Jesse enrolled at Balboa High School for the remainder of the semester and then decided in August he wanted to go back to Marine Military Academy (go figure!), so I am on my own again (translation: free to travel). He is a junior this year (how the time flys by....).
For all you burners getting ready for this year's burning man, this photo is from last year.We did our usual chaotic, crazy and wonderful Fourth of July at Donner Lake with friends and I have spent a couple of months trying to pull together a book of Katrina images (one year anniversary next week) and photographing a couple of weddings along the way.
Book excerpt: Note: This book is mostly photographic, but uploading the photos is taking a bleeping awfully long time. So keep in mind that for each descriptive paragraph there are at least 60 photos to go with, which will replace the descreptive text.
ALL YOU REDCROSS PEOPLE I WORKED WITH: SEND ME YOUR STORIES! I will include them in the text as appropriate.
Cities destroyed – Waveland, Pearlington, Bay St. Louis, Ocean Springs, Pass Christian, Diamondhead, Pascagoula, Gulfport/Biloxi – cities I had never heard of before, and had certainly never visited, had been flattened by Katrina. After watching CNN wall to wall coverage for several days, I got up off the couch and went to the Red Cross office in Oakland to volunteer. Four weeks after the storm, on October 3, 2005, I was on a plane to Gulfport.
As I collected my baggage, I met some other volunteers who had just arrived and who would become lifelong friends: Wendy Frost and Maureen Crispell. Little did we know then that we would later be on the Oprah Show together.
We boarded a shuttle to the Red Cross staging area, which was at the Navy Seebee Base in
Gulfport, where we would eat and sleep during our deployment.It was hot and muggy in Gulfport and the scene was surreal. Hundreds of volunteers, cots huddled together, reading, talking, sleeping, in what appeared to be an airplane hangar. One hangar housed the Red Cross workers, the next one over, military personnel, and the next, firefighters and local police volunteers. We stood in line for the mobile shower facility, and ate from a mobile kitchen.
Wendy, Maureen and I took a shuttle bus to the PX. The driver told us to watch out for the “rowdy” recruits. “We middle aged white women don't get in too much trouble,” I said. Wendy said, “don't count on that.”
We gathered our sundries at the PX and stood in line to check out behind two young guys in camouflage uniforms. “I want a ride in a humvee,” Wendy whispered to me. “Good luck,” I replied.
“Are you guys together?” I asked, wondering if they would be rung up separately or not. Both guys turned and looked at me as if they didn't understand. “Don't ask, don't tell,” Wendy said wryly. One of the guys flushed bright red and the other laughed. “Hey, I'm from San Francisco, I really don't care,” I laughed.
“I bet they would've given us a humvee ride,” Wendy said as we went back to the bus. “And then what???” I asked. Maureen shook her head. All three of us had children their age or older. “I think I'm having a midlife crisis,” I said. “There's nothing worse than having a crisis in a disaster area,” Wendy replied, “it's so common.”
“Are we stuck in an episode of Mash,” I wondered out loud. Wendy says, “yeah, and you get to be Hotlips Houlihan.” “Well, I guess that makes you Radar, doesn't it?” I shot back.. “We'll see...” Wendy laughed. And so we would. Don't ask don't tell would become our watchwords whenever Wendy procured some item for one of her "peeps". I would say "how (or where) did you get that for the Rev?" She would say "Don't ask, don't tell."
I couldn't sleep that first night, so many sights and sounds, so much unknown. Just showing up had been a leap of faith for me. While I'm fairly well-traveled, I had never traveled alone, let alone to a disaster area. A couple of weeks earlier, I had put my youngest son on a plane for school, and I realized I hadn't been on my own in almost thirty years. My fifty something body was eyeing those cots with trepidation. And here I was in Mississippi, my only (negative) opinion of which comes from the Civil Rights era.
