When we had our house demolished and removed some months ago, its remains filled several trucks. A caravan of battered dump trucks were in turn filled, driven to some unknown grave site, emptied and returned.
They worked until there was nothing left--nothing but a smooth, slightly depressed parcel of land, about 60 by 120 feet.
Several of the neighboring houses have been similarly removed, summarily crushed and carted off until nothing remains but the shallow footprint of the excavated foundation.
First, the people were evacuated, and then the houses were extracted.
New Orleans post-Katrina is a canvass of minimalism. Whole streets like mine are still sparsely populated. Nearby businesses remain empty, flood-stained, untouched by man for more than 14 months. And every time a severely damaged building gets demolished, we celebrate the scene as a sign of progress.
Vista Park, my neighborhood, is now speckled with vacant property. The former continuous rows of brick-veneer slab-on-grade homes nestled under shady trees are now interrupted by flat, empty land.
And so to fill the shallow footprint, we had dirt placed on our lot this week. Trucks rumbled up near our FEMA travel trailer and dumped loads of clean brown sand onto our property. Perhaps they were some of the same trucks that had carted off the remains of our once beautiful home, a house reduced to the status of landfill by capricious nature.
How much to fill the void? “60 yards, dump and spread,” the work order said.
We’re not the only ones. Across from us and down the street, empty parcels have been filled with dirt. Not nearly enough to spare future buildings from another flood such as we saw with Hurricane Katrina—that is simply not practical. It is enough only to return the land to grade, to replace some of what was lost. Future houses will be elevated above the ground as required by code. Ours will be as high as that and then some.
Demolition was an important step, akin to a doctor cutting out diseased and damaged tissue. But bringing in fill is the first proactive step in rebuilding this city. This dirt is the new land we will build on, the new foundation of the city.
I came home from work the other day and marveled at the site of large piles of sand on my lot. “This is it,” I thought. “This is how we start to fill the void left by Katrina.”
We are rebuilding!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
WARNING: Everything is dangerous
I’m not the first person to notice that everything nowadays comes with copious and often stupidly obvious warning labels. Like electric hair dryers that are marked, “Do not use while bathing,” and lawn mowers that warn, “Do not place hands under mower while blade is moving.”
The labeling boom is the result of two powerful forces on the consumer market: government regulations and consumer litigation. Big Brother and Big Lawyer never seem to be satisfied.
And so it should not be a surprise that our FEMA travel trailer is virtually decorated with warning stickers. This white box we call home is the perfect convergence of manufacturers’ CYA strategy and government’s “We’ll protect you” maternalism.
It starts at the door.
Above the door, the only exterior door, is the quaint “EXIT” sticker. I suppose it’s possible that in an emergency, an occupant might not know how to escape from the trailer and would benefit from this reminder that this door does indeed lead to the outside. I suppose in an emergency, one might become disoriented in the linear layout of the trailer—bedroom, kitchen, bath—and might forget which of the three doors allows escape.
To add to the possibilities, every window is also a removable escape hatch, and so every window also is clearly marked “EXIT.” We are surrounded with possible escape routes—there are fully five “EXIT” signs in the just three rooms of this trailer.
The trailer also has two smoke alarms and a carbon monoxide alarm. And every one of them has—you guessed it—a warning label.
These detectors advise testing weekly. That’s surely overkill. Battery-operated smoke detectors that I’ve owned and operated in the past always went more than a year before needing new batteries. Fire departments started to encourage changing batteries every time we change the clocks, upping maintenance to twice a year. But weekly? Are we being extra-super-obsessively cautious, or is FEMA buying the cheapest, most unreliable smoke alarms in the world?
It turns out that this testing regimen is is not a problem for us, because we set off the smoke alarm every time we make toast. Oh, yes, they work alright… all too well!
There’s also a small box with a little green light next to the oven that I understand is a propane detector. It’s the only appliance here that does NOT have a warning label. Poor little thing, I hope it does not have an inferiority complex as a result.
The stove is the most popular place for warning labels. Which makes sense since that’s where we use an open flame to cook. There’s a privacy curtain near here, one you would think is intended to give the illusion of a second bedroom for those using the bunk beds. But according to the label pictured below, that curtain is also a fire safety feature. I would intuitively keep the curtain open and pulled as far away from the stove as possible while cooking, but apparently, that’s not correct. The curtain must be designed to shield the bunk beds and bathroom from fiery destruction. Who knew?
In studying these labels, I wonder if there is a seniority in the warnings they project. For instance, I notice some warn, “failure to comply may result in serious injury,” while others promise, “death or serious injury.” If there’s any rhyme or reason to it, the one by the stove wins with its “could result in explosion resulting in death or serious injury.” All that’s missing is a silhouette of a person in flames.
