WRITINGS

September 17, 2005

Arrival

I arrived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana at 12:30 Saturday morning after getting 1 ½ hours of sleep after the Hurricane Katrina Benefit Concert for my family. My sister Ellen, who lives in Baton Rouge, picked me at the airport and we drove together to Ocean Springs.

When we got to Covington, Louisiana, which is directly north of New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain, I could begin to see the effects of the storm. This consisted mostly of broken tree branches. Typically the eastern side of a hurricane is where the most severe winds occur, so it wasn’t until we got closer to Slidell, Louisiana that the damage became more striking. There, we saw debris lining the side of the roads. Every so often we’d pass a car that had been abandoned on the side of I-10. One of these cars looked as if it had hit pylon while others were simply left where they were. I wondered if these cars had broken down during the evacuation of the Gulf Coast, or if these drivers had been trying to get through the storm and had become stranded. In one place a boat trailer with a large pleasure fishing boat had been left on the shoulder of the highway. While driving to the coast a week earlier, Ellen had seen a semi-trailer abandoned with jet skies still strapped to it as if a trucker couldn’t control his vehicle with the trailer in the wind and had decided to throw the ballast overboard.

Normally both sides of I-10 are lined with pine trees which remain green year round. The unchanging scenery in that part of the country tends to make the drive very monotonous. Today the southland looked as if an uncharacteristic autumn had begun. Evergreens were covered with blotches of brown where branches had broken. Pine trees that had snapped off from 10 to 15 feet above the ground began to appear with increasing frequency on both sides of the road. The number of broken trees we passed continued to increase to the point of becoming ridiculous. It looked as if giant toothpicks had been stuck into the ground in every direction. It was at about that point that we began to see large appliances like refrigerators and washing machines scattered here and there. There was also a lot of building material to be seen. Where they had come from seemed a mystery since all that could be seen from the highway was pine forest on both sides of the highway.

The hotel/casino business is the most prevalent industry on the Gulf Coast. Normally once you get past the Long Beach exit, billboards 40 to 50 feet high begin to line the road. Often there are as any as many as 10 of these billboards in a row, each showing a different upcoming show at the same casino. There were no signs left on these billboards. The billboards themselves had been stripped back until they appeared to be like the feathers on the end of an arrow… pointing directly into the oncoming wind. Two or three of these enormous pedestals had snapped 10 feet or so from the ground and over.

As we drove over the last bridge before reaching Ocean Springs I could see several boats scattered throughout the green and brown marsh. The stern end of one of these boats had been stuck into the marsh as though it were a surf board stuck in the sand on a beach.

When we pulled into my father’s neighborhood in the Gulf Hills section of Ocean Springs there were houses that were clearly damaged, and many pine trees that had snapped, and oak trees that had been uprooted. Still it looked as if the neighborhood had been mostly spared, that is, except for the piles of debris 5 to 6 foot high that lined the street in front of each house. Sofas, chairs, TV sets, washing machines, beds, dining room tables, books, records, vacuum cleaners. Most of the damage to these houses was clearly on the inside.

My father’s house was not in bad shape. He had already had the roof repaired and two fallen trees had been removed from his back yard leaving behind only six deep trenches where the truck tires had sunk into the soft earth.

Four blocks away whole houses are missing.

September 18, 2005

First Look at Ocean Springs

We pulled into the driveway at my fathers home yesterday at around 5:30PM to find Janet (my brothers wife) unloading their car following a day of working at their house. She was covered with sweat and dust. I was very happy to learn that my niece, who is in her third year at Ole Miss, had come down for the first time since the storm to see the damage. I am very fond of Mary-Catherine. She has a sensibility that appeals to me and whenever we find ourselves in the same place for a while we usually spend some time together talking. My dad and my brother Tom came out shortly after and we all hugged and were very happy to be together.

In honor of my arrival everyone, it had been decided that there would be a celebration. My sister had brought groceries from Baton Rouge and we had a feast of grilled steak, baked potatoes and baked beans. So my sister Charlottes and her husband, her daughter, my sister Ellen , my dad, my brother, his wife and his family all sat down to eat. It felt strange to be eating such an extravagant meal when these people have been living on MRE’s (FEMA issued “Meals Ready to Eat), trying to keep expenses to a bare minimum. But it was a celebration. It was then that I told them about the show that we put on for their benefit the night before, and about the money that had been donated to help them out. It was a joyful meal, but much of the talk was about the tough realities of their situations.

