The Haunting of New Orleans

Written November 8, 2005
Photos late due to phone line difficulties. But here they are!
Please Click on images for enlargement.

Everything has been changed. All things have been touched in ways both good and bad--including the human spirit. There are numerous stories now of people coming to a resolve on certain questions or changes they were entertaining. Some were considering a change of place: packing up and moving to an entirely different state. Others sought a change in neighborhood of their heart--a change of mate or relational state. Single or paired? What to do?


If such questions were agonized over prior to her visit--Katrina helped shorten that agony with her unwelcome arrival. Bad guests often bring such results. Many up and moved to another state. Others cut a wounding partner out of their lives and still others changed careers entirely. Sometimes not having a choice of your own, due to natural disaster, comes as close to having a gun held up to your head as one could get. Either way: it's do or die. I attached a decision to my Pre-K personal quandary and am relocating to another state.


I see the moving vans daily since I returned home. People are launching out on new lives. Others will resume those they left behind in another city of their birth. There are stories of those whose pain over their broken world went beyond any that could lead to repair. They made final decisions and sprang their mortal coils in search of relief, wanting that Elysian Field as it once was. There is no one to keep track of how many, no one who dares mention the increase of such things in Catholic public: the event of their extinguished light barely whispered of. With each soul that leaves it is as if New Orleans exhales another bit of her life breath.


A ride through the closest flooded neighborhoods of New Orleans could leave a soul understanding why. There was a nakedness you felt when traveling through a familiar street, or going through City Park. It could bring to mind those dreams many of us have over the span of a lifetime. There you are buck naked waiting on the street for the Streetcar. Or there you are at church, scantily clad in you unmentionables--your personal accoutrements barely shielded--singing the praises of Christ at the top of your voice with 200 of His closest friends. Not a word is spoken in acknowledgement of your situation. If anyone has noticed they do not seem to care. But you care and cannot seem to change your plight. Somehow it is beyond your power to correct this breach of etiquette. The vulnerability you feel is beyond the pale.

So goes it with the missing arbor of those protective branches. Where once there was a canopy of green leaves of varying shades, textures and shapes, there is a blue sky. You find yourself seeing straight through City Park to buildings once hidden in the dense foliage of Oaks. There are uprooted trees of such grand age laying as if in some sort of somnambulant holding pattern. One after the other they lay. They have fallen partly in acknowledgement of forces greater than they, partly in abject grief over the end of their usefulness.


All those years of life, and growth! Gone in the span of hours. Their root balls--in some cases 10 feet tall--having released their grip on the once life-giving earth: silent witnesses to the seasons of changing history cut down where they stood.

Others are stripped bare, left standing in egregious humiliation before the eyes of the sun, the moon, the stars and any solitary creature who chances to pass before them. Others suffer the grief of wearing dead plumage: once glorious and proud, now like threadbare paupers, lowly and poor to behold. There will be no invitations to the ball for them. They can only offer what they have left. There is nothing else that can be done but wait patiently for the next spring of hope.

Neighborhoods caught in the flood are simply ghost towns. Who needs the shells of the Wild West mining towns when you have a post flood city? The doors to some homes are still boarded. Others hang open like the entry to someone's personal darkness-- the yawning black hole seemingly whispers something of significance. You must hold your breath and listen carefully to hear: Someone was here once planning for escape. Where are they now?

The brown mark of the flood waters indicating the filthy waters' presence at a home is unmistakable--its unwelcome graffiti an injury of sorts. Windows are blown out as if removed by bomb blast. The violence of its assault apparent in the jagged glass jutting from the window frames. The sight cuts to the heart.

Cars are coated in mud;sitting haphazard like the cast off shells of insects.

Furniture lays outside as statement of exasperation by their owners during a brief return and inspection. A baby grand piano on the lawn waits for no one to make her sing. She is crushed beyond repair. There will be no soul who would dare touch her again as she is so tainted.

A sofa sits inappropriately on the front lawn of another house. It seems to speak of loneliness. It waits for company to come and fulfill its purpose in life, but there is no one and the waiting is an exercise in futility.



If a raging flood fills the four walls of a house when no one is watching is the house no longer a home? If a roof falls in a storm and not a soul is to be found nearby does it make a sound? What is the sound of one city dying? Is it the sound of raging flood waters or the dead silence afterwards? Where is the breath of those who filled its homes?


A soul could spend their life in the pondering of such things and render life into the ghosts of such images as remembered in future thoughts. I cannot imagine the mental turnings of those who were here as the flood waters rose--hopelessness, grief and anguish feeding the rising flood of fear in their hearts. Is there no one near to hear? Is there no one who sees?

Abel sits waiting on the roof for his brother.

I grieve at the sight of my adopted home--stripped of her glory and rendered a shadow of her former self. But there will be greater days ahead and happier times. And New Orleans will return as the Belle she has always been: learning from her history, savvy in the ways of the joyous spirit and celebrating those good lessons learned. She is, and always has been, the home of the creative, resourceful soul. And no storm, or flood, or the depraved indifference of her leaders will ever take that breath away.



For a personal story on my return to, and second departure from, New Orleans after the flood click on

The Hour of Long Shadows

It's a bit dramatic, but since I wrote it my dreams have changed.

Stranger In A Strange Land

When is your life officially no longer your life? I am not certain that I understand that as well as I should. Everything I have been familiar with is gone or altered drastically and any ideas of substitution that I entertain I do so half-heartedly. All attempts to guide my life into a productive, viable existence I do so without conviction. Everything is strange.