The next day everyone was up around 6:00 a.m. Buses transported us to Red Cross
headquarters in Biloxi, where we would be “in-processed” and given our assignments. My assignment was supposed to be in client services. But when I entered the building, the first table I came to was labeled “Public Affairs.” “Client Services” was across the room.I took a chance. “Do you guys need a photographer?” Chris D'Ionno, the young man working at the desk, said he didn't know, but could I come back in a half an hour when his supervisor returned. I said okay and then spent that half hour stalling, hoping that “client services” wasn't looking for me.
Mary Lee Conwell is the epitome of Southern women at their best, a combination of charm, wit, intelligence and savoir faire with good looks to boot. “Do we need a photographer?” she drawled, “why honey, bless your heart, let me get your assignment transferred.” When she came back from the client services desk, she informed me that they didn't want photographers anyway, too moody." “It's that artist tragic flaw thing,” I said.
I was issued a car, a cell phone, and my housing was transferred to the Ramada Inn in Ocean Springs, where the rest of the PA team was housed. I said goodbye to the 1500 cots at the base, most notably my own.
The Ramada Inn was home to about 50 Bell South service trucks and their operators, some insurance adjusters and us--no tourists, no vacancy, just rebuilding personnel rotating in and out from different organizations.
The next day Mary Lee paired me up with Robert Dincau, and we were to visit a couple of shelters and “get the lay of the land”. Robert drove me to downtown Biloxi, where we cleared the military checkpoints. We avoided police cars so as not to be mistaken for looters and drove from Biloxi to Pass Christian where the bridge was out, a route we were to take several times in the next couple of weeks.
All of the levity of the past two days dissipated with the jaw-dropping magnitude of the damage. Debris and piles of rubble replaced the stately homes that had once stood proudly along the coast. Some homes and businesses had been swept away leaving nothing but the foundations. Casino barges that had been on the coast had been lifted and landed on the inland side of the highway crashing into buildings in their path. Grand old oak
trees lay uprooted in submission and those still standing were draped in the debris from the receding storm surge. In a fit of symbolism, the flagpole at the Hurricane Camille Memorial had bowed in the face of Katrina. (Note: this part of the narrative will be significantly broken up by various photos of what's described above)As we walked through some of the coastside neighborhoods, the smell of death and despair was still hanging in the air a month after the storm. Other than sporadic patrol vehicles, we saw no one, no sign of life, in what had been a thriving area. The injured homes still standing appeared desolate and forlorn, and I could see straight through them as if the flood waters had stolen their souls. Semi trailers from the port were overturned and miles away from their point of origin.
Most infrastructure had been ripped away—no power, no water, no phone, no medical facilities, hazardous roadways. Warnings to looters were everywhere, but I couldn't figure out what was left to be looted. Katrina had already taken everything. Only the shells of peoples' former lives survived.
We backtracked up to Highway 10, and drove towards Bay St. Louis on Hwy 405. The sides of the road were littered with abandoned vehicles, mud-clad and haphazardly placed along the highway, some upright, some on their sides, some upside down. What I called Wizard of Oz homes, the ones that had been picked up and dropped down away from their foundations, lined the roads.
All structures still standing along Katrina's path bore the evidence of search and rescue teams – a circle spray-painted on the front with four quadrants: date searched, searching agency, number of survivors present, number of dead discovered inside. Only God knows the actual number of people who perished in the storm.
These spray-painted homefronts would become billboards for frustration:
“FEMA forgot Waveland” “Katrina took all we had, State Farm took the rest” “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” and also for personal messages: “Thank you Anderson Cooper” “You Loot We Shoot” “We Will Be Back” and my personal favorite “We are Alive”. (Note: This text will be replaced with photos)
American flags hung defiantly on almost every homesite, some battered and torn by the storm and some obviously recently purchased, a symbol of intent to rebuild.
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Six months later, those flags too, would look tired and frustrated, their defiance fading in the face of monumental bureaucratic snafus and red tape.Robert and I had lunch in Picayune. Outside the diner was a bent up sign that read “Jesus is Lord over Picayune”. All I could think was, “so where was He on August 29, 2005”, as if He needed an alibi.
We criss-crossed the State of Mississippi that day, from Gulport to Bay St. Louis to Picayune and then all the way east to Lucedale. Even well inland, evidence of Katrina was imprinted on the landscape—trees snapped in half, vegetation wilting in places where streams and lakes had overrun their banks and homes in every kind of disrepair.