It was agreed that the next morning (Sunday) Mary-Catherine and I would drive down to the Church of the Nativity where I could get a Tetanus booster and a Hepatitis vaccine. This was necessary because of the work that I would be doing demolition work at Tom and Janet’s house. Since much of the muck was on their floor before I arrived was from a nearby sewage plant that had been under water it made sense to have get a hepatitis vaccine as well. But first we would drive out to Charlotte’s house so that I could see the damage that her home had sustained.

On the way to Blue Heron Drive, we saw a lot of debris on the road. Highway 90 is full of super markets and strip malls. Most of these stores were badly damaged by the high winds Katrina had brought. Every home we passed had a large pile of damaged furniture, appliances, books, records construction debris in front of them.

When we arrived we were greeted by Christian, Charlotte’s husband and her son Damien. Outside the house were all the cars that had been flooded by the storm. Inside we could see that the lower half of all the wallboard in the livingroom and the halls had been removed. Most of there furniture was outside. All the wallboard that had not yet been removed was speckled with mold. In back she we could see the where her deck was collapsing on two sides. Her pool was now black and we could see that it was filled with shrimp and a couple of fish. Charlotte and her children had all been working together for the past ten days or so pulling down wallboard and drying out the house. But it was agreed that I would give Tom and Janet a hand working on their east Biloxi home because with both of their children living out of town, they had the least amount of help.

On the way over to Biloxi we drove down Front Beach in Ocean Springs. Again and again we could see foundations with no house, collapsed roofs and downed trees. A house that had been built 12 feet above the ground to protect it from storm surges was gone. All that remained were the support columns and the grand staircase that once led guests to the main entrance on the second floor. We turned down a street to check on the home of one of Mary-Catherine’s friends. The first two homes on either side of the street that were on the waterfront were badly damaged and had been condemned. Three houses down we stopped in front of a red brick home, the only home that seemed to survive the storm surge and the high winds.

Outside of the house I met Mary-Anne, the mother of Mary Catherine’s friend. She is an attractive middle aged woman with the physical build of a long distance runner. Almost as soon as we began to talk with her she stuck me as a very centered person. There was a remarkable calmness about her as she described what they have been through. She seemed to be coping with all of the damage to their property very well… not putting on a brave face, but accepting it for the fact that it what it was.

Mary-Anne described how her and her husband had tried to evacuate but had waited to long and found the highway closed down by the State Police. Forced to return home they had no choice but to weather the storm in their home, even thought they were only 200 yards or so from the gulf shore. When the waters rose to 4 feet they found themselves watching the home next door being pounded toward their own home by heavy surf on. Once it became clear that there home would likely be knocked down by their neighbors house they were left with no choice but to wade down the street in waist deep water and try to get to the home of a friend. She described all this very calmly saying only that her right arm didn't work very well because she had apparently strained a ligament. “Weren't you terrified?”, I asked. She answered that no, she was not terrified because it was daylight and she could see everything that was happening. I said, “You are very lucky.” She had a funny smile on her face and said simply, “Yes, we are very fortunate.”

We said our goodbyes and backed down the street to East Shore Drive, past more homes that were either blown through or were not there at all. Since the Biloxi Bay Bridge had been destroyed by the hurricane, we headed north on Washington Street, down I-10 East, and down the Back Bay Bridge to East Biloxi were we would find the Red Cross.

Up to this point I had not seen many government or military officials. Most of what we find is civilians working hard to help civilians. Food, water and Medicine can be easily gotten at no cost on the Gulf Coast. In all of the towns that I’ve been to there have been tents where one can get food, ice, particle masks, water, Gatorade, and in some cases cleaning materials. We pulled into the Church of the Nativity parking lot and walked through the gymnasium around stacks of water, canned goods, cereals, etc. At the Red Cross tent in the back lot I filled out the required paperwork and waited for urn. While I was waiting I overheard one of the nurses speaking to someone. “This is the worst it’s ever been... right now!” she said. Then she compared this relief effort unfavorably with some previous relief effort she had worked on.