My life has been on hold while I wait for the opportunity to return to retrieve my belongings. At the same time I have been dreading the task before me. I am away from my nest and missing its comforts. I am in other people's homes, my sister's and a friend's, trying to be comfortable. All the places with friendly, familiar faces are gone for me. Almost everywhere I go I am a stranger. My routine is gone: the walk over to CC's coffee shop, the trip three blocks over to Blockbuster where I would browse for close to 45 minutes for the movies I wanted for that week, my stop in Slim Goodies once a week. I do not hear the strains of a New Orleans Jazz trumpet floating through the Quarter. The professional network it has taken me over 14 years to build is gone and I find myself having to build a new one. I have tried convincing myself that this was the best place for me. I have talked myself into believing that Atlanta is where I should be--that this sprawling, massive metropolis is the home of my schemes. I have family here--and friends. But my mind and my heart keep turning to California.

I had been having difficulty falling asleep since I fled New Orleans. I was certain that if I did not get some sleep in due time that I would simply die. (When you're really, REALLY tired things become rather dramatic.) My brain was already starting to do strange things. As a living organism mine does not do so well on only one to two hours of sleep a night. I had gotten to the point that I could not remember something said merely thirty seconds before let alone make a decision about my life.

My friend asked me one evening during my visit at her home: Would you like to go canoeing? I recall sighing: sounds like work. My tired body was saying "no", but some aspect of my soul was saying "Yes". Oh, okay! I'll go. I relinquished. It will be good for me. My mind conjured up a memory of my days in the convent when we would take a canoe on the lake at Notre Dame in Chardon, Ohio. A canoe is cradled in the water, by the water. It glides like a bird of sorts and moves with ease through its liquid atmosphere. There is a certain peacefulness because of this and the sound carrying properties of the water. I was sold on this idea.

Denise pulled the car into the dirt and gravel parking lot where she, Amy and I fell out and set about walking to the cabin/store several yards away. There were a couple dozen vehicles there and many people getting themselves ready for the trip on the river. I observed that this was no sweet little canoe ride on a placid little lake. This was a get-your-life-vest-on-and-drag-that-kayak-out-to-the-slide-down-to-the
-river-and-lookie-there-at-the-white-water trip. All I could think was: Oh, God! I'm so tired! I've never done this! I'm gonna die!

I set my resolve program on high: donning a life vest, grabbing a paddle (no s*** creek without a paddle for me) and one kayak. We got into our kayaks at the top of a hill and slid down to the bank of the Broad River. It was easy, however, once I got to the bottom I found myself wondering if there was a way out of this venture. The answer was "No" since Amy would loose money and I would be stuck with nothing to do. After all, I didn't want to be a stick in the mud.

Speaking of mud: did I really come all this way to drown in a river? I could see pictures in my mind of houses in New Orleans submerged to their gutters and the peaks of their roofs in muck, gunk and chemically polluted waters. And the people stranded on those houses: hungry and thirsty, frightened and grieving at the sight before them--their pure, salt tears mixing with the unworthy sludge surrounding them.

Someone was kind enough to help me into my kayak at the edge of the river. In spite of my efforts to reach back in time to my paddling lessons during my days in the convent, I floundered around like a fly in a bowl of Brennan's soup of the day. The woman in charge gave a brief instruction in Paddling 101 which helped several of us glide in the right direction. Of course the river takes you in the right direction always, but it's up to you to determine how your kayak maneuvers. Rocks, and sand bars coupled with the wrong paddle position can set your kayak to moving sideways and backwards, and sometimes, unfortunately, upside down.

The Broad River was running very shallow on this particular day. It was a natural situation that would give us more work to do since we would need to dislodge ourselves from more sand bars and rocks than a deeper river would burden us with. I was behind everyone at first, which worried me greatly, but set myself to working with a particular rhythm. I leaned back and paddled like a trooper. When I saw the first white waters splashing ahead I set myself to hoping for the best. I was afraid I would tip, but was determined to simply do my best and handle a dousing in the water if it was to be the outcome of my efforts. Others were shouting directions on which side to enter the smaller rapids on. I went wherever I went and slid right onto the level below without a hitch. I was amazed at this good fortune and continued to work.

I cannot remember how many rapids we encountered before several people tipped at the same area. I caught up with everyone then and was informed that they were helping these people get back in their canoes and kayaks. There was no way my wimpy muscles were going to allow me to lift anyone's craft none-the-less maneuver myself into the correct position to assist them. When I looked down river and saw several people forging ahead I followed and eventually caught up with them. This took us around a bend that put me out of sight of the others in the group.

I was somewhat oblivious to the fact that the friendly family I had latched onto were not part of my group until it came out in conversation during a pause in our sojourn. I turned to see if any of my group were coming around the bend, but there was no one. I paddled to stay in place, biding my time for someone to show, but there were no signs of the others. I tried to paddle upstream (silly me) and gifted myself with blisters on each of my two oppossible thumbs. After moving only about 4 feet I gave up and determined that I should bank myself on a rock which turned out to be harder to do than I thought it should be. How is it that when you DON'T want to get stuck on rocks you inevitably will, but when you NEED to you have the hardest time? Eventually my stubborness paid off and I sat quietly in the middle of the river, lodged against my chosen barrier, waiting for my team to catch up.

I waited. Waited. Tall, lush green trees ranged along, and up, the banks of the river as far as the eye could see, or at least until the next bend. Their varying heights, shapes and shades of green, creating a canvas painted with extreme care and attention to detail.
They served well as a barrier from the sounds, sights and noises of any sort of human existence. I looked up to see the buzzards circling in the distance. They glided in an ever shifting circle closer and closer until I imagined how it would be if they would come on down for a better look and a little conversation of sorts. I wasn't intimidated by this idea. They save their bravado for the weak and far gone, pecking only at dead things for their sustainence; gaining success only from what lies easily before them, attacking only those without the life to fight.