And that’s most of them, but not all. Our friends in industry and government, acting in a combination of self-preservation and benevolent paternalism, have made sure we know about all the possible dangers that surround us in this cracker box abode. They’re clearly labeled every hazard with instructions and warnings of dire consequences to help us survive life in a travel trailer.
Which is sure to make us feel totally safe.
Or not.
The labeling boom is the result of two powerful forces on the consumer market: government regulations and consumer litigation. Big Brother and Big Lawyer never seem to be satisfied.
And so it should not be a surprise that our FEMA travel trailer is virtually decorated with warning stickers. This white box we call home is the perfect convergence of manufacturers’ CYA strategy and government’s “We’ll protect you” maternalism.
It starts at the door.
Above the door, the only exterior door, is the quaint “EXIT” sticker. I suppose it’s possible that in an emergency, an occupant might not know how to escape from the trailer and would benefit from this reminder that this door does indeed lead to the outside. I suppose in an emergency, one might become disoriented in the linear layout of the trailer—bedroom, kitchen, bath—and might forget which of the three doors allows escape.
To add to the possibilities, every window is also a removable escape hatch, and so every window also is clearly marked “EXIT.” We are surrounded with possible escape routes—there are fully five “EXIT” signs in the just three rooms of this trailer.
The trailer also has two smoke alarms and a carbon monoxide alarm. And every one of them has—you guessed it—a warning label.
These detectors advise testing weekly. That’s surely overkill. Battery-operated smoke detectors that I’ve owned and operated in the past always went more than a year before needing new batteries. Fire departments started to encourage changing batteries every time we change the clocks, upping maintenance to twice a year. But weekly? Are we being extra-super-obsessively cautious, or is FEMA buying the cheapest, most unreliable smoke alarms in the world?
It turns out that this testing regimen is is not a problem for us, because we set off the smoke alarm every time we make toast. Oh, yes, they work alright… all too well!
There’s also a small box with a little green light next to the oven that I understand is a propane detector. It’s the only appliance here that does NOT have a warning label. Poor little thing, I hope it does not have an inferiority complex as a result.
The stove is the most popular place for warning labels. Which makes sense since that’s where we use an open flame to cook. There’s a privacy curtain near here, one you would think is intended to give the illusion of a second bedroom for those using the bunk beds. But according to the label pictured below, that curtain is also a fire safety feature. I would intuitively keep the curtain open and pulled as far away from the stove as possible while cooking, but apparently, that’s not correct. The curtain must be designed to shield the bunk beds and bathroom from fiery destruction. Who knew?
In studying these labels, I wonder if there is a seniority in the warnings they project. For instance, I notice some warn, “failure to comply may result in serious injury,” while others promise, “death or serious injury.” If there’s any rhyme or reason to it, the one by the stove wins with its “could result in explosion resulting in death or serious injury.” All that’s missing is a silhouette of a person in flames.
And that’s most of them, but not all. Our friends in industry and government, acting in a combination of self-preservation and benevolent paternalism, have made sure we know about all the possible dangers that surround us in this cracker box abode. They’re clearly labeled every hazard with instructions and warnings of dire consequences to help us survive life in a travel trailer.
Which is sure to make us feel totally safe.
Or not.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Election Day
Tuesday is Election Day. I know this not only because the airwaves are filled with fear-mongering political ads, not only because the neutral ground is filling with brightly colored campaign signs, not only because the first Tuesday in November is traditionally an election day…
I know this because my Precious Daughter has marked it on our wall calendar.
As I’m sure many schools are doing this month, and as I’m sure many of us did when we were in grade school, my Precious Daughter’s school, the International School of Louisiana, is having its own election on Tuesday.
Representative democracy is a team sport: without full participation, everyone loses. So I’m glad to see that ISL is engaging the kids in this election exercise. I know my girl is feeling very empowered by the ability to vote, to have a voice, to be the power behind government.
She is the luckiest voter I know. She’s does not have to worry about why “Dollar” Bill Jefferson had a freezer full of cash, or whether Stacey Tallitsch is a “stay the course” fool or a “cut and run” coward. She does not have to wonder if promises made will be kept, or if money and favors will take the place of platforms and principles once the voting is done.
She’s earnestly looking for someone who will represent her 5th grade class with care and dignity.
And it’s not an easy choice.
Everyone on the ballot is her friend, and everyone has personally approached her to ask for her vote.
My Precious Daughter has shared some of her deliberations with me. To maintain her privacy and honor her confidence, I will not be naming names--not even under subpoena.