I was taken in back to receive my vaccinations where I listed to a doctor wearing green surgical pants cotton tee-shirt and stethoscope express his frustration over the phone to someone. He sounded frustrated as he described the Red Cross as being highly disorganized, misallocation personnel and under-allocating resources. As he spoke he spoke sounded very frustrated. The Red Cross, he explained, was not putting enough into this.

We pulled out of the parking lot heading toward Tom and Janet’s house, driving through the many low income areas. In the more affluent areas this far inland the houses had considerable wind damage, and in some cases were damaged by falling trees. In these low income neighborhoods houses had fallen down completely, apparently from wind damage alone, this despite the fact that they were quite far from the water and they had many buildings to shelter them.

We drove in silence until we pulled into Kensington Avenue, the street my brother lives on.

It was by far the worst devistation I had seen so far.

September 19, 2005

Flood Repair Work at Tom's Home

The brother Tom’s home is on Kensington Street in Biloxi, a street that runs for four or five blocks along the south shore of Biloxi Bay.

We turn into Kensington Street only to see that the very first house on the left has a collapsed front wall.

On the right a house has had its front and back walls washed out completely. You can see right through it. Two large pine trees have snapped and fallen on the property, one of which has broken the back of the roof.

The very next house has been washed out completely but is its shell is still standing. A large pine tree, perhaps 50 feet tall has been bent down and rests on its roof.

Back on the water side there is a house whose side walls have collapsed such that it looks like a cat with it’s back arched.

Again on the right another beautiful grey house with nothing but its outside structure. You could easily throw a rock right through it.

Cars are on the lawns of the houses to my left, parked at jagged angles. Some have knocked down carports. Others have smashed into the living room walls.

Most of the people on this street weathered Katrina in their homes. All of them ended up in their attic when the flood waters came. Miraculously, no one was killed. The tidal surge came hours before the height of the storm, then receded. The wind came later in the day too finish off what the water had done. Most of the homes on this street have already been labeled in orange spray paint with the symbol that indicates that they have been condemned by a government agency.

I have to keep reminding myself that the most dramatic devastation that I see is from the tidal surge, and not wind damage that one usually associates with hurricane. I can only imagine what it must have been like for Tom and Janet to walked down this street for the first time, a street was strewn with fallen trees and displaced cars, after the storm almost three weeks ago. Everything I can see here speaks of destruction.

Then, as I come around the bend which curves to the right, one of the few two story house in the neighborhood comes into view, a dark red two story Dutch Colonial home. It is the only thing in the neighborhood that resembles a normal structure. When we turn down Arlington to pull up in front of their front door I find that there is a garage in the middle of the street in front of me. It is still full of the kind of clutter you might expect to see in a garage.

That was on Saturday. Today we woke up at 5:30AM at my father’s home. After having breakfast we drive back to the Kensington house. I am here to start work in earnest on the first floor. It is 96 degrees F. but the air is dryer than it usually is here on the Gulf Coast, and there is a light breeze blowing, so I am not as uncomfortable as I might be. For three weeks following Katrina’s landfall the weather has been dry; no rain at all… a blessing for everyone who has to pile damaged and undamaged possessions outside while they work to dry out the walls of their homes. But it is not such a blessing for the plants and the lawns. Everything seems to be dying here.

Yesterday at my sister’s house, I noticed a mimosa tree whose leaves were all but gone. There, on a branch low enough for me to touch, I could see dozens of new buds that have sprouted. Life is relentless. Having had it’s leaves ripped off by Katrina’s 150 mph winds, this tree will not wait for spring. It is sprouting NOW! I suppose its “Grow leaves or die”, and this tree has definitely decided not to give up.

Here at my brother’s home, we are here to finish pulling down sheetrock and plaster. In the previous three weeks my brothers has removed two to three inches of what is widely believed to be a combination of mud and sewage from a near by sewage treatment plant. Everyone in this neighborhood has had to deal with this mess in some way. He has also dug 1 foot of this sludge out of his 10 by 10 foot basement and has begun taking down wall material in the main floor rooms. He had completed about 60 percent of the floor by the time I arrived.