I laid back in the kayak wishing I could sleep, but the position was not amenable to this so I simply looked at the blue sky and puffy clouds. What a contrast to what must have been in the sky over New Orleans a few weeks back. I surveyed the flowing water around me and wondered what nut would even want to go near water after having fled to escape a pending flood. Contrary to the wicked muck that flowed through my adopted hometown, this water was cool and steel blue and refreshing. The sound of it rushing all around the boat and splashing over the rocks was peaceful in a way. I examined the currents around the kayak, the granite formations and sand bars realizing that even that which we preceive as barriers have a purpose; that if you let the river take you it will take through and around these things to where you belong. It is a law of nature as well as the human spirit. You will be where you are meant to be how and when the river gets you there.

Peaceful! Almost too peaceful. No one was coming and I was beginning to get concerned, however too tired to get upset. Thoughts of abandonment began to fill my head. What if the trip had ended back there? What if they had gotten to the pick up point? I had faith that Amy and Denise would not leave me behind. I waited calmly. My stomach growled. I bet they stopped to eat lunch. I prayed a couple of prayers and waited some more. A thought swam through my head: what if someone comes out of the woods and takes me away? I could hear Flatts and Scruggs playing Rocky Mountain Breakdown inside my skull. I laughed at myself: too many movies will do that to you. Movies such as Deliverance and The Hills Have Eyes had informed my imagination for that moment.

Finally, I saw the whites of the paddles in the distance as they came around the bend. For a few moments they were moving rhythmically, almost one as they forged through the currents. One end of each paddle would be lifted to the sky while the other was submerged to do its duty. The vision was one of white banners being held in salute to the river.

I waited until the lead came along. She didn't recognize me at first, but realized that I was the person they had been looking for. She thought I had fallen far behind. I told her I couldn't paddle up stream so I had to wait. I thought the folks I had been with belonged to our group. Poor Amy who had been so worried was then relieved that I had turned up fine. They had indeed stopped to eat so I missed out. The lead asked if I wanted to eat. I passed on the offer. If you stop to eat eventually you gotta pooh. No thanks! The thought of me squatting in the woods next to a bear gave me pause.

We moved on and I maneuvered over several rapids somewhat skillfully until I decided to take a more agressive position in my efforts. I was so tired that it was taking everything I had to keep myself going so I sat up in my kayak, putting a little more muscle in my posture in order to exert more energy against the paddle and the river. The result was a minor disaster. The kayak bumped against a rock, giving me the feeling that I was about to tip. I was startled by this and lurched my body to the other side in an uninformed, uncontrolled effort to correct myself. This jerked the kayak, causing it to list to the side. I jerked again, tipped right over, fell right out into the cool water and was beaned in the head with the kayak. The sensation was so pleasant, in spite of its unexpectedness, that I let myself float where I bobbed to the surface. Even though I do not swim very well my feet were not touching the bottom. It took me a few seconds to remember that I had a life vest on. I mused to myself, That'll be the last time I try to tell a river what to do with me. Gads this feels good! I was too tired to care that I had taken a bonk in the skull.

I tried to swim to my kayak, but was having trouble catching it. A professional named Kate, all attired in wet suit and her own expert gear, instructed me to grab the paddle first while she caught the vessel. We turned it over, although I had difficulty lifting the thing. She did most of the work, lifting and tipping it expertly to empty it of its contents, and then assisted me in getting back in.

I sat in the kayak and examined the waters. A particular instruction had been bestowed here--gratis. Relax and let the river take you. The bumps and hazards will not be as difficult. I remembered something from deep within my past life:

It is hard for you to kick against the goad.

Kate paddled with me for a while. During that time we discussed some religious issues and beliefs that revealed someone who cared deeply about others. She volunteered often for church groups and was about to go to New Orleans some time that week to help there. Something about her made me think of a solitary soul, of a prophet standing up and speaking when that was needed, of a woman of action when that was her call. For some reason I perceived there was a sadness deep within her. I will pray for her often.

I paddled along with a couple of other people and found myself getting over another rapid by sitting back and letting the river carry me where it would. I had no desire to repeat the mistake that had dumped me in earlier. Still waters run deep I heard in the back of my mind. I watched for rougher waters churning around quieter patches of glasslike pockets. It was as if there were ponds in the middle of the river. I headed for the quieter pockets being wary of sandbars as I did. I negotiated the river with better success this way. Let the river take you where it will.

After some time had passed I looked around to find the group had disappeared from sight. The others I had been with had gotten far ahead of me. I had gotten ahead of others again, paddling less and letting the waters carry me. It was getting easier the closer we were getting to the end of the trip. I banked myself on a sandbar and waited again. How was it that I had allowed myself to get separated from the group again? For a moment I felt a twinge of anxiety, and guilt. I was not afraid of being there alone, but simply afraid of being left behind. Yet I had let the river carry me away and had left everyone else behind. Was this where life was always to take me: Alone in the middle of everything waiting for everyone to catch up with me? Or alone in the middle of everything and having left everyone behind? Is the glass half empty or half full? Is there even a glass?

I will be moving to California this October. I realized I had been making a decision based on what I perceived others wanted of me. This caused me great turmoil in spite of my good intentions. I decided that I should be going where the river in my soul is carrying me. I have slept like a baby every night since.