I will only say that I am proud of the serious way she is approaching this election, even though ultimately I think we all know—even she knows—that it is just a game.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if those who vote for real had that sort of maturity?
I know this because my Precious Daughter has marked it on our wall calendar.
As I’m sure many schools are doing this month, and as I’m sure many of us did when we were in grade school, my Precious Daughter’s school, the International School of Louisiana, is having its own election on Tuesday.
Representative democracy is a team sport: without full participation, everyone loses. So I’m glad to see that ISL is engaging the kids in this election exercise. I know my girl is feeling very empowered by the ability to vote, to have a voice, to be the power behind government.
She is the luckiest voter I know. She’s does not have to worry about why “Dollar” Bill Jefferson had a freezer full of cash, or whether Stacey Tallitsch is a “stay the course” fool or a “cut and run” coward. She does not have to wonder if promises made will be kept, or if money and favors will take the place of platforms and principles once the voting is done.
She’s earnestly looking for someone who will represent her 5th grade class with care and dignity.
And it’s not an easy choice.
Everyone on the ballot is her friend, and everyone has personally approached her to ask for her vote.
My Precious Daughter has shared some of her deliberations with me. To maintain her privacy and honor her confidence, I will not be naming names--not even under subpoena.
I will only say that I am proud of the serious way she is approaching this election, even though ultimately I think we all know—even she knows—that it is just a game.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if those who vote for real had that sort of maturity?
Friday, November 03, 2006
Water, water
On a typical day, 388 billion gallons of water flow down the Mississippi River past New Orleans . It flows at an average rate of 600,000 cubic feet per second, but even those living here hardly know it.
Lake Pontchartrain holds roughly another 2 trillion gallons of water, just outside your back door if you live in Lake Vista .
If we didn’t know this before Hurricane Katrina, we most assuredly know it now: We live with water.
In the FEMA cracker-box I call home, there’s a hot water tank under the kitchen sink. I am told this tank holds 4 gallons of water. That’s 4, F-O-U-R gallons. When I take my morning shower, I set the water to a comfortable setting, and then I adjust it every few minutes. A little less cold water, a little more hot water, a little less cold water, a little less cold water…until the cold water is turned off and I’m hurrying to finish before those last few drops of lukewarm water fall away to be replaced by cold water.
A short walk from my lot is the infamous London Avenue Canal . This canal was constructed to convey rain runoff pumped from our streets to Lake Pontchartrain . On August 29, 2005, the canal embankments split in at least two places. Water from Lake Pontchartrain flowed up the canal and into our streets. When I was able to return to my house weeks later, I found a dead crab in my driveway.
There’s a storm drain in the street right in front of my property. I keep it clean. For years I’ve swept and raked any leaves, trash or twigs that got caught in its grill. I still do this today. When it rains in New Orleans, these storm drains are sort of our “first responders.” I want them to work properly and unimpaired. Will it help keep my neighborhood from flooding? I tell myself it does.
When floodwaters covered a great deal of New Orleans , there was a general warning not to drink water from the faucet. The entire drinking water system was suspect, even in the unflooded parts of town. I went back to work the day after Hurricane Rita came ashore, when much of the city was still a pond. We were drinking canned water at my office--silver aluminum cans of purified water. Every time I opened one, that cracking sound evoked a Pavlov’s response in my mouth as my taste buds got ready for the bitter-cool taste of beer. And every time, all they got was purified water.
It’s an amazing feat that the Sewerage & Water Board was able to get the system up and running again so quickly after the storm. By mid October, water was safe to drink everywhere except New Orleans East and in the Lower Ninth Ward. Still, the city reported that there were so many breaks in the water system that fully half the water pumped from the purification plant each day was wasted.
A few weeks ago, I fed the cats in our FEMA travel trailer as I do each morning. I put out a full bowl of fresh water for them. After my two cats ate and drank, I let them outside. A while later, I saw one of them, Smudge, lapping contentedly at a puddle of brown water in the street. I was shocked, angry and then worried in quick succession. But then I reminded myself, “She’s a cat. Cats drink dirty water all the time.” Perhaps at least in this way, cats have a superior survival skill to us humans.
The human body itself is mostly just water. Wikipedia says about 72% of body mass in males and 68% in females is water. We live with water, we live surrounded by water, we ARE water.
Sometimes too little, sometimes too much. It makes life pleasant and it makes life difficult. It makes life possible.
Water, water.
Everywhere.
Lake Pontchartrain holds roughly another 2 trillion gallons of water, just outside your back door if you live in Lake Vista .