But it wasn't the catastrophic damage that touched me the most, it was the heart and soul of the people I met along the way, survivors and rescue/relief personnel.
WENDY'S STORY (her text unedited)
I first met Pearlington, and it's people on October 5th of last year - five weeks after the storm.
I was sent down from Ohio with the Red Cross and had been on the coast for two days. I was deeply saddened and moved by the destruction of the Gulf Coast, but what I found in Pearlington made me speechless. They were weeks behind everyone else in recovery.
My job with the Red Cross was Staff Health. As an RN I was to travel to the shelters, kitchens and distribution centers and make sure that the volunteers were safe and physically and emotionally well.
I first got to Pearlington in the afternoon hours of October 5th. It was miles from anywhere but seemed to be worlds away. Many of the houses were still standing, but what the wind didn't carry away the water ruined. Like a bully holding onto a small child, the trees kept the homes in place while the water beat them relentlessly.
As I said, my "job" was Staff Health, but I found my mission in Pearlington. I would spend my mornings doing my official assignments, then all my afternoons in Pearlington. I would load up my assigned van and travel the dusty roads looking for people who could not come to the center. People too old, too depressed, or just unable to get to the help they needed. Many of the people I encountered just needed to tell their stories. They had wonderful stories of survival and courage, and a lot of pride.
The Reverend: When I first met him he sitting under the big oak tree on the corner by his half-demolished house, his cousin James sitting nearby. His clothes were worn and dirty,and his face was lined with wrinkles, but his eyes were sparkling. I introduced myself and we talked awhile. I asked if he needed anything, a tarp, blankets, food, but he politely declined. He did accept a bottle of cold water, "James here is an ole man, he might could use a drink." I believe James was 86. "Someone down the road probably needs it worse than I do, I'm doing fine."
As we sat there making polite conversation a car pulled up and a tall man with a gun strapped to his leg got out. He had some Ensure with him and he took it over and placed it in the old black truck parked across the street. He introduced himself, and asked the Reverend if he had told us about his tree. He hadn't yet as we had only just met, "Now you know they don't want to hear that ole story Benny" he said, but it was obvious that the Reverend had a story to tell.
Benny just smiled, "sure they do" and that was all the encouragement Reverend Burton needed.
"Walk with me child, you see that tree?" and with that, the story began. "I was in my house with my nephew and we was a looking down the road and I says to him, you see that stop sign down there?" "that water gets to that sign and its going to flood out Pearlington" "that water ain't never got that high." And they watched as the water crept past the stop sign and towards the house. "we was sitting in the house, just a watching and the water got up to the floor and my nephew he says "Unc we better get on up out of here." As they went out the front door the water swept the Reverend off of his feet and his nephew had to help him up. They were headed down the street, trying to make their way to Reverend Burtons daughter's house when the water gushed towards them. As they were swept down the street the Reverend grabbed a vine that was hanging from a tree "take my hand son, he said, don't fight the water" "that water is going to raise us up and when it does we are going to get up in the fork of that tree" "The wind was just a blowing, and the trees were shaking, but the water done raised us up and we got in that tree." Reverend Burton's dog floated by and they managed to grab her and get her in the tree with them. As they looked towards the west they could see Reverend Burton's daughter and grandchildren huddled on the roof of the church across from his flooded house. "I knew they was trying to get to me and I yelled that I was alright, just stay up on that roof"For hours they stayed in that tree with the wind and rain beating on them. "The wind was a howling, and the water hit so hard it burned and the trees all around me were shaking and bending."I asked if he was afraid."No child, I sang, and the more the wind blowed the louder I sang and I just talked to the Lord. I said "Lord you know I am your servant and I done everything you ever asked me to do and I know that if I asked you for something you will do it, I'm asking you now... please don't touch this tree I'm in." "You can take all these trees around me, just don't touch this tree I'm in." "And one by one the trees around me just split, they was breaking and popping like twigs, but the Lord left my tree alone - and there it stands"
He had walked me down the road and I looked to the wooded area he pointed out. There stood a lone forked tree in the midst of a cleared area. The trees were snapped off near the ground in a complete circle around that tree. It didn't look sturdy enough to have even held the dog, yet it held two grown men in a rough wooden embrace, for hours.And that was the first of many visits with Reverend Burton.