The Lost City of Atlantis Redux

Hurricane Rita has come and gone.
Her only mission seemed to be that of reopening old wounds. How much abuse can one city take? The shored up levee breaches were topped and broken again adding insult to injury. Areas that had flooded during Katrina, and had been pumped out flooded all over again. What will civilizations find 1000 years from now? Will New Orleans be the next Atlantis: historians, anthropologists, archaeologists, treasure hunters all looking for her, for remains of the people who loved her and for all her treasures? We search repeatedly in the layers of earth and sediment for the fossils left behind by others. We dig deep: as we look for answers to questions we find pertinent; as we search for knowledge that seems to give our society some measure of purpose. All the sludge that was left everywhere after the flood is simply an example of what the lake and the river could do. It could bury New Orleans forever if some people do not get their acts together. The officials of Netherlands would certainly be the perfect people to turn to in order to help a city like ours. Hurricane season is not over yet. There is an archaeologist somewhere in the future waiting for the perfect dig. It would be a shame if New Orleans is on their list.

Shock, Sleep and the Element of Time

Sleep has been something of a chore of sorts. Usually a sanctuary, or pleasure, it has been fitfull and restless--even when I am tired. I vaguely recall an accounting in my dreams of the face of every person I have known from my adopted home. It is as if I have been taking inventory in my sleep.

I had come to the point that I did not know what day of the week it was, let alone have the ability to recount the date. The several days that had passed had melted in my soul into one long day. Thought had become a process for which I had no spirit or vision. My brain was in a state of suspension--as if shutting down temporarily might protect me from any calamity. I was in a state of shock. The images of the flooding and the possibility that 10,000 souls had died hurt me, but I almost fell into despair when there was a report that a chemical plant had exploded. Coupled with the roving gang of thugs/animals, the reports of rapes and shootings at the Convention Center and no help in sight for those stranded I felt as if my soul were crying out to God. For certain they were about to be gassed.

My one wish: that Michael Chertoff, and Mr. Brown be locked in a room alone with some of those who were abandoned in one of the Nine Rings of Hell, at least those who survive, for 5 minutes. That sounds right and just to me. But, who am I?

I still do not know where some of my friends are.

I found myself sitting on the steps of the Red Cross in Atlanta at the wee hour of 6:30 A.M. on September 3rd. This is the date by which some semblance of motivation breathed an awareness of time back into me. I began marking the days from this date since it was the one printed on my Red Cross documents. I had been there the day before hoping for assistance. Amy had come to pick me up for a day of fun, but I had requested that we check out the Red Cross. We arrived around 11:00 A.M. and were there for a couple of hours.


The facility was packed with survivors, most of them from New Orleans, looking for some relief. There were people there with varying degrees of concern, fear or outright distress, and the Red Cross had been savy enough to provide counselors for anyone who needed such release of spirit. I stood and scanned the room, looking at all the faces. I felt fortunate personally, almost guilty, for my circumstances. There was one woman there from Mississippi who was constantly on the verge of tears. She sat quietly, her eyes clear and then the tears would well up, her face turn red. Then she would get control and they would clear, but then well up...and so the process went on for her like some sort of purgatory. I notified a Red Cross employee of her since I, and Amy, were both worried about her. They took care to watch her and already had spoken with her.

I think Mississippi's devastation was far more frightening. The shrapnel and debris from the winds had to be lethal. The ordinary things of life would have been like missles shattering everything in their paths. She had lost everything. New Orleans' destruction was the result of stupid ineptness. She had been spared the dead on hit, but there was the matter of those breaking levees. Corruption and ineptness will always bite you in the behind at the wrong time.

I was finally able to have my folder started, but volunteered to return the next day, the 3rd. This would get me out of there then and processed quicker in the morning. I was the first one there and had my first moments alone in about 5 days. I savored it, watching the sky over the lush, green trees of Atlanta lighten. Others showed about 7:15 A.M. and the line grew respectively. We had been told the doors would open at 08:15 A.M., but nothing of the sort happened. The crowd grew bigger, and more restless, as the time grew longer. However, things became really uncomfortable when some evacuees showed up around 09:00 and came up to the front of the steps as if they were going to sponge in first. This created agitation, and murmurs of anger among those who had already been there, including me. I told a volunteer what was going on so that when the Red Cross official came out she only opened one door. This kept things orderly to some extent.

There was a problem with the perception of other people who were at the middle and end of the line. If they were there for the first time, regardless of how early they were that morning, they were not necessarily going to be processed that day. I was not an object of anger since I had been there since 6:30, but other folks were tweeking the whiskers of the Tiger in a manner of speaking by their outright disrespect of others. Then people such as myself had to wait for those who had been there on September 1st. It was fair, but there were folks who perceived that they were being treated unfairly even though they were not, and the whisker tweekers simply aggravated things. I was fearful of a riot, but the Manager got things under control. It was simply a matter of having more than one room for processing and there still should have been more case workers filling out the paper work. The room I was in had only 3 case workers and there had to have been 100 or more folks in there. It was an overwhelming situation with simply not enough resources to expedite the matter. Nor were there firm standard operating procedures that would handle a crowd that size.


I waited five hours to be processed. During that wait I met, and had conversations with, several people from New Orleans who had lost everything. There were some who did not know where some of their family members were. Others got out with only the shirts on their backs. Either way, the crowd had become what has been so characteristic of the New Orleans I have come to know. The people there, maybe unconsiously, were almost celebratory. They had lost everything, but had survived to start anew, and whatever would happen, there would be always be a time and a reason to rejoice.

The Finger of God

I was so relieved to be able to lay down in a bed for once. When I looked at the ceiling I noticed little glowing things in the black darkness. I realized that someone had stuck little glow stars to the ceiling so that it looked like a night sky. I loved it. I slept a sleep as close to a coma as I could get. I was so tired I didn't even know I had fallen asleep.

I cannot remember what time I woke up, but my sister was cooking breakfast for everyone. It's a nice thing to sit with someone and eat a meal. I know we spent that day talking a lot, but I was very pre-occupied with conditions in my city. I was worried about some friends I lost touch with. I used the local television station web site to post their names. I found it much easier for me to keep track of using the Business Forum to list them in. Alphabetical listing of their names would get them little attention and the listing would more than likely be lost in the ocean of names. It reminded me of 911.

