d written it off as too risky. A large branch had crashed through the door and looters had broken even more glass to gain entrance.<br /><br />Frustrated, Robyn suggested entering the Spur station. There’d been no sign of anyone inside and the electricity was obviously working. She’d go in alone and make her call, which would only take a few minutes. The group stood in a parking lot next to the station, the men trying to convince Robyn to abandon the plan, but she’d already made up her mind. Finally, she flagged down a passing police car and asked the driver what she should do. His answer wasn’t encouraging.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/spur7%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/spur7%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"The Spur Station"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div>“If there’s looters in there, they’ll shoot you,” the policeman said bluntly and then he peeled away to take care of more urgent matters.<br /><br />Under a gloomy pre-dawn light, the trio considered the policeman’s warning. Other official vehicles passed them with lights flashing, but no one stopped. Then a black sedan began to circle them slowly, as if sizing up the rag-tag group. The third time the car drove past, Robyn pointed at driver, issuing a challenge.<br /><br />“What do you think you’re doing? Are you a cop or what?” she shouted. The driver answered with a sheepish “yes” and then drove away.<br /><br />Despite the risk, Robyn was still determined to enter the station. Both men tried to change her mind, but she was bone-tired and willing to take even a foolhardy gamble for any chance to talk to her sister. Another marked police car passed and Robyn motioned for him to stop. She told him of her plan to enter the store and asked that he circle the block while she was inside. He agreed to help and turned the corner.<br /><br />Robyn took a deep breath, left her companions and pushed her shopping cart up to the door. She walked up to the doorway and called out a questioning “hello,” hoping no one would answer. Then she waited for five minutes, listening for any slight sounds of activity inside. The cop who had promised to circle the block never returned. If she went in, it’d have to be without police protection.<br /><br />Robyn finally worked up the nerve to enter the store and ducked through the broken glass door. Stepping behind the counter, she wasted no time searching for an electrical outlet. She found one immediately, but noticed that a door to the back office was cracked. Light shone through the opening. Hoping that no one was hidden in the back, she plugged in her phone and made the call to her sister. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm as she willed Andrea to answer.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/inside%20the%20spur%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/inside%20the%20spur%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Inside the Spur"<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Robyn Tomasovsky</span><br /><br /></div>Andrea was ecstatic to hear her sister’s voice, but the two spoke with urgency, aware that the connection could be broken at any moment. Andrea told Robyn that after her call from the Causeway, she’d realized the impossibility of trying to get into New Orleans with a newborn. She’d considered who would have the best chance of success and then called their Uncle Jerry. Their father’s brother was a retired military officer who lived in north Mississippi. When Andrea had explained the situation to her uncle, Jerry volunteered without hesitation. He set out from his home immediately, only stopping to pick up his son-in-law for "back up." Shortly after midnight, the two men hit the road for the five-hour drive to New Orleans.<br /><br />Andrea told Robyn that their uncle should already be in or near the city. However, the only directions Andrea had been able to give him before he’d left were a vague “she’ll be somewhere near I-10.” He’d be waiting for a call from Andrea with Robyn’s exact location.<br /><br />While Robyn knew she was on Airline Highway, she didn’t know the name of the intersecting street. She was contemplating going outside to look at the street sign when suddenly her heart leapt. Someone was trying to enter the door to the station. She recognized the intruder as the bicycle man. Rage flattened her fear and she shouted at the man with great authority.<br /><br />“Don’t you dare come in here!” she commanded. “Right now, you go to the corner, then come back and tell me the name on that street sign!”<br /><br />Astonished, the man sullenly obeyed. He called in the name of the street to Robyn and then quickly disappeared. She relayed the street name to Andrea and disconnected. Before she joined her friends back on the street, she checked the candy counter, hoping to find some Snickers bars. Sadly, the looters had also had a sweet tooth. All that remained was an empty box.