Tom’s home is 75 years old. Most of the walls are plaster lathing over which sheetrock has been put up. After the flood waters rose to 30 inches, they receded, leaving most of the sheetrock and plaster soaked. Today we are here to tear out all walls up to a height of one foot above the flood water level to allow them to dry out. This means tearing off sheetrock, pounding the exposed plaster with a hammer until it falls away, then with the claw end of a hammer or crowbar, pulling off the lathing. This exhausting work is made worse by the heat and the masks that we must wear to protect our lungs from plaster dust and black mold spores. Normally we work at a reasonable pace. When the work gets hard because of restricted access or heavy lifting, the mask restricts airflow and breathing becomes difficult. It also causes me to retain more heat. My head begins to pounds because I am either not getting enough oxygen or because I am inhaling too much of the carbon dioxide that I’ve just exhaled. Typically when I reach a point where I can’t go any further I groan loudly, rip off the mask and stagger outside to the cooler where I pull out a cold bottle of water and sit down on the hot steps gulping water. The breaks come often.

Fortunately there is plenty to drink, thanks to the Red Cross and other relief agencies. Twice a day a Red Cross volunteers drive through the neighborhood handing out RC Cola and a free Moon Pie. (No… Just kidding!) They distribute bottled water, Gatorade, snacks and meals. It’s important to keep hydrated while doing this work.

The neighborhood has an almost cheerful mood to it. Folks stop by, visit, share their stories, or just shout joking remarks to each other. On the surface everyone is happy. But three doors down a woman has lost her house to the storm and also her father. He had been ill during Katrina’s landfall and died shortly the storm left. She herself has liver failure and was just rejected as a transplant recipient.

Yesterday, working side by side Tom and I kept putting down various tools on the floor since there is no furniture nearby. Inevitably the tool would end up being covered up by debris and we would have to stop work to kick around the plaster and wood strips until we could find it. Today I have imposed mandatory rule that every time one of us looses a tool underneath wall debris, that person owes the other a beer of their choice. Today we lost only one tool (which we eventually found) but we could not come to an agreement on who lost it.

This is hard work, but there is something satisfying about it. The hammer swings and plaster crumbles. The hammer claw hacks and the lathing pulls away. Working together things progress quickly. But Tom had already completed half of the floor before I had arrived. And the fact that I will be flying home in seven days leaving him to finish an overwhelming amount of work has not escaped me. I can afford to enjoy this work. For Tom, this is rebuilding his life with his bare hands, and the work will be far from complete when I am gone. But for now we joke and laugh, and play off of each others remarks and ideas. So the work is enjoyable… for now.

Treasured possessions are hauled away.

September 20, 2005

Treasured possessions are hauled away

We are going to need a Shop-Vac for todays work. So after breakfast this morning we head down Lemoyne Street Lowes, a local Home Depot type store. It’s a short drive, maybe ten minutes. Half way there as we are speeding down the boulevard when we come to an area that is partially flooded with what we assume to be water. It quickly becomes obvious to us that it is not water. A sewage line has broken and we are driving through raw sewage.

“Man!

“Aw, Jeez!”

“God!”

“Oh God!”

“Jeez!…”

“Would you all make up your minds who you’re talking to. Is it Jesus, or God or what?” By this time we’re all laughing. And though the smell is disgusting, it quickly diminishes. That is until we stop the car

We pick up a Shop-Vac at Lowes and head to Kensington Street, stopping first at the Military distribution center to pick up some ice for the cooler.

Looking at the damage to all the houses on Kensington Street it is difficult to imagine that anyone actually weathered the storm in them. But the fact is that many of Toms neighbors not only survived the storm in their houses, they survived their houses as well. On his first trip back to his neighborhood after Katrina, several of his neighbors came out of their houses to talk with him. He greeted them by saying “Now I expect to see all of you in church on Sunday.” There was much laughter, but everyone knew the truth of it. Their survival had been both foolish and miraculous. And they were indeed very fortunate.

One person who weathered Katrina alone was Tom’s next door neighbor, a veteran who is mentally disabled, and often abusive. He lives a very sad existence in a small house in a run down lot. When the storm was over, a team of EMT’s came down the street to ask if there was anyone who went through the storm who has not been accounted for and should be checked on. Tom and Janet explained the situation with the man next door and warned them that they should be careful since he is abusive and might become aggressive. The team went into his home for several minutes. When they came out with him in custody he did not look good. I was told that they have taken him to the VA Hospital.