The headline that announced that 10,000 were feared dead filled me with disbelief and grief. I watched whatever I could without being too disrespectful of my sister and brother-in-law's needs. I had to be careful of my poor brother-in-law. The man has been on steroids for his bone marrow cancer and as a result sad news makes him cry. We would have the news on during dinner and I would look over to see his face turning red and his eyes tearing up. He's worse than I am.

My first evening there the emergency alert sirens for the county went off. The weather had been threatening and tornadoes were sighted in the area. We took our dinners and went into the basement. I couldn't resist the moment. I looked over at Patty and Carl and said, "I brought you a present." We thought I was getting away from Hurricane Katrina, but it turned out that she was far reaching in her influence. The next day and evening brought more of the same in other outlying areas of Atlanta, however tornadoes did touch down and wrought destruction in their paths. The next day brought sunshine and blue skies. And it hasn't rained here since.

Humanity 101

I was dead where I sat. Eventually every time I focused on anything I would pass out in my seat. I would be thinking about whatever it was I think about and the next thing you knew, BINGO! I was waking up in this overgrown, bread box with wheels. Two days and only two hours of sleep are not the stuff of mental power building. My incidental traveling companion was out cold most of the final two hours of the journey. Once he had reached down and was fidgeting with something in his pocket right against my hip. This was a little too physically intrusive and piqued my ire a bit so I reached down and grabbed his hand. I said something to him that I can't remember right off. When I saw the wide-eyed, frightened look on his face I realized he probably had no idea that he was making any physical contact at all. He passed out again in short order much to my relief--probably from fright. I felt sorry for the little devil.

As the bus pulled into Atlanta there was a general stirring and rustling of passengers. Adults and young ones alike set to gathering their things in anticipation. Some would be moving on to the next leg of their journey. My little friend, Bill, was no different. Everyone waited patiently for the next person to gather themselves and exit--one after the other in the quiet order of fatiqued wayfarers too worn from the miles to see beyond the present. Once on the pavement I turned to the little man who had asked me something. I directed him to one of the drivers and told him one of them would help him. I gathered a few of my things, found a fellow with a luggage cart and gave him $4.00 to roll my stuff to the cabs waiting across the street. Within minutes my things were in a cab and the driver was on his way. He tried to engage me in conversation, but I was exhausted and could barely hear him from the back seat. Sad to say I truly didn't care and feigned some interest to be polite. I was too tired to ask him to repeat what he had said every time he opened his mouth. I just hope I didn't promise him my first born or something equally earth moving.

It took him a couple of calls to my sister on his cell phone, but we made it to their house in a little under an hour. I swear they are almost out at the edge of the world. I wouldn't call it the middle of nowhere, because obviously they are somewhere, but gads they are out in the sticks.

The front porch light gave evidence of someone awake. When the cab pulled into the driveway my sister and her husband spilled onto the porch all of smiles from what I remember. It was probably about 5:00 A.M. as far as I can figure. At that point we set about the chore of digging up enough money between the three of us to pay the expectant driver. I am certain we caused him some consternation as we chattered comments to the effect: I don't have enough of this. Do you have this much? I have rolls of quarters was the comment that came from my brother-in-law. At one point we asked the driver if he took checks to which he answered "No". The look on his face was priceless. I think he thought he was about to be screwed. Adding what I found in my purse to what my sister collected we settled the fare, and a tip, with the driver and sent him on his way. He looked at me strangely though after we had completed our transaction. It left me wondering if he had expected something more. In retrospect he was probably just greatly relieved.

I don't remember everything of my arrival. Only that we talked a little about my trip. I found myself recounting my traveling companion and my concerns about him. In the back of my mind I was sorely distressed that I had failed my lesson in Humanity 101 again. Every so often I will encounter someone who seems to be in need of help and for whatever reason I will feel that I did not do what I should have. This little old man's ghost is certain to ail me for months to come, possibly years. I could have taken time to make sure he had gotten on the right bus, but I was so worn out that all I cared about was myself and getting to a place where there was sleep. I keep praying for him now and hoping that God sent someone to guide him safely, and to please forgive me for being so selfish. It's a big world out there and it can be cold and frightening when you are all alone.

When You Absolutely, Positively Have To Get There Overnight

A darkness clouded over her eyes in the storm of her remembering. I thought for certain she would cry, though she did not in the midst of her recounting the harrowing tale of her escape from New Orleans. We were standing in the bus station in Jackson, MS. Somehow in the melee one of us heard the other talking about New Orleans. She came closer to not escaping than I did and her story evoked a certain sadness in me for her. Jackee had gone to the bus station to purchase her ticket out of town only to be told that they were no longer selling the tickets. She had traveled by city bus all the way from Jefferson Parish and that by no means would be a short trip. She had no friends she could turn to; no family in town to leave with or to seek shelter with.

I was near to cryin'! she said. I went in to work and was telling a woman there about how I had no way out. This person, a total stranger, was leaving to come to Jackson and offered to drive me here with her.

We commisserated about how wonderful and kind others could be during a time of danger. We shared the same feelings that our lives had been saved: mine by my friend and hers by a total stranger. Such people are the ones that make the journey in life worth traveling.

I was in the Greyhound Bus terminal with Theresa and her sister. They were waiting with me for a couple of hours until the bus was scheduled to depart in order to help me on the bus with my things. I had to pay extra for the storage container of photos I was bringing, but I managed to get an extra case on. The Greyhound terminal was filled with all types of people. I met a few people fleeing from Louisiana: Jackee, a man from Belle Chase and another gentleman who never said which parish he was from. His silence on the matter was something more than circumspect.