If we didn’t know this before Hurricane Katrina, we most assuredly know it now: We live with water.
In the FEMA cracker-box I call home, there’s a hot water tank under the kitchen sink. I am told this tank holds 4 gallons of water. That’s 4, F-O-U-R gallons. When I take my morning shower, I set the water to a comfortable setting, and then I adjust it every few minutes. A little less cold water, a little more hot water, a little less cold water, a little less cold water…until the cold water is turned off and I’m hurrying to finish before those last few drops of lukewarm water fall away to be replaced by cold water.
A short walk from my lot is the infamous London Avenue Canal . This canal was constructed to convey rain runoff pumped from our streets to Lake Pontchartrain . On August 29, 2005, the canal embankments split in at least two places. Water from Lake Pontchartrain flowed up the canal and into our streets. When I was able to return to my house weeks later, I found a dead crab in my driveway.
There’s a storm drain in the street right in front of my property. I keep it clean. For years I’ve swept and raked any leaves, trash or twigs that got caught in its grill. I still do this today. When it rains in New Orleans, these storm drains are sort of our “first responders.” I want them to work properly and unimpaired. Will it help keep my neighborhood from flooding? I tell myself it does.
When floodwaters covered a great deal of New Orleans , there was a general warning not to drink water from the faucet. The entire drinking water system was suspect, even in the unflooded parts of town. I went back to work the day after Hurricane Rita came ashore, when much of the city was still a pond. We were drinking canned water at my office--silver aluminum cans of purified water. Every time I opened one, that cracking sound evoked a Pavlov’s response in my mouth as my taste buds got ready for the bitter-cool taste of beer. And every time, all they got was purified water.
It’s an amazing feat that the Sewerage & Water Board was able to get the system up and running again so quickly after the storm. By mid October, water was safe to drink everywhere except New Orleans East and in the Lower Ninth Ward. Still, the city reported that there were so many breaks in the water system that fully half the water pumped from the purification plant each day was wasted.
A few weeks ago, I fed the cats in our FEMA travel trailer as I do each morning. I put out a full bowl of fresh water for them. After my two cats ate and drank, I let them outside. A while later, I saw one of them, Smudge, lapping contentedly at a puddle of brown water in the street. I was shocked, angry and then worried in quick succession. But then I reminded myself, “She’s a cat. Cats drink dirty water all the time.” Perhaps at least in this way, cats have a superior survival skill to us humans.
The human body itself is mostly just water. Wikipedia says about 72% of body mass in males and 68% in females is water. We live with water, we live surrounded by water, we ARE water.
Sometimes too little, sometimes too much. It makes life pleasant and it makes life difficult. It makes life possible.
Water, water.
Everywhere.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Lost
We lost so many things in the flood.
Big things, like a house, all our furniture, appliances, pots and pans and dishes. So many things, we never really thought about how much stuff we had accumulated over the years.
Things that made life simpler. A washer and dryer, for instance, right there in the house. One of the unfortunate side-effects of living in a compact FEMA travel trailer is the lack of a laundry. The once household chore of washing clothes is now a major duty that requires twice the time and effort.
We lost things that we used to take for granted. Like a real shower with a real glass door. I recall taking long showers under a gentle fountain of hot water. Not any more. The hot water tank we rely upon now holds about two quarts. I can’t stand straight up in the shower, and even if I could, the water would only rain on my shoulders. I have to bend down to wash my hair, and I have share tight quarters with a billowing plastic shower curtain, too.
And then there are other things we lost in the flood. A neighborhood, for instance. I’ve blogged about how glad I am to see the severely damaged houses in my area taken down and hauled away. But this is an almost empty joy. It goes without saying that I’d prefer my neighbors back in their neat, middle class ranch houses than to be surrounded by vacant lots.
You can erase the writing from the page, but the imprint of what was written remains. I still see it.
I have pictures in my office of my Precious Daughter, my Darling Wife, and my cats. One of them shows my cat Cupcake lounging on my bed. Once upon a time, Cupcakes’s favorite spot was to sit against the pillows on my side of our king-sized bed. I look at this photo sometimes, and I see a lot of things we lost in the flood--the bed, the quilt, my nightstand, my books, and--due to her relocation to Texas--my cat.
But that’s not all.
I used to sit on the end of that bed and play my guitars. I used to play games like “no Papas on the bed,” which involved wrestling with my Precious Daughter for control of the mattress. I used to do a lot of reading on that bed, back when I had leisure time to do things like read.
None of those things were included in our insurance settlement. And none of those things can be restored by government programs or charitable donation. I certainly hope to one day replace them in a fashion once we settle into our new house. But the reality is that those things are gone forever, lost in time, and lost in the flood.