We work all day and manage to finish all of the walls. After lunch Janet is having second thoughts about some of the furniture they have thrown out. I finally help her retrieve a china cabinet from the refuse pile that sits in the street at the corner of their lot. Not long after that the trucks and cranes are right in front of the house and Tom and I, exhausted from the days work, watch as the crane operator skillfully works the giant arm and jaws of the crane that picks up refuse and puts it into the back of a large tractor-trailer. The operator is very skilled and for a moment we become mesmerized by this big iron monster who gracefully bends down, noses through the pile of refuse as if it is sniffing it, then opens its jaws to bite a large portion of it off, carry it up into the air, and drop it over the side of the trailer. The machine seems more animal like than machine like. These are the possession of a lifetime that this animal chews and spits out into a truck. Its movements seems both graceful, and at the same time unforgiving. This seems especially true when the work is completed quickly and the truck disappears down the street, striking hard the boughs of a couple of already badly damaged oak trees that overhanging the street.

September 21,2005

Searching for a Missing Friend

It is Wednesday. Two days ago I received an email from one of my oldest friends, Pringle. She has been trying to get in touch with Laura, an old friend of mine from high school in New Orleans. Pringle has not been able to find her, but according to her last know residence was in Slidell Louisiana. The eye of Katrina fell directly on Slidell. Today I am driving to Slidell to see if I can find Laura or to find out what has happened to her home; possibly to leave a note asking her to contact Pringle or me to let us know how she is doing.

I am late getting on the road. The first thing I want to do is to pick up some film for my camera. This is not so easy. Due to the countless number of insurance claims that are being filed by the victims of the storm, and the need to document damage, film is a rare commodity down here. I begin by stopping at a few logical places… quick marts, convenience stores and such. I try pharmacies and supermarkets. Then it occurs to me that my best chance to find film will be at Wal-Mart.

From the time Katrina left the this area, Wal-Mart has aggressively sought to respond to the crisis down here, first by shipping truck loads of water and essential supplies, second by being one of the first retail stores to open on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, and finally by being one of the best stocked stores in an area where shortages are the norm. I have no illusions about Wal-Mart’s ultimate motives. Goodwill is usually good P.R.
Walmarts’ response to the disaster here were undoubtedly set into motion with an eye toward future business. Still, under our economic system businesses make money by supplying the needs of the consumer. And down here there is a lot of need.

The parking lot is very crowded. Eventually I find a place to park and walk into the store. Sure enough, I find my film, pick up a roll of bubble gum tape, check out at the cashiers’ line and hop in the car again.

Slidell is about an hour from Biloxi, just on the eastern shore of Lake Pontchartrain. It is a journey through increasing devastation into the most heavily impacted areas left in Katrina’s wake. The weather is very hot, approaching 100 degrees F. The sky is clear, but it is hazy. It has been hot and dry for so long that there is dust everywhere, dust that is picked up by the wind, or by the tires of trucks and automobiles and thrown into the air. It seems to hang in air endlessly. I can see where cars are traveling parallel to the Interstate, not by watching the cars themselves, but by following the dust cloud that cloaks the vehicle that moves at high
speed down the road.

Once I get to the junction of I-59 and I-10 I exit left following the Interstate toward the Lake Pontchatrain I-10 Bridge, a bridge that now only partially exists. Huge sections of it were taken out by the storm. The address I have puts Laura’s home in the 700 block of I-10 service road east, so I get off of I-10 one exit before the bridge. On the side of the highway there is clothing and plastic caught in the chain link fence that borders the Interstate. There is a kitchen chair… a mattress… a reclining chair. On of the casualties of the storm has been the street signs which I cannot find anywhere.

As I swing onto what I believe is the service road I pass an out of business Wendy’s and a Mardi Gras Outlet store and before I slow down and begin to look for an address. I finally pass 284, and keep my eyes open for a residential building. Everything on this street seems to be a car dealerships. Pulling into a Honda dealership, which appears to be the last commercial building on the service road, I step out to ask a salesman for its address. It is 376 East I-10 Service Road. I am going in the right direction.

I hop back into the car and continue to drive past what I take to be a pasture of some kind until I come to a barrier that says “Road Closed”.
But one half of the barrier has been pulled out of the way, so I continue cautiously down the road. As the road bends slowly to the left, and the first thing that comes into view is a large commercial building right… then directly in front of me there is a double barrier with yet another sign...