The Greyhound staff in general was rather disorganized. First I was told to get into line 5. Then I was told to get into line 2. Then we got into line 5 again at the direction of a staff member. Then we were instructed to get into line 2 again. NO KIDDING. It was aggravating since I was exhausted, and on top of that I was certain Theresa and Evelyn were more than likely just as tired as I was. God bless them both.

When I boarded the bus I found to my dismay that all the window seats were already taken. I picked a seat closer to the back next to a smallish, older man. He looked at me with wild, wide open eyes. I detected something off about the guy, but sat next to him anyways. This was going to be a long ride and I could see that the bus was full.

I know that we rolled away at least 20 minutes later than scheduled, but I was relieved when we finally got going. I did not want to fall asleep and found that a relatively easy accomplishment in the early part of the trip. I did not read, but simply tried to see out of the windows and played Jawbreaker on my Ipaq. Once the sun set and the bus got further along in its journey it was easy to see that traffic was very heavy. There were intermittent flashes of blue from police lights to signal some traffic control taking place. Since I could not see out too well from my seat I don't know exactly what they were doing. Occassionally we drove through rain.

I was hoping for a quiet ride without conversation, but my little, old man had other ideas. He would ask me the same question over again about where we were and where we were going and what bus was this. At one point he had been afraid that he was on the wrong bus. I had him give me his ticket which showed that he was on the right bus alright. I thought at first that he was probably mildly retarded, however, at one point during the trip he engaged me in conversation about Good and Evil, the real reason for the Civil War and a few other intellectual topics. Hardly the stuff of a fellow whose DNA had missed a beat. I was as patient as I could be with him all the while coming to the conclusion that my bus mate was probably in the beginning stages of Alzheimers. I became alarmed when he asked me if a person could be controled by demons, or something along that stripe.

Well. I believe that it can be the chemistry in the brain or a devil of sorts. Being raised Catholic I am supposed to believe in possession, but I don't think that is generally the case. It could happen, but I tend to think it is a chemical imbalance in the brain.

He agreed to this, but told me that he had been acting in ways that he had never done before. He told me he had hit someone last week. For a minute I started wondering what he had in his little plastic shopping bags. Fear induced the thought of a knife. I dismissed this foolishness, but asked him: Have you been forgetting things lately? To which he replied in the affirmative.

I watched over him to some extent making sure that he did not miss the bus during one of our quick breaks at a rest stop along the way. I swear that God probably could get sad just looking at this little man. His short sleeved shirt was frayed at the edges of the sleeves. His blue pants were too. He had money to pay for snacks so I know that he was not without means. He had told me he was coming from L.A. and going to Florida. I can't remember where though.

There was a general tension in the mood of the crowd on the bus during the initial leg of the journey. I wondered if it was my own anticipation and anxiety that I was projecting or if it was indeed the collective mood of everyone there. You could hear a pin drop for the first few hours. People read, slept, looked out the windows when they could. Finally I noticed that I was sweating. It was hot on the bus and it was making me miserable. I was so tired I wished I could sleep, but it was so uncomforatble. Two days of being awake wasn't making this an easy trip.

I am not sure if it was the Greyhound Station in Mobile or Birmingham where we had a rest stop. Folks got up to use the restrooms at the station. I decided to move my things to the front of the bus and found an open seat at the very front. The window seat would give me opportunity to sleep. I could lean my head there easily. One woman said something to me about the driver not liking anyone to sit there. I found this odd, but told her how hot it was and that I was very uncomfortable. I would speak with him. You know, like reasonable people do. Silly me.

The driver climbed the steps of the bus and looked at me. I discovered that he was not inclined to the exercise of reasoned listening on behalf of civility. There was no semblance of someone remembering that their employment might depend on customer service.
Ma'am, he said to me, didn't you have another seat.I found this odd since seats were not reserved. I replied to the affirmative intending to explain my discomfort to him, but he was not interested in my comfort.
Where are you going? went his inquiry.
Atlanta.

Well, you can't sit here. I don't want nobody sitting here.

This stunnned me since I recalled that I had paid for a ticket. Usually payment implies some level of service. I paused, but wearily re-gathered my things and made a measured attempt to not speak a word. I know when the balance of power is unequal, I thought. I hope you like your power now. You won't have it forever. That's just how life is.
I returned to my uncomfortable, unreserved seat like a naughty 10 year-old child who had misbehaved in class. I was too exhausted to be angry, although the incident pricked at my brain for a few minutes until I focused on other things. What I focused on--I cannot remember.
There were other rest stops along the way, however rushed the driver made them. Between the heat on the bus, and people getting hungry, there were a few ripples of discontent when he did not allow us off at one point. He let us off at the next stop, however, only giving us 5 minutes during his announcement. That changed to 15 minutes once we were in the store.

I picked up M&M s and Fritos and a coke. Not exactly healthy fare, but my stomach was rumbling from hunger and there was not time to buy a good sandwich. I for certain was not about to purchase a sandwich out of one of those machines. Yech! .. All because of that nasty monster, Katrina, making my eardrums flap in pain. I could not help but think: My poor N'Awlins seasoned taste buds are sure to die of loneliness at this rate. No Jambalaya. No ettouffee. No bread puddin' with whiskey sauce. No oyster P'O Boys dressed. And no more Brennan's or Petunia's or Gumbo Shop. Life is changing as I've known it and I've no control over the matter. The further away we get from N'Awlins the sadder it gets. It would seem that God has deserted us in this darkness though I know he has not. There are sure to be brighter days ahead and those would be including bread puddin'.

