COLUMN: When Katrina blew me away

Today marks an auspicious anniversary in the annals of Crestview. Five years ago this evening, I arrived in town. I had been on the road for about 10 hours for a trip that should’ve taken about half that time. I had dodged fallen trees, sat in gas lines, and, forced to detour from the interstate somewhere in rural Mississippi, I chipped a tooth when gritting my teeth while jouncing over tree branches that were scattered across the road.

I was on the lam from the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I had evacuated my home less than two blocks from the 17th Street Canal that divided my town, Metairie, La., from New Orleans. The wall on the New Orleans side of the canal was the one that infamously failed the day after Katrina struck, toppling over and admitting several days of flooding to gush into the stricken city.

My departure from New Orleans is still vividly stamped in my mind. My fellow evacuees and I felt the storm would be another big woosh of air and I’d be back home and back to work in three or four days, just as I had for Ivan. Just in case, I moved the books from the lower shelves to the central upstairs hallway and brought in the houseplants and outdoor furniture.

This time I didn’t bother putting the dining table, couch and comfy chair up on buckets, pots and pans. When I did it for Ivan I wound up needing hernia surgery a few months later!

I packed for five days, and cleared most, but not all the stuff out of the freezer. (Why I left that second can of frozen orange juice concentrate in there I’ll never know.) “Just in case,” I put my plane tickets for an upcoming vacation to Vermont in my backpack as well.

What made me more apprehensive during this evacuation was the urgency in the voices of New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin and Gov. Kathleen Blanco as they made the rounds of the TV and radio stations, urging, cajoling, encouraging and finally ordering everyone to evacuate the city. (Quite a contrast, that fact, to the common tale that they did nothing.)

When Gov. Blanco ordered the state wildlife authorities to start marshalling boats and rescue supplies at staging points outside of New Orleans, I knew something serious was afoot.

On TV we saw the residents in their cars, always ready for a good time, lining up outside the Superdome, laughing for the TV cameras, saying, “We wouldn’t miss this party. We’ve been cooking all morning for it,” as they hauled oversized ice chests into the stadium. Later those same cars, that could’ve carried their occupants safely out of town, would be submerged in the Dome’s parking garage, and the partiers were helping Katrina dismantle the stadium.

As I drove out of town, experiencing the phenomenon of “contra-flow” traffic headed west on I-10’s eastbound lanes, I heard on the radio the pleas from inner-city churches and community groups announcing they had buses and vans evacuating the city, and had plenty of room for more passengers. “If you can’t get over here to our church, call us and tell us where you live and we’ll come get you,” they begged.

Later we’d be told those who refused to heed the evacuation orders given two days before the hurricane struck, the folks trashing the Superdome, and those who didn’t take advantage of church buses heading to safety, were the “poorest of poor,” that they were “helpless,” and that they were “abandoned.” Too bad the folks spreading those stories weren’t actually in New Orleans at the time to see what really took place.

I began my odyssey in the quaint town of St. Francisville in the region known as English Louisiana, upriver from Baton Rouge. At the country home of Mr. Mike, my friend Chris’ dad, we sat glued to the TV as images started showing my world turning upside down. After the power went out, we watched a small, battery-operated TV showing non-stop coverage of water inundating the city, and people launching boats from the highway exit ramp I normally took to go home.

Two days later, once power and Internet service was restored to Mr. Mike’s house, I plotted a course to Crestview from St. Francisville. Mapquest said it would take almost six hours. Mapquest, I knew, always errs on the slow side. I planned to be at my college buddy’s house for supper. In fact, he was long since in bed when I finally wheeled into his driveway late that night.

The next day I found out just how special the place I’d landed was. Standing in Publix (I always relate this story), I looked around befuddled as I tried to get oriented to a new grocery store. Not one, but TWO, helpful employees approached and asked if I needed help finding something. This was that phenomenon called “customer service” that we in New Orleans, where the concept is totally alien, had heard strange stories about!

It’s funny how things work out. For several years I had been becoming increasingly discontented with New Orleans. Its rampant provincialism, blissful ignorance, poor leadership, culture of dependence and famed “laissez les bons temps rouler” attitude, so beloved by tourists who don’t need to immerse themselves in it, all contributed greatly to the post-Katrina catastrophe.

More importantly, when Delaware North Companies, my employer’s Buffalo, N.Y.-based parent company, used the storm as an excuse to fire its 150+ New Orleans-based employees (I’m still waiting for official notification that I lost my job), it was the clear sign I had been looking for. It was time to begin a new chapter in life.

It was several weeks before I could return to New Orleans. My home had been spared (the sludge line showed the waters had come less than a quarter-inch from my kitchen door), but with my job gone with the wind, we packed up the house. Unneeded furnishings were piled by the street, where they rapidly were picked up by people whose homes had been flooded.

Already Crestview’s warmth, kindness and care for its neighbors had embraced my heart. I was eager to aim the car east and bid farewell to that colorful chapter of my life that was New Orleans. At the time I couldn’t foresee that Northwest Florida was going to become my permanent home, though deep inside I’m sure I knew it was destined to be.

Two weeks ago I was back in Publix, and once again, while standing in the main aisle mentally composing my grocery list, someone approached and asked if I needed assistance.  Yes, I certainly landed in the right place when Katrina plopped me down in Crestview.