It took a week of daily visits before he would accept anything other than my friendship. And another few visits before he really started to talk. I remember the first time I asked him about his house. He had tried to salvage a few things, but hadn't found much. He wasn't upset about the house though."That house, was just a house, it wasn't home. I've been building me a new home, been working on it most of my life. One stick at a time, one good deed at a time, oohh is it going to be fine. It will be a glorious place with rooms for all my family, but it ain't ready yet. I'm not done. The Lord will tell me when my home is done."
We talked of many things on my visits with the Reverend. He is wise, beyond his years. The lines on his face a testament to his character, and the constant sparkle in his eyes a sign of his faith. He was always my last visit of the day. Even though he was long since retired, he still held court at the base of that old oak tree. People would stop to ask for directions and end up lingering for hours.Some would just see an old man, in dirty tattered clothes with a baseball cap pulled down over his unruly curly gray hair and not look beyond that. He knew what they were thinking and it didn't bother him. I would watch as his eyes would start twinkling and he would say "I only went to school three days, the first day et' lunch, the second day I had recess and the third day I played hookie but I can count to ten and I can write my name." The people who only saw the outward appearance, those who missed the twinkle in his eye, missed alot.
Reverend Burton is an Alumni of Emory University in Atlanta Georgia.
For those of us who looked deeper, who took the time to listen, he would sing. He sang for us as he did for the Lord while he was up in that tree. And we listened and for a little while, our hearts were lighter.
The Bellos: Claude and Cookie Bello lost everything. The trailer on the right is home now, and a church group built them a shed. The trailer is small and cramped and though they dream of a home of their own they don't complain. They are just happy to be alive. Take a good look at Claude, you may not realize it but you are looking at a hero. His story will break your heart.
Before the storm Claude and Cookie were content. They owned a small piece of land near the river that Claude loved. His income from crabbing supplemented Cookies pay from her job answering phones 10 hours a day. Claude and Cookie had a nice little trailer with three bedrooms that they had bought with Claude's aunt. They had moved her in so they could take care of her. When she needed a handicapped accessible home she moved on and they kept the trailer. It was still in the Aunt's name, she had found out that if it was in her name only they wouldn't have to pay property taxes because the aunt was elderly so Claude's name was taken off the title.
And then came Katrina....
Claude and Cookie did not evacuate and soon they were joined by family members who couldn't leave. They went to Mr. Russ's place. It was a beautiful old place directly behind and to the left of Claude and Cookies place. It had survived Camille and Mr. Russ offered it to them as shelter from the storm. Mr. Russ and his family had evacuated because his wife was ill and his son handicapped.
They stood in the living room and watched the Pearl River, directly across the road from Mr. Russ's house. They watched as the river crossed the road, knowing that Camille had not crossed
the road. Soon the water was even with the porch. They watched as it crept towards the glass doors and started seeping into the house. As they stood in ankle deep water the cellphone rang, it was Mr. Russ. He wanted to know how close the water was to the road. "It is ankle deep in your living room Mr. Russ" Cookie replied. He seemed not to understand and asked again "how close is it to the road?" Cookie handed the phone to Claude. "Cookie doesn't understand me Claude", Mr. Russ said, "I asked how close is the water to the road?" Claude replied "we are now knee deep in water at your dining room table.""My God, Claude get your family to the attic, that river is going to wash away Pearlington" yelled Mr. Russ. At that same time an announcement came over the battery powered radio. "Thank God for miracles, the storm has turned north" "it is now headed up the coast of Mississippi along the Pearl River".