We lost so many things in the flood.
Some of those things weren’t “things” at all. I miss those the most.
Big things, like a house, all our furniture, appliances, pots and pans and dishes. So many things, we never really thought about how much stuff we had accumulated over the years.
Things that made life simpler. A washer and dryer, for instance, right there in the house. One of the unfortunate side-effects of living in a compact FEMA travel trailer is the lack of a laundry. The once household chore of washing clothes is now a major duty that requires twice the time and effort.
We lost things that we used to take for granted. Like a real shower with a real glass door. I recall taking long showers under a gentle fountain of hot water. Not any more. The hot water tank we rely upon now holds about two quarts. I can’t stand straight up in the shower, and even if I could, the water would only rain on my shoulders. I have to bend down to wash my hair, and I have share tight quarters with a billowing plastic shower curtain, too.
And then there are other things we lost in the flood. A neighborhood, for instance. I’ve blogged about how glad I am to see the severely damaged houses in my area taken down and hauled away. But this is an almost empty joy. It goes without saying that I’d prefer my neighbors back in their neat, middle class ranch houses than to be surrounded by vacant lots.
You can erase the writing from the page, but the imprint of what was written remains. I still see it.
I have pictures in my office of my Precious Daughter, my Darling Wife, and my cats. One of them shows my cat Cupcake lounging on my bed. Once upon a time, Cupcakes’s favorite spot was to sit against the pillows on my side of our king-sized bed. I look at this photo sometimes, and I see a lot of things we lost in the flood--the bed, the quilt, my nightstand, my books, and--due to her relocation to Texas--my cat.
But that’s not all.
I used to sit on the end of that bed and play my guitars. I used to play games like “no Papas on the bed,” which involved wrestling with my Precious Daughter for control of the mattress. I used to do a lot of reading on that bed, back when I had leisure time to do things like read.
None of those things were included in our insurance settlement. And none of those things can be restored by government programs or charitable donation. I certainly hope to one day replace them in a fashion once we settle into our new house. But the reality is that those things are gone forever, lost in time, and lost in the flood.
We lost so many things in the flood.
Some of those things weren’t “things” at all. I miss those the most.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Happy Birthday, Blog
One year ago today I posted my first blog entry. It's still there in the original location on MySpace.
I posted 31 times over there, and then switched to this server at Blogger.com in December 2005. Since that time, I've posted another 150 stories about life in Post-K New Orleans.
I spent a few minutes last night rereading some of those posts. What I notice is how things have changed in my life--I went from an apartment to a trailer, from a vibrant part of the city with great restaurants to a virtual no-man's land--and how much things have not changed in my life--my job that demands long hours, my Darling Wife and Precious Daughter who rely upon me and I upon them. Life goes on, bra.
I started blogging for two very selfish reasons. First, for the therapeutic value, the comfort one gets from periodically emptying the emotional lint trap. And second, for the simple need I felt to tell the story of New Orleans from the point of view of people here and now, living and working at ground zero of this urban disaster zone. The commercial media just wasn't getting it right, in my opinion, and so I thought I could give a personal perspective to readers of the world wide web.
And I say both reasons are selfish because I hoped in the first case to make my life better directly and in the second case, to do so indirectly.
How successful have I been? Well, I haven't gone stark-raving postal to date, so that's evidence that I'm achieving my first goal. I don't think there's any way to know if I'm reaching my second goal.
But after looking at those past posts, after scanning some 180 blog entries, I am left with one wish: I wish I could write more. So much is untold. So much is untouched. It's as if I've only peeled the first two or three layers from the onion.
I don't regret or chastise myself for this; I do what I can and I keep moving forward. But we are all so consumed in our busy lives--work, personal finances, household chores, family, friends, dealing with insurance and government agencies and utilities and on and on--blogging just doesn't get top billing.
Still, I'm glad to be able to blog when I can, glad that I still have about 60 loyal readers per day, glad that every now and then someone sends me a kind word, glad to return the favor by posting as often as I can.
One year! Happy Birthday, Blog.
More to come!
I posted 31 times over there, and then switched to this server at Blogger.com in December 2005. Since that time, I've posted another 150 stories about life in Post-K New Orleans.
I spent a few minutes last night rereading some of those posts. What I notice is how things have changed in my life--I went from an apartment to a trailer, from a vibrant part of the city with great restaurants to a virtual no-man's land--and how much things have not changed in my life--my job that demands long hours, my Darling Wife and Precious Daughter who rely upon me and I upon them. Life goes on, bra.