<br /><br />Outside, she excitedly told her friends about their impending rescue. Both men were skeptical and expressed doubts that her uncle would be able to get past the roadblocks. Robyn just smiled. Then they worried that Jerry would take his niece, but leave them behind. Under the circumstances, who would give two complete strangers and two dogs a ride?<br /><br />“You don’t know my uncle,” she declared. “He won’t leave you here. In fact, not only will he take you with us, he’ll buy you breakfast.”<br /><br />Robyn’s faith in her uncle was justified. By the time Jerry reached the first barricade outside of Hammond, Louisiana, it was about 3 am Saturday morning. He boldly swung his SUV into the line for ambulances. When the guard approached his window, Jerry held up his ID badge, knowing that on close inspection, he could be turned away.<br /><br />“I have a niece in there,” he said simply. The guard’s eyes met his own for a long moment. Then the guard said, “Be safe,” and waved him though.<br /><br />Jerry talked his way through two more blockades before he reached New Orleans about dawn. He and Steve roamed the city, asking policemen for directions to various shelters. They searched the camps for Robyn in vain. Jerry’s cell phone wasn’t getting a signal, so he had no way of contacting the outside world. Finally, he drove to the highest point of the interstate he could find. From the top of the airport exit, he was able to get a call through to his daughter at home who’d been keeping in touch with Andrea. The reception was terrible, but the convoluted chain of communication worked. Jerry was able to make out the words “Airline Highway” and “tire store.”<br /><br />Airline Highway is a very long road. Jerry drove up and down its length, looking at every tire store before they spotted Robyn about 9:30 in the morning. She stood in the parking lot of the Spur station with two men. Once Jerry had his arms around his niece, he found it difficult to let go, but his sense of humor reigned. With his first words, he teased her.<br /><br />“Well, you’re only seven miles from where you’re supposed to be,” he said.<br /><br />She laughed through her tears and asked how her dad was.<br /><br />“He’s OK, “ Jerry told her. “I was there on Wednesday and he’s doing just fine.”<br /><br />Robyn introduced him to Michael and Carlos and smiled when - without comment or question - her uncle began making space for them in his SUV. The men had helped his niece and he wasn’t about to leave the heroes behind. The group wasted no time heading out of the city. At first, Robyn tried to persuade Jerry to take her to her father’s house in Bay St. Louis, but he refused. He’d already seen the devastated conditions on the coast and realized that Robyn needed a safe and comfortable place to recover. Andrea’s house in Baton Rouge had electricity, running water and a clean bed waiting.<br /><br />They stopped in Hammond for breakfast at a Waffle House. The bedraggled group found seats and Robyn ordered scrambled eggs, grits, home fries, wheat toast and a waffle. The skinny white woman devoured all the food placed on the counter in front of her, weeping the whole time she ate. Other diners in the restaurant regarded her with curiosity. Finally she tried explaining her tears to the stranger who sat to one side.<br /><br />“I just got out of New Orleans,” she said.<br /><br />The man just nodded, not comprehending all the terror that simple statement implied.<br /><br />The group finished their breakfasts and rose for the final leg of their long journey. Robyn wiped her eyes with a rough paper napkin and headed for the door. On her way out, she saw Jerry at the register, paying the bill for them all.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Epilogue:</span><br /><br />Jerry did more than treat Carlos and Michael to breakfast. After dropping Robyn off in the care of Andrea in Baton Rouge, he drove the two men to the Jackson, Mississippi airport. Carlos had escaped New Orleans with “only the clothes on his back” and had no money with him. Jerry purchased him an airline ticket to Washington, D.C., where family awaited.<br /><br />Michael had phoned ahead to his wife and children. They’d been staying a few hours away in Hattiesburg where they’d gone before the storm. When he arrived at the airport, the family joyfully reunited, dogs and all.<br /><br />In June, nine months after their ordeal, Michael Homan came to Bay St. Louis for another reunion – this one with Robyn at her father’s house. He brought his family with him and while the kids swam in the pool, he talked a little about his experience. He’s an honorable and a sensitive man. The pain and suffering he witnessed will clearly stay with him for the rest of his life. Yet, he’s struggling to channel his anguish into positive paths. More of his eloquent writings can be found at <a href="http://www.michaelhoman.blogspot.com">his personal blog</a>. To read about the camp, go to the archives section and double-click on September, 2005.