Editorial: The Katrina chapter
The saga of a storm, four years later
Sometimes you need a powerful boot in the behind to nudge you into the next chapter of life.
Four years ago this past Friday, I packed a few things in a bag and emptied most of my freezer contents (why, oh why, didn’t I empty it all?) into an ice chest for an expected three-day vacation at a friend’s dad’s house.
Mr. Mike lives on scenic Lake Rosemound near St. Francisville in the rolling hills of “English” Louisiana. The year before I had visited him during the evacuation for Hurricane Ivan and really enjoyed my country get-away from the busy life I led in New Orleans. Katrina was expected to be an opportunity for a similar brief retreat.
The next day, Mr. Mike, his son Chris and I crammed around a battery-powered TV and watched in horror as helicopter shots showed people launching boats from the Interstate 10 overpass just several blocks from my house.
The following day I cooled off in Mr. Mike’s pool by removing branches and leaves that had blown in during the previous day’s storm. The power came back on an hour after I finished. At least I saved his filter from overwork.
Two days later I loaded up the Land Rover, met friends for lunch at Mammy’s outside of Natchez, then continued upriver to I-20 at Vicksburg and headed east for Crestview —and life’s next chapter (though I didn’t know it at the time). Interstate 10 was still closed, as were many rural highways across Mississippi. The normally five-hour drive turned into a grueling all-day-and-into-the-night road trip that included side excursions to search for scarce gas en route.
It would be another couple of weeks before, in the midst of the gusting winds of Hurricane Rita, I returned to New Orleans. As we drove down my street, I saw pile after pile of debris in front of each home. As I got to my block, I saw a huge pile of sodden carpet and padding in front of the first house and ruined furnishings in front of the house across the street from mine.
“This does not bode well,” I thought.
The car was hardly stopped before we dashed inside. By the then the air conditioner — and the fridge — were mercifully humming. We ran from door to door, feeling the carpet under each. Dry!
We ran upstairs. No signs of water leakage, especially near the piles and piles of books I had removed from lower shelves and trucked upstairs to the inside hallway. So far so good.
Shortly thereafter came the bad news.
The Buffalo, N.Y.-based parent company of my employer decided to fire almost every person in the company. My house was intact, but my job had blown away.
The college buddy with whom I was staying in Crestview saw my dilemma. “Why pay rent on that big house with no job,” he said. “Come stay in Crestview.”
Move? To Crestview? After 24 years of living in New Orleans?
During my first week here, I found myself standing befuddled in Publix wondering where to look for items on my grocery list. Not one but two employees approached and offered to help me. I was dumbfounded. This must be that thing called “customer service,” something alien to New Orleans.
Realizing I just had shorts and T-shirts and needed something more substantial, I popped into Goodwill. When the cashier saw my Louisiana driver’s license, she asked if I was a Katrina victim. I said “yes.” When she learned I didn’t have Red Cross clothes coupons (who knew you needed them?), the total suddenly dropped to about half. People care about their neighbors here, it dawned on me!
Things happen for a reason. The Bible teaches that God has a plan for us. Pastor Mark reminds us almost every Sunday to turn problems over to God. It’s hard to let go of angst, but it works, so I did.
Freelance writing and design work came in sufficiently regularly to pay bills and even have enough left over for the Sunday collection plate and the occasional meal out at one of Crestview’s many great restaurants. Without a steady job I had the freedom to scoot home from time to time and visit my elderly father in New Jersey.
My new roommate introduced me to his friendly little church, where I felt instantly at home. Some Sundays — OK, who am I fooling? Most Sundays — I’d get too busy in New Orleans for church. I joined the Laurel Hill Presbyterian Church about eight months after moving to Florida.
After Dad lost his battle with tobacco addiction in February of 2007, God dropped a full-time job in my lap as a writer here at the News Bulletin. Since I was a kid I had always wanted to write for a small-town newspaper. Amazing! The worst salary I ever made in my professional career for a job that’s the most fun I ever had!
People ask me if I miss New Orleans. The short answer is no. Sure, I miss my friends, a couple favorite restaurants, and the city’s vibrant theatre scene, but that’s about it.
But during my last couple years there, I was increasingly discontented. I had an irrational Boss From Hell. I was tired of the rampant ignorance and culture of dependence that masqueraded as laissez les bons temps rouler for the benefit of tourists who didn’t have to deal with it because they rarely venture out of the French Quarter.
Katrina ended up being a savior of sorts. She blew me to a community that cares, where the pace is slower and relaxed, where the living is healthier, and where on a nice spring evening, we can open all the doors and windows and listen to the bugs chirp at night.
She kicked me into the next chapter of my life, and one I have been savoring every minute.
I go back to New Orleans every couple of months. I eat my fill at the Sun Ray Grill, stock up on müsli and soup mix at Whole Foods, and poke through the used bookshops in the French Quarter (if we bother to venture into that neighborhood at all) and junk shop on Magazine Street. I’ll catch a show or two at Le Chat Noir, Le Petit Théatre or Rivertown Repertory Theatre. But after a couple days, I’m eager to point the car east and head back to Florida.
To Crestview. To home.