The Gulf South Diaspora

Where do I begin? I have not had the heart to come here and write anything. Although, I must say my experiences have been very interesting and my life very blessed. The sight of our wonderful city in the grips of such pain inducing events makes me want to cry. It is as if a good friend has been left to the mercy of some beast of sorts.

I stayed awake all night on whatever night it was before we evacuated. Half the time I still don't know what day it is. It must be a form of shock. When Theresa finally arrived she helped me load whatever there was room for. I had grabbed my best clothes and packed them in a suitcase, a case with all my necessities, a briefcase with my I.D. and resumes and a variety of papers, a package of prints I could sell on Ebay to make some $$$ and my 2 little feathered chums. I also had crammed some music and data CD's in between any pieces of paper I could fit them in.

I hardly remember driving away. I don't remember anything until we got to the area near the Causeway. The lake was so choppy and large cummulus clouds were beginning to roll in from the distance far away (or at least that's what my mind seems to recall).

Theresa was all of patience and kindness. I owe her my life. I was thinking of going to the SuperDome before I thought to call her. I know myself enough to know that I would have died in that heat. She had her route planned ahead of time and seemed to have saved us plenty of time. The traffic was interesting in terms of the contra-flow that had been put into place. There was something strange about looking over to the other lane and seeing the traffic heading in the same direction as ours. The sight seemed to give an air of urgency--like a flock heading to safety all at one time.

I finally had to admit that I needed to use a bathroom. When Theresa came upon a rest stop we saw that there were maybe a hundred people who had the same idea. Many people were stretching, others were walking their dogs. There was something tense about the place as if the mission of everyone there was the only thing that could be thought about. I listened carefully and did not hear a soul discussing the pending storm. Was it due to fear? Anticipation? Fatique? We got in line with some other women by a type of trailer that had 2 bathrooms. It appeared that the groundskeeper had commandeered both rooms for women.

One man came looking for the men's room. There were giggles and some laughs when the man standing watch told him that they were using them all for women. I heard a woman tell the gentleman needing relief, "Be a man! Go find a bush!" This elicited a lot of laughs from everyone waiting, including him. He trotted off to find a place for himself.
We were there for probably 10 or 15 minutes before we got back in the car and resumed our journey. I think it may have taken us 4.5 hours to get to her sister's place in Jackson, MS. They fed me, let me sleep for an hour or two and took me to the bus station. They even helped me with my things and waited with me. What kind people. Who needs anything else when you have friends like these?

Anthropoligical Musings

It's a few minutes past midnight and I cannot sleep. I have taken Buddah from his perch on the mantel that overlooks my desk. I have buried him in a plastic storage container along with Santa Homer, some sweaters, a baccarat decanter and a few other items. It is on top of an armoir. Haitian art has been stored in totes and placed on top of shelves. That wonderful table I bought when I was 21 for $5.00 is carefully placed on the top of the book cases. It was one of the first purchases I ever made. I was so proud of that wonderful mahogany night table with its pretty teardrop, brass pulls, original dovetail work and two functioning drawers. It still has the original furniture label in one of the drawers: Grand Rapids Furniture. I have to leave it behind. I have stored the Japanese Obi, tea jacket and the lovely tea set a friend brought me as a gift. They are high on shelves in the back room.

Things are just things. In terms of importance they count as nothing compared to physical health and emotional well-being. But the things we collect are a story of ourselves, a physical account of stages in our lives. Material items can divulge the truth of our spirits. We show others what interests us. We give hints of how our minds work through the things that we value. They are artifacts of our own personal history. Any person who collects antiques may tell you the same thing: that they wonder who used that table and what they did. I saw a train station ticket desk someone was selling out of their house not long ago. It was over 100 years old. All I could think of was all those people who used that desk. Were they under duress? Did they shed tears there? Did they have to take a trip for unfortunate reasons? Did some businessman, having to travel for some meeting, lean on that desk, write his information on a ticket there and leave his fingerprints in the grain of the oak? Did the station agent drink his coffee and place it in the same place 365 days a year for as many years as he worked for the trains? What was the story of his life?

My stories may be blown away.

So far we are still in danger. The Mayor has urged everyone to leave as soon as they can. There are some legal problems with him declaring a mandatory evacuation. He's putting his family on an airplane in the morning. If we are lucky and it misses this wonderful town I will be so glad. But, I don't want to be here in the case that we have finally worn out our luck. The president has already signed a pre-declaration of emergency disaster for whoever gets the hit. Winds are now toping 143 miles an hour. The storm surge will go directly over the levies due to its immensity. I hope my friend Sylvia has gotten out of St. Bernard.

A good friend is taking me out of here up to Jackson, Mississippi. We will get some of the storm, but we will be above sea level and have less problems with any flooding. When I had called to buy a bus ticket I was told that Greyhound was not selling tickets and that was at 4:00 P.M. this afternoon. The girl told me the terminal was closing at 06:00 P.M. Planes are sold out and cancelled. I hope all my friends are getting out of here. Vicky! Marcia! I am praying that you prepared your ark and have gone home to Shreveport with your 5 bunnies, 10 cats, 2 dogs and 1 iguana.

Well, I should sign off now. I will take the hard drive out of my computer and store what I can of my hardware on the top of the shelves. I have to cover a few things in lawn bags still in the house in case the roof leaks. For the most part I am packed. The birds are ready in their little cages. (Morticia bit the crap out of me when I caught her, but she has calmed down.) I pulled the loose items from out of the back yard and put them in the back room. The only thing left to do is to bring in the bike. Theresa will pick me up around 5 A.M. She's a good soul and we will have an adventure for sure. It will be interesting to see what happens in the coming days. I believe there is something important going on here since everything happens for a reason.

