Thursday, September 15, 2005
Realization of Katrina
My good friend/tango dancer agreed to accompany me in my attempt to get into Orleans parish to check on my house and possibly pick up a few things yesterday. Awake at 3:30 AM, off by 4 AM I pick up Steve and off we go to N.O.--we go to Hamond, take a left on I-55 and go to the split with 310. Of course we have no pass, only a good heart and a sad face, and lots of chutzpah. Being turned down, we take the 310 split to Boutte and sit one hour in line crawling the speed of contra-flow, only to be turned down again-- "strict lockdown for Orleans-no entry without a pass."
Now the number for passes must have been bogus because I must have tried every 15 minutes for 6 hours to no avail and even on line was out. It is now 1 PM and I am not going back. I start my prayers to the Blessed Mother and then it comes to me to call my hot shot lawyer cousin in Houma--after an hour of back and forth frenzy I find out that even he and 2 judges he knows well who live in Orleans can not even get in the city.
I am starting to get frazzled but not down yet. My prayers increase. Then out of the blue Steve remembers his uncle, a good but shady character, and after much to do, he faxes us a blank pass. At this point, the nice folks at R&K Printing, a whole in the wall in the stix, are cheering us on and comp the fax. Empowered, we cross back over the bridge and enter through Jefferson Hwy. It is now 3 PM and the curfew is 6 PM. We drive slowly toward the parish line, my heart is pounding, my prayers are in triplicat and I tell Steve not to stop but to roll by slowly. The armed guard is busy talking and waves us through. We look at each other stunned and I thank the Blessed Mother.
I must give credit to (Jefferson Parish Sheriff) Harry Lee because Jefferson is damaged but so much better than Orleans. I realize it is smaller and did not sustain the same damage, but he still took the ball and ran with it.
As I approach Broadway and Claiborne we were stoppped by 2 army guards to check ID.
Up until now things looked terrible--buildings badly damaged, signs down, roofs compromised, businesses off their foundation, absolutely nothing really in place in what appeared to be a ghost town. Except for the National Guard at key points, there was NOBODY, no living thing, nothing, no lights down Jefferson Hwy.,--just Steve and me.
We took the route of Broadway to--Freret, Freret to Nashville, Nashville to 1619 Nashville.
The movie "On the Beach" came to mind. There was nothing. The streets were empty, filled with sludge, debris, downed limbs, strewn objects--totally LIFELESS. I looked down the side streets --nothing.
I looked down Palmer, State, Newcomb Blvd, Oak, etc.--nothing. It was disturbing.
Everything was bone dry to a fault. No evidence of water except for water line marks on the houses. It needed a good rain to wash this mess away. I arrived home to find everything intact, except for 3 rotting mangoes, and a 3 week old pastry that had turned black. My son Chris had fortunately emptied my fridge and freezer, but there was a smell that I can not describe that permeated the air. It was like that smell of cancer that lingers in the air. It could have been the beginnings of mildew--who knows.
Like Becky Allen said in "The Ball And All"', if the mold don't get you, the Mill-do!!!!!!! I felt as though I was on a secret mission--stealing precious time before the guards would catch me. My list, which I had carefully prepared the night before, went out the window. I felt hurried, frantic, and incredibly out of time, with the curfew looming, almost 4:30 and 5 more stops before 6 PM. Only getting half my list, we left quickly. Before I locked the door, I checked the freezer in the shed--almost vomited and left--another day Scarlet--.
We then went to Tulane's garage to check on my daughter-in-law's car left on the 5th floor--all was fine except for debris and a boat blocking the entrance---like everything else, it was bone dry. Then we went to 7600 Nelson off Claiborne--that house took in 6 inches--only water marks remained. Then we made our way to 222 West Oakridge--the sludge and smell was worse with a 3 feet watermark.
Steve wanted to check on his and his dad's property in Kenner--we went in those homes and it was worse. The mold was 3 feet up the walls, the floors buckled, and the smell was gagging. I realized his situation was so much worse and really unlivable--it made me incredibly sad. People work all their lives for their things and while it is only material things, it is all they have. It is a history of where they have been and what they like and who they are underneath this concealed exterior. Yes people can rebuild, but a part of them dies in the process. Maybe it is supposed to be this way--maybe it is supposed to make us focus on the important, possitive aspects of our lives, learning to let go. Learning to let go of all the things that tie us down.
I think about all of my friends who have lost their homes. Ultimately, maybe they are the really lucky ones losing the photographs sucks in the end. They have a chance to come out of the chaos and put their lives in order. Actually we all have that chance.
Eating at the Waffle House twice in one day is more than a soul should endure, but when you are hungry, even bad eggs taste good. The ride back to Destin seemed longer than usual, more pensive, less anxious, more reassuring that we are all going to make it just fine. I, being an artist, have to touch and see for myself. In that sense the trip was satisfying. It was hard seeing my beautiful city in shambles, withered and weak.
A necessary purging.