ROAD CLOSED
DO NOT PASS

Beyond the barrier the paved two lane road continues on 10 feet or so
before before huge pieces, some as large as 15 or 20 feet wide have dropped
15 feet or more to a newly formed ravine through which water is flowing. I
stop the car to contemplate what lies before me. Beyond the disintegrated
road… through the haze of this hot afternoon …perhaps 2 or 3 miles away,
there is a large building of condominium complex. From this distance the
complex looks profoundly lonely and lifeless. I cannot tell if it has been
abandoned.

I consider that building that lies so far in the distance. I consider the
road that threatens to collapse under me and the barrier that warns me to
go no further. Then I consider what I have driven all this distance to do.
In my mind I try to imagine Laura living in such a place and the more I
think about it, the more reservations I have. I wonder if there might be
looters going through those homes. And if I do manage to get past the
collapsing road, will find myself in a place where there are dangerous
people and no security.

Eventually a truck comes down the road toward me, keeping to the right
shoulder. Once he clears the barrier I flag him down to ask him if it’s
safe to pass. According to him the right side of the road is safe. He
knows nothing about the condominium complex but he encourages me to take a
look, adding that the EPA is out there. So I pass the barrier and drive
out to see for myself.

In a few minutes I am turning left at a four way stop and parking in the
parking lot of the complex. At the door I speak to one of the custodians
who tells me that this is not the I-10 East service road. When she suggests
that I should try heading back the way I came, I begin to that I might be
on a wild goose chase. So I drive back down the collapsed road and stop at
the commercial building just after the road barrier on the far side. It is
some kind of Louisiana “everything” store that sells, among other things,
antique filling station gas pumps. The building it two stories high and
made entirely of wood complete with a tower on one end. I park the car and
walk up to the only person I can find, a woman who is going through her car
looking for something. She continues to search, unaware of my presence as
I stand there awkwardly waiting for her to finish. When I ask her about
the name of the road this place is on she seems a little confused about the
name and where the address I’m looking for might be. Finally she yells up
to her husband that I’m looking for the address of this place.

I walk up to the loading dock and have a short conversation with this
gentleman. He tells me that the address is 1100 but that the street name
has changed twice since he has been there. He also adds that there used to
be houses out past the collapsing road and the four way stop, but ‘there
ain’t no one out there now 'cause all those houses are all gone. They got
blown away in the storm.” I know there is nothing back the way I came
toward the Honda dealer. Since the address I have lies between the Honda
dealer at 376 and 1100 I have to conclude that the address must be
incorrect. It may be that when they changed the name of this road they may
have changed the address scheme. And then again, Laura’s house might be
one of the homes that is no longer there. In any case I am beginning to
feel like Laura is very far away.

I decide to have lunch at the Waffle House where I might be able to talk to
a couple of the locals to find out what’s what. I place my order, then
turn to the guy sitting to my left and ask him if he is familiar with this
area. As it turns out he is an insurance adjuster. “I spend most of my
day looking for places that are not there”. He seems pleasant but
inscrutable. Another gentleman sits next to me to my left and I pose the
same question to him. He is from Portland Oregon and has come down to work
as part of a disaster relief team. Just as I’m beginning to wonder if the
only people that can afford to eat out are from out of state, a gritty
looking fellow sits next to me guy to my right. The gritty fellow begins
talking and has the insurance adjuster doubled over with laughter. I
manage to catch his eye and ask him about the I-10 service road and where I
might find the address I’m looking for. He is doesn’t tell me anything I
do not already know.

Then suddenly think to asked Highway 90 is open running toward New Orleans.
He tells me the road IS open and you can get over the Rigolets Pass Bridge,
past Fort Pike and Chef Menteur before the road is closed. After that the
road is washed out.

I pay my check and hop in my car, determined to drive through the Rigolets.

September 21, 2005

Pearlington, MS.