I started blogging for two very selfish reasons. First, for the therapeutic value, the comfort one gets from periodically emptying the emotional lint trap. And second, for the simple need I felt to tell the story of New Orleans from the point of view of people here and now, living and working at ground zero of this urban disaster zone. The commercial media just wasn't getting it right, in my opinion, and so I thought I could give a personal perspective to readers of the world wide web.
And I say both reasons are selfish because I hoped in the first case to make my life better directly and in the second case, to do so indirectly.
How successful have I been? Well, I haven't gone stark-raving postal to date, so that's evidence that I'm achieving my first goal. I don't think there's any way to know if I'm reaching my second goal.
But after looking at those past posts, after scanning some 180 blog entries, I am left with one wish: I wish I could write more. So much is untold. So much is untouched. It's as if I've only peeled the first two or three layers from the onion.
I don't regret or chastise myself for this; I do what I can and I keep moving forward. But we are all so consumed in our busy lives--work, personal finances, household chores, family, friends, dealing with insurance and government agencies and utilities and on and on--blogging just doesn't get top billing.
Still, I'm glad to be able to blog when I can, glad that I still have about 60 loyal readers per day, glad that every now and then someone sends me a kind word, glad to return the favor by posting as often as I can.
One year! Happy Birthday, Blog.
More to come!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Here today, gone tomorrow
I’ve long been a fan of Stephen King.
Oh sure, he can scare the bejesus out of the most stout-hearted reader, and he has the knack to make even the most ordinary events unseemly or downright creepy. But at the base of it all is the undeniable fact that he is one heck of a writer.
For me, one of his most memorable scenes involved the simple interaction between a mother and her son. I think this appears in The Stand. (He’s written so many darn books I often have a hard time recalling in which book a particular passage occurs!)
What happens is that a young boy runs into the kitchen one nice summer day to show his mother the bird he’s just shot with his pellet rifle. He is bursting with pride at his manly display.
But then his mother says, “Okay, now make it come back to life.”
The boy’s pride is wiped away in an instant. He learns a hard lesson that day, that destroying things is easy, so incredibly easy that anyone can do it. And thus destroying things is not special and is not to be admired.
Creating is hard.
My Precious Daughter and I had a discussion about this the other day. The big white brick house that has stood dominantly on the corner of our street for as long as we have lived here got knocked down this week. It was methodically pounded and smashed and broken into “bite-sized” chunks suitable for lifting by a backhoe and removal by truck.
It’s a safe bet it took a year or more to plan, design and build that house. It took less than two days to destroy it.
This is the nature of our existence. I’m currently reading Flags of our Fathers, the story of six Marines who climbed that blood-stained mountain on Iwo Jima to plant the flag. They are just a sampling of the thousands who lived and loved, hoped and dreamed, worked and struggled for years, only to die suddenly and violently on a tiny Pacific island.
It took so much effort to get there; it took less than a second for a bullet to strike and kill.
This is the nature of life. It took decades of effort to build these houses, this neighborhood, this city we call New Orleans. But one hurricane, one flood, one awful day in August was all that was required to wipe out most of that productive work.
And for what remains, these structural shells of houses, these tombs of family memories, it takes no more than two days to finish what the flood began.
Are we surprised that a mere 14 months later the city is not rebuilt yet?
Work on our new house proceeds. We received a preliminary set of drawings a few weeks ago, made comments and changes, and we are now waiting on revisions. It’s going to be a while before we get out of this FEMA travel trailer.
We’re creating a new city here. These things take time.
Oh sure, he can scare the bejesus out of the most stout-hearted reader, and he has the knack to make even the most ordinary events unseemly or downright creepy. But at the base of it all is the undeniable fact that he is one heck of a writer.
For me, one of his most memorable scenes involved the simple interaction between a mother and her son. I think this appears in The Stand. (He’s written so many darn books I often have a hard time recalling in which book a particular passage occurs!)
What happens is that a young boy runs into the kitchen one nice summer day to show his mother the bird he’s just shot with his pellet rifle. He is bursting with pride at his manly display.
But then his mother says, “Okay, now make it come back to life.”
The boy’s pride is wiped away in an instant. He learns a hard lesson that day, that destroying things is easy, so incredibly easy that anyone can do it. And thus destroying things is not special and is not to be admired.
Creating is hard.
My Precious Daughter and I had a discussion about this the other day. The big white brick house that has stood dominantly on the corner of our street for as long as we have lived here got knocked down this week. It was methodically pounded and smashed and broken into “bite-sized” chunks suitable for lifting by a backhoe and removal by truck.