This morning I unloaded my car and that bad smell was still there. A trip to the Winn Dixie, and I sprayed everything with Febreeze and aired out the car.
The odor left and all is well. And so it will be with our city. We will come back stronger--better--and people will remember what it means to miss New Orleans.
With much love,
MYRA
mmenville@cox.net
Now the number for passes must have been bogus because I must have tried every 15 minutes for 6 hours to no avail and even on line was out. It is now 1 PM and I am not going back. I start my prayers to the Blessed Mother and then it comes to me to call my hot shot lawyer cousin in Houma--after an hour of back and forth frenzy I find out that even he and 2 judges he knows well who live in Orleans can not even get in the city.
I am starting to get frazzled but not down yet. My prayers increase. Then out of the blue Steve remembers his uncle, a good but shady character, and after much to do, he faxes us a blank pass. At this point, the nice folks at R&K Printing, a whole in the wall in the stix, are cheering us on and comp the fax. Empowered, we cross back over the bridge and enter through Jefferson Hwy. It is now 3 PM and the curfew is 6 PM. We drive slowly toward the parish line, my heart is pounding, my prayers are in triplicat and I tell Steve not to stop but to roll by slowly. The armed guard is busy talking and waves us through. We look at each other stunned and I thank the Blessed Mother.
I must give credit to (Jefferson Parish Sheriff) Harry Lee because Jefferson is damaged but so much better than Orleans. I realize it is smaller and did not sustain the same damage, but he still took the ball and ran with it.
As I approach Broadway and Claiborne we were stoppped by 2 army guards to check ID.
Up until now things looked terrible--buildings badly damaged, signs down, roofs compromised, businesses off their foundation, absolutely nothing really in place in what appeared to be a ghost town. Except for the National Guard at key points, there was NOBODY, no living thing, nothing, no lights down Jefferson Hwy.,--just Steve and me.
We took the route of Broadway to--Freret, Freret to Nashville, Nashville to 1619 Nashville.
The movie "On the Beach" came to mind. There was nothing. The streets were empty, filled with sludge, debris, downed limbs, strewn objects--totally LIFELESS. I looked down the side streets --nothing.
I looked down Palmer, State, Newcomb Blvd, Oak, etc.--nothing. It was disturbing.
Everything was bone dry to a fault. No evidence of water except for water line marks on the houses. It needed a good rain to wash this mess away. I arrived home to find everything intact, except for 3 rotting mangoes, and a 3 week old pastry that had turned black. My son Chris had fortunately emptied my fridge and freezer, but there was a smell that I can not describe that permeated the air. It was like that smell of cancer that lingers in the air. It could have been the beginnings of mildew--who knows.
Like Becky Allen said in "The Ball And All"', if the mold don't get you, the Mill-do!!!!!!! I felt as though I was on a secret mission--stealing precious time before the guards would catch me. My list, which I had carefully prepared the night before, went out the window. I felt hurried, frantic, and incredibly out of time, with the curfew looming, almost 4:30 and 5 more stops before 6 PM. Only getting half my list, we left quickly. Before I locked the door, I checked the freezer in the shed--almost vomited and left--another day Scarlet--.
We then went to Tulane's garage to check on my daughter-in-law's car left on the 5th floor--all was fine except for debris and a boat blocking the entrance---like everything else, it was bone dry. Then we went to 7600 Nelson off Claiborne--that house took in 6 inches--only water marks remained. Then we made our way to 222 West Oakridge--the sludge and smell was worse with a 3 feet watermark.
Steve wanted to check on his and his dad's property in Kenner--we went in those homes and it was worse. The mold was 3 feet up the walls, the floors buckled, and the smell was gagging. I realized his situation was so much worse and really unlivable--it made me incredibly sad. People work all their lives for their things and while it is only material things, it is all they have. It is a history of where they have been and what they like and who they are underneath this concealed exterior. Yes people can rebuild, but a part of them dies in the process. Maybe it is supposed to be this way--maybe it is supposed to make us focus on the important, possitive aspects of our lives, learning to let go. Learning to let go of all the things that tie us down.
I think about all of my friends who have lost their homes. Ultimately, maybe they are the really lucky ones losing the photographs sucks in the end. They have a chance to come out of the chaos and put their lives in order. Actually we all have that chance.
Eating at the Waffle House twice in one day is more than a soul should endure, but when you are hungry, even bad eggs taste good. The ride back to Destin seemed longer than usual, more pensive, less anxious, more reassuring that we are all going to make it just fine. I, being an artist, have to touch and see for myself. In that sense the trip was satisfying. It was hard seeing my beautiful city in shambles, withered and weak.
A necessary purging.
This morning I unloaded my car and that bad smell was still there. A trip to the Winn Dixie, and I sprayed everything with Febreeze and aired out the car.
The odor left and all is well. And so it will be with our city. We will come back stronger--better--and people will remember what it means to miss New Orleans.
With much love,
MYRA
mmenville@cox.net