<br /><br />Michael and his wife could take their children and move to some part of the country not marked by this enormous tragedy, yet for now, they’ve chosen to remain in New Orleans. They hope that their children will grow into stronger and more compassionate human beings by learning that the world is very different from the way it appears on television sit-coms. Their 11-year-old daughter made <a href="http://kalypsotheodyssey.com/?page_id=154">a movie about Katrina and New Orleans.</a> That day they spent in Bay St. Louis, we all gathered around the computer screen and watched it with awe. Everyone should watch it. It shows that even the very young are capable of great awareness.<br /><br />The Arizona Task Force One is credited with saving more than 400 lives, yet the frustrations they faced on Friday were just beginning. Later, in a move that Phoenix Mayor Phil Gordon characterized as “crazy” and “shameful,” <a href="http://cms.firehouse.com/content/article/article.jsp?sectionId=55&id=44974">FEMA suspended the Arizona rescue team</a> because they had brought along four armed police officers for protection as they worked.<br /><br />Robyn titled one of the photos she took of the firemen “My Heroes.” Ten months later, she was finally able to track down some of the men who saved her and wept with gratitude while they spoke. They promised to send her an official fire department shirt and hat.<br /><br />Hal and Charlie had to give up Boots that night at the camp, but they were reunited a few weeks later. Their cat also eventually made its way home. They never saw the parakeets again. The two men plan to remain in New Orleans and renovate their house.<br /><br />The people at the Causeway camp began to be evacuated in earnest on Saturday. By Sunday, the camp was empty. Today, it’s just another major interchange. Driving past, you’d never dream that the median had served as a temporary resting place for the bodies of those who died there.*<br /><br />Robyn’s tears in the Waffle House were the first of many. On the morning after she arrived in Baton Rouge, Andrea took her to McDonald’s so Robyn could fulfill her dream of having an Oreo McFlurry. She cried in the drive-through. Shortly later, she wept in the middle of an Old Navy store, while Andrea shopped to buy her sister some clothes. For the next month, tears would overtake her whenever she entered a restaurant or a store. Like many Katrina survivors who suffered the depravations of the aftermath, she was staggered by the everyday opulence and order that most Americans take for granted.<br /><br />Robyn is still haunted by dreams of rising water and of people trapped in attics. But almost a year later, she’s hard at work and focused on the future.<br /><br />“It could have been much worse,” she says. “I could have been responsible for children instead of a cat. And if I’d been able to leave my house earlier like I wanted, I would have wound up at the Convention Center or the Superdome. In the big picture, I’m one of the luckiest ones.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/1600/Robyn%20mailer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1055/1939/400/Robyn%20mailer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>"Robyn"<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">at the foot of the destroyed Hwy 90 bridge in Bay St. Louis</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by Joe Tomasovsky<br /><br /></span></div>*One of the most riveting accounts of the Causeway camp was written by a doctor who worked desperately to save lives there. His name is Dr. Scott Delacroix and the article is titled, <a href="http://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/512725_1">“In the Wake of Katrina – a Surgeon’s First-Hand Report.”</a> You can access it on-line at a site called MedScape. You’ll have to register with them to read the article, but it’s free and well worth the effort.<br /><br /><a href="http://news2vj.blogspot.com/2005_09_01_news2vj_archive.html">Photos of the camp</a> itself are available on-line at the blog of Tennessee television news photojournalist Todd Dunn, who was assigned to cover the disaster.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">(text and photographs copyright 2006 by Ellis Anderson and Robyn Tomasovsky</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">may be reproduced or printed elsewhere with permission. Contact Ellis at ellis@datasync.com)</span></span></div>Ellis Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15475231618722808512noreply@blogger.com4