It’s a safe bet it took a year or more to plan, design and build that house. It took less than two days to destroy it.
This is the nature of our existence. I’m currently reading Flags of our Fathers, the story of six Marines who climbed that blood-stained mountain on Iwo Jima to plant the flag. They are just a sampling of the thousands who lived and loved, hoped and dreamed, worked and struggled for years, only to die suddenly and violently on a tiny Pacific island.
It took so much effort to get there; it took less than a second for a bullet to strike and kill.
This is the nature of life. It took decades of effort to build these houses, this neighborhood, this city we call New Orleans. But one hurricane, one flood, one awful day in August was all that was required to wipe out most of that productive work.
And for what remains, these structural shells of houses, these tombs of family memories, it takes no more than two days to finish what the flood began.
Are we surprised that a mere 14 months later the city is not rebuilt yet?
Work on our new house proceeds. We received a preliminary set of drawings a few weeks ago, made comments and changes, and we are now waiting on revisions. It’s going to be a while before we get out of this FEMA travel trailer.
We’re creating a new city here. These things take time.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
A pint of Chocolate City
We were at Dorignac’s yesterday to pick up a few items, and we came across this little gem.
Billed as “All Natural Super Premium Ice Cream,” we could not resist buying a pint of New Orleans Ice Cream. The label says it is made right here in New Orleans, and that would have been enough for me. But then, check out the flavors:
Ponchatoula Strawberry, Coffee & Chicory, Creole Cream Cheese, Praline Crunch and Vanilla Bean.
But the best of all was “Chocolate City.” We had to get that one!
The label describes it this way: “A politician’s faux-pas inspired this deliciously satirical chocolate ice cream with white chocolate chips.”
Who can resist that?
Since Hurricane Katrina trashed the place last year, I've heard all kinds of insults and taunts from outsiders about how crazy/silly/stupid we are in New Orleans. And I resent them all.
But this one is local, and it's in good humor (so to speak), so I'm all in favor of this flavor of commentary.
We watched a DVD in the FEMA travel trailer last night and enjoyed our gourmet ice cream. Chocolate City is delicious! My Darling Wife enjoyed the rich and creamy chocolate, but I was partial to the white chocolate chips.
I wonder what Hizzoner had for desert last night?
Billed as “All Natural Super Premium Ice Cream,” we could not resist buying a pint of New Orleans Ice Cream. The label says it is made right here in New Orleans, and that would have been enough for me. But then, check out the flavors:
Ponchatoula Strawberry, Coffee & Chicory, Creole Cream Cheese, Praline Crunch and Vanilla Bean.
But the best of all was “Chocolate City.” We had to get that one!
The label describes it this way: “A politician’s faux-pas inspired this deliciously satirical chocolate ice cream with white chocolate chips.”
Who can resist that?
Since Hurricane Katrina trashed the place last year, I've heard all kinds of insults and taunts from outsiders about how crazy/silly/stupid we are in New Orleans. And I resent them all.
But this one is local, and it's in good humor (so to speak), so I'm all in favor of this flavor of commentary.
We watched a DVD in the FEMA travel trailer last night and enjoyed our gourmet ice cream. Chocolate City is delicious! My Darling Wife enjoyed the rich and creamy chocolate, but I was partial to the white chocolate chips.
I wonder what Hizzoner had for desert last night?
Monday, October 09, 2006
"Coming back...
...to serve New Orleans."
That's what the banner over Camellia Grill says. The exterior is getting stripped in preparation for a new paint job.
But so far, nothing going on inside.
That's okay. We probably don't want the inside to change anyway!
Word is it will reopen before the end of the year. I know a lot of locals, and visitors, are looking forward to it.
That's what the banner over Camellia Grill says. The exterior is getting stripped in preparation for a new paint job.
But so far, nothing going on inside.
That's okay. We probably don't want the inside to change anyway!
Word is it will reopen before the end of the year. I know a lot of locals, and visitors, are looking forward to it.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Public safety must always take precedence
The American Society of Civil Engineers has published an important paper outlining 10 measures to improve hurricane protection and safeguard lives and property in the future.
Hurricane Katrina: One Year Later. What Must We Do Next? is a brief but powerful statement of what went wrong and what we must do to make sure it never happens again.
The big point they make is that hurricane protection is not to be confused with economic development. Building the most cost-effective levees leads to catastrophic failure as we recently experienced. ASCE’s Call-to-Action Number 1 calls attention to this weakness:
I’m glad to see that ASCE understands this. Let’s see if the rest of America gets it, too.
Hurricane Katrina: One Year Later. What Must We Do Next? is a brief but powerful statement of what went wrong and what we must do to make sure it never happens again.