Back in the days before the Interstate Highway System, the main route of travel along the Gulf Coast was an old “one lane comin’, one lane goin’” highway, Highway 90. It was highway 90 that folks from New Orleans would take to when they went on vacation in Florida. In those days it was a mysterious road that ran through back-water communities, past country restaurants, fishing camps and snake farms where, for a nominal fee, one could see just about every sort of reptile that lives in the swamps of Mississippi. Back before I was a teenager these places seemed like dark, primitive places where ancient animistic rituals were performed for anyone who was brave enough to witness them. But there are also small picturesque bayous where waterside fishing shacks and house boats make up a scene so idyllic, it might be considered to sentimental to be real if it were used as the subject for a landscape painting.

Along this highway, just before one crosses the boarder from Louisiana into Mississippi, the road runs through the thin, fragile marsh that separates Lake Pontchartrain from Lake Bourne and the Gulf of Mexico. This place is known as the Rigolets. As the tides rise and fall, the waters of the gulf pass in and out of Lake Pontchartrain through two small waterways the Chef Menteur pass and the Rigolets Pass. In between these two waterways is the delicate green lace which makes up the Rigolets. It is through this fragile eco-system that the toxic water that has been pumped out of what was once the city of New Orleans will flow.

It is possible to drive directly from Slidell to the highway 90. Since this way is unknown to me, I pull out of the Waffle House and merge onto I-10 headed east toward the Mississippi boarder. If I taking the Waveland/Bay St. Louis and head east for 10 miles or so I will eventually run into Highway 90.

Waveland is the community that was most devastated by Katrina. After New Orleans, it is town that I hear mentioned most often on the news.

I turn off at the Waveland exit and merge onto divided 4 lane highway that will join highway 90 before it heads towards the Mississippi Gulf Coast. After only a few miles I come to an improvised sign that reads…

WAVELAND / BAY ST. LOUIS
100% ID CHECK

At this point I am wondering how far I will get. It has been three and a half weeks since Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. Three miles further down the road I come upon another sign with a similar warning. There is almost no traffic on this road except one or two Red Cross vehicles. Finally I come to the junction and I turn right onto Highway 90 heading east toward New Orleans. The first stretch of this road is through pine forests that are occasionally interrupted by a small building or a public utility area.

Several minutes later I am crossing a small bridge over one of the bayous that I mentioned earlier. Four weeks ago, I was driving down this very road with my son and daughter, having decided to take the nostalgic route into New Orleans. Back then I had wanted to stop to take a photograph of the scene. Today, as I look to the left where there had been house boats and fishing shacks, there was almost nothing except some debris that had collected on the banks. To my right, where before there had been nothing at all, I can see the overturned carcasses of two smashed houseboats along with a large quantity of debris.

Not too much further down the road I finally reach the Rigolets bridge where I find a police car with flashing lights and a sign saying the bridge is closed. It looks like the information that I received from the “gentleman” at the Waffle House is outdated. I have come a long way from nothing.

But instead of turning back, I turn right toward Slidell where the road runs through the town of Pearlington. Pearlington is a town with streets that are lined with giant live oak and pine trees, where any number of famous southern novels might have been set. It is a town without a mayor. Following the hurricane it was almost two weeks before FEMA arrived in town to offer any assistance. When hurricane Rita would hit the Louisiana Texas boarder five weeks later many of the residents who had returned to their flooded homes to retrieve what valuables they could find would find themselves trapped by the storm surge and would have to be rescued again.

If there is less debris visible in Pearlington it is because the houses are fewer and farther apart than in communities like Ocean Springs and Biloxi. There are houses that have collapsed. There are houses that have been distorted, bent or stretched. I pass a stretch of road where there are so many Live Oaks lying on their sides uprooted that it seems ridiculous. I can tell by the trees that have been chain-sawed on the roadside that only a short time ago this road was impassable. Pine tree trunks a couple of feet wide point directly across the road before the rest of the tree was sliced off and removed.

I come to the yard of a church that has collapsed in on itself. In front of it there a statue of the Blessed Mother, dressed in blue. She is standing, arms outstretched, with her eyes cast down at the ground. Fifty feet away or so there is another statue. It is a white statue of Jesus. He is standing before the sculpted figures of children and small animals. It looks as if He is trying to explain something to them. Debris trucks rumble by. There are quite a large number of emergency vehicles in this town considering its size; so many in fact that I half expect to be stopped and questioned. So I continue on.

Eventually I find myself at the same four lane highway. But this time I am just a short distance from where I got off I-10 earlier. And so I get back on the interstate and head home past scenes of destruction that are by now familiar to me.