Dear God, thought Claude it is headed right for us, we have got to get higher. He forced open the door in the rapidly flooding living room and got everyone else headed upstairs. Just as he was turning to go up himself the glass doors burst inward and he went under. He could feel himself pushed into first one wall and then another. He wanted badly to breath but knew if he did he would die. He fought the current and pulled himself back towards the entrance to the attic, under water all the way, his body bouncing against the ceiling of the flooded house. When he felt the corner that would take him to the attic he pulled himself around it and the current shot him upward. He came out of the water gasping for breath and weak, and needed help standing.
The rafters shook and heaved with the force of the water and they knew that even then they were not safe. The only possible exit, a small window. Claude kicked out the window and pushed everyone out. The roof was metal, and the women could not hang on. Only one of the women could swim, and they had the baby in a plastic tote. After shoving the women back into the flooding attic Claude knew their only hope was a boat. The water was at the roof line now and the house was being battered by the current and debris. Claude scanned the horizon for a boat and when he spotted one he left the relative safety of the roof and jumped into the water. Somehow even though the wind and current were strong, he managed to get that boat back to the house. There was no rope or anything to tie it to the house, but there was a metal pole at the end of the house that had been in place since before Katrina. One of the other men got in and helped hold the boat in place for the women.
Frankie sent the baby down to Claude in the tote, and Claude put him in the boat. A strong wind picked up the tote and lifted it out of the boat and the water started to carry the baby away. "I thought we had lost him", Claude said, "and I jumped in again and grabbed him saying God help me, help me save that baby." After everyone was loaded into the leaky boat it was very heavy. The wind was blowing hard, the current lifting them up only to smash them back down, and Claude held onto that metal pole. They had nowhere to escape to, and as the full force of the hurricane hit they huddled in that boat, secured near the house only by the strength of Claude's arms. It lasted for hours, though there was a brief period of calmness while the eye passed and still Claude hung on. "I knew after the eye passed we would get the other side of the storm and we had no place to go". Then it hit again, with even more force. They could yell, but the wind was howling so loud that you couldn't even hear the person sitting next to them. Claude looked at Cookie and she was screaming.
Claude said "I couldn't hear her, but I understood her. She was saying don't let go baby, please don't let go." "I looked down and my arms were bleeding from scraping on the pole, but I didn't let go. " "I knew if I did we would all die." And so they hung there in the driving stinging rain, held in place only by Claude's arms, until the storm had passed.
When the storm passed they made their way to what was left of the firestation. Claude said "I knew that the pump truck had just been filled and we could use it to clear of a piece of concrete so we would have somewhere to rest." They had no food and no water, only the clothes on their backs. After getting the women settled the men went out looking for survivors. They pulled some people from the rubble of their homes and got them back to the station. Others straggled in until there were 12. And they waited for help. "After three days with no food I knew we had to feed the women, and I told Frankie that if we could find someones freezer with a good seal there may be food in it that we can use," said Claude. And they got lucky. "When I opened that freezer and the cool air came out I yelled" "there was hamburger and some shrimp in it". They managed to make a grill out of things they found and used sticks to turn the meat. "Lord was that food good."Claude remembered.
They woke to the sound of chainsaws on the fifth day. Forestry Rangers were out by the main road trying to cut their way in. Help was finally coming.
Claude is my hero, he saved those people. He only has one lung, he lost the other to Cancer some
years ago. And he is diabetic. But he is a survivor and he is strong when he needs to be. His strength let others live when they would have died.Because they didn't own their trailer Claude and Cookie are not getting compensated for it. They were able to collect for contents only. They had to use what little money they got for a car so Cookie could get to work, and that car needed tires. Claude's boat is gone, and he got nothing for it. They applied and were turned down for a SBA loan to repair the boat.
Now it is six months later and they are living in a cramped FEMA trailer. They have used old cars, some clothes and a shed. Cookie still works 10 hour days and they get by. Claude has cancer again, they cut it off his ear and it was so large he had to have a skin graft. Their cheerful optimism is starting to fade. The twisted steel frame of their old home lays mangled in front of their property as a constant reminder of all that they lost. They are not bitter, but depression is beginning to get hold of them.
The Dawseys:
The Bennetts:
The Oprah Show:
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