The Weather Outside Is Frightening

I woke up with a barometric headache this morning. My ears ache. My sinuses are painful, my teeth are aching and my brain feels like it's being squeezed. There's a hurricane in the gulf and I keep checking Margaret Orr on WDSU. Folks, it ain't looking good. Since yesterday the high pressure has changed. It has built to the west which gives it a clockwise flow that will drive it north. It is moving away from windshear, which it has been subject to, and a high pressure is moving it west. The steering currents and the moisture levels in the air are scheduled to change and not in S.E. Louisiana's favor. Winds are forecast to gust at 172 miles per hours. We are under a watch. I'm packing my arst up and preparing to get the hell out of here. I will leave in the early hours Sunday on a greyhound if Katrina's track does not change enough to spare us.

This is nothing like any other track this year.

I am doing my best not to think about, or look at the art and things that I have collected over the years. When it is time to go it's just downright time to go. I love my beautiful city and it makes me cry to think that this wonderful town may not be here next week. Its art, its historical buildings. I feel as if I am leaving a wonderful friend who is almost my second self. To all my friends: It is such a privilege to know you. Stay safe, don't take chances and I hope we reconnect.

Here We Go Again

Here we go again!
I had finally gotten myself to a point at which I was not going to get stressed over Hurricanes floating around out there somewhere. I had not been paying much attention for the past few days to Hurricane Katrina only to discover this evening that our chances are looking pretty worrisome for a hit. I feel sick to my stomach to be honest. She's a category 4 which will be a dire situation for whoever gets nailed. Hopefully she'll fizzle a little just before she hits land. And where ever she hits it appears we are going to have some effects from it here in N'Awlins. The side of the storm that we are on will determine how serious it will be. To be honest I'm still partly packed from our last bout with tracking Dennis. (You gotta love it!) So I have a bit of a drill down and can be ready to leave Sunday if the situation requires it. What a bummer. (I need one of David Letterman's tranquility darts right now. You know the ones he uses on the Late Show Bear. He couldn't remember that they were called tranquilizers.)

This is when I start really examining my stress levels and get to considering a future relocation, and just when my life was improving. (sigh!) I'll be getting up early tomorrow for the 08:00 A.M. news coverage to see if it has made another jog in the wrong direction again. That's what happened this afternoon I guess.

Goodnight all!

The Definition of "Nightmare"

It's been hot as hell outside. On saturdays, I have been setting my alarm to wake at 6 A.M. so I can catch some moving/estate sales. However, it is so damned hot outside, even in the morning, that I get up for a few minutes and crawl right back into the hamper. I love my A.C.
When you live in N'Awlins the summer is a trade off from those snowstorms and frozen days up North. In Cleveland you would chain yourself to the closest heater and snuggle up in your heating blanket with a good book. Down here you chain yourself to the A.C. and have nightmares about your air conditioner breaking down, or (as in the case with TS Cindy) the electric going out. I actually have had those dreams and I have met countless others who had them. It's rather amusing, really! The funny thing is that whenever I dream that my A.C. has broken it does so within a few days. Go figure. The cussedness of animant objects.

A Fine Mess

I'm not so sure about being able to find the answer blowing in the wind. When a storm like TS Cindy rolls through town it makes you wonder what will happen in this city if a real hurricane hits. I was without electric for 2 days. I can handle not having lights, but I cannot sleep in this legendary N'Awlins heat. It was like a sauna in here and it could have been far worse. I managed to get myself to sleep by playing a computer game until I was passing out in the middle of it. When I awoke I felt comfortable which amazed me. I think my brain was able to cool the rest of me off while it was sleeping. Once I started moving about though I began sweating like a field hand. By the second day I was getting pretty ticked off about not having any service. I'm okay with things happening. That's life. But, waiting without any sign of effort from the powers that be gets old very fast.

Tropical Storm Cindy made a fine mess of things here. For the first time since I moved here I did not do my girl scout duty of bringing everything in and tying things down. I did not even fasten my shutters. The wind was whistling and howling and gusting like a Tasmanian Devil. It would whip up and calm down and then start up again. Every time the wind was about to start an onslaught my ears would pop. I make a great barometer.

I watched TV until the electric went out. I couldn't sleep for all the noise of wind roaring and things crashing. The electric surged off at least six times before it finally blacked out permanently. I went to the kitchen window to see what was going on. My neighbor's tree had fallen and was dangling over the street on the power lines. I would see what I thought was lightning at different intervals. It was pretty in a way. There would be a bluish green flash in the distance and then another one a little closer. After a few minutes I realized those flashes were the power lines going down and making contact with whatever was near.

At one point I heard a loud bang of something falling against the house. My little home shook and so did I. I went to the back door and opened it up to see if the tree in the back had fallen on the house. It had not. I closed up and went to the front door. I was making an assessment of whether or not I would be able to bring the bicycle in. But when I opened my door I got a very thorough hair washing. I swear I was doused with at least 2 gallons of water just opening the door. I had, however, seen that the iron gate I propped up against the fence had fallen against the house.

There is a terrible hurricane beating down Cuba at the moment. The odds are only 13% that we are in danger, but the idea is frightening. A category 3 would kill anyone who does not leave this place. I am preparing to leave and go to Atlanta if the storm turns this way. I am waiting to see what happens once Dennis has passed over Cuba and churned back out into the Gulf. If it turns to the West at all I am out of here. I will take a Greyhound out of here in the morning to my sister's house. It will take about 12 hours to get there. I will take my best clothes, my data disks and will do everything I can to get my 2 little birds on that bus. I am going to pray beyond all hope that they keep quiet so no one insists that I leave them. (You are not supposed to bring pets on the bus.) Perhaps I could pay the driver to ignore them. If I learned anything about life here in NOLA--people can be paid off to look the other way. I've never resorted to this, or have I needed to, but I will give it a try now if I have to.