The big point they make is that hurricane protection is not to be confused with economic development. Building the most cost-effective levees leads to catastrophic failure as we recently experienced. ASCE’s Call-to-Action Number 1 calls attention to this weakness:
“As the hurricane protection system for New Orleans was being designed and debated amongst the USACE and state and local stakeholders, compromises were made based on cost, land use, environmental issues, and other conflicting priorities. Protection of the public’s safety was not always the outcome of these compromises.”
Hurricane protection is a matter of public safety. You can’t use a business model to justify a superior system of levees and gates. You have to build it with a mindset to safeguard lives. Anything less is a disservice to citizens that Civil Engineers are legally and ethically bound to protect.
The paper concludes:
“ASCE, working in partnership with the USACE and other engineering organizations should reinforce the need to place the safety, health, and welfare of the public first, and should communicate that public safety must always take precedence.”
I’m glad to see that ASCE understands this. Let’s see if the rest of America gets it, too.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Broken hammer
I broke my hammer today. I was trying to pull a nail.
This hammer was given to me by my father almost 20 years ago. It is one of the few tools I was able to salvage after Hurricane Katrina. I could probably get a new handle, but it would not be the same.
My Dad is a great handyman. Carpentry, plumbing, electrical work--he's done it all. He started at a young age working with his father as they fixed up their Foucher Street home in New Orleans. More than half a lifetime ago, he taught me a lot of what I know about fixing up a house.
And he's still going strong. Mom and Dad's house in Slidell got about 4 feet of water. My Dad, now 71 years old, tried to hire contractors to fix it up, but apart from getting roofers and a crew to do the drywall, I think my Dad did it all. He couldn't just sit and wait for someone to show up. He took matters into his own, capable hands.
Mom was there, too. I'm not going to discount her hard work, but clearly my Dad was the foreman and the backbone of that job site.
They moved back into their refurbished home in June while we're still trying to get house plans drawn. Just goes to show you: never underestimate your parents.
My favorite part of this hammer was the red rubber on the handle. My Dad did that himself--I think he puts that on all his tools to personalize them.
A few months ago I bought a new tool box and started buying new tools. I already have another hammer so I won't miss a beat. But I will miss that hammer.
This hammer was given to me by my father almost 20 years ago. It is one of the few tools I was able to salvage after Hurricane Katrina. I could probably get a new handle, but it would not be the same.
My Dad is a great handyman. Carpentry, plumbing, electrical work--he's done it all. He started at a young age working with his father as they fixed up their Foucher Street home in New Orleans. More than half a lifetime ago, he taught me a lot of what I know about fixing up a house.
And he's still going strong. Mom and Dad's house in Slidell got about 4 feet of water. My Dad, now 71 years old, tried to hire contractors to fix it up, but apart from getting roofers and a crew to do the drywall, I think my Dad did it all. He couldn't just sit and wait for someone to show up. He took matters into his own, capable hands.
Mom was there, too. I'm not going to discount her hard work, but clearly my Dad was the foreman and the backbone of that job site.
They moved back into their refurbished home in June while we're still trying to get house plans drawn. Just goes to show you: never underestimate your parents.
My favorite part of this hammer was the red rubber on the handle. My Dad did that himself--I think he puts that on all his tools to personalize them.
A few months ago I bought a new tool box and started buying new tools. I already have another hammer so I won't miss a beat. But I will miss that hammer.
Monday, October 02, 2006
A reputation at steak
I am no fan of David Vitter, but I have to give Louisiana’s junior senator credit for putting his principles where his mouth is at least this once.
Sen. Vitter attended a gathering of the Louisiana Restaurant Association last week at the Ruth’s Chris Steak House in Washington. Nothing remarkable about that, except that, according to The Times-Picayune, Sen. Vitter refused to eat the free food.
As every New Orleanian knows, Ruth’s Chris was founded and franchised all around the world by our own Ruth Fertel. When beloved Ms. Ruth passed a few years ago, the company was taken over by a Board of Directors who were not from New Orleans.
The word on the street is that the company had been chaffing to move its corporate headquarters long before the venerable Ms. Ruth died, but this much is undisputed fact: in the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and with Ms. Ruth out of the picture, the corporation quickly moved its world headquarters to Florida.
Common expressions like, “Kicking a man when he’s down,” and, “Pouring salt on a wound,” hardly capture the disappointment we in New Orleans had in watching them pack up and leave.
Be that as it may, New Orleans has managed to survive this corporate insult. We’ve still got more fine restaurants than most people could ever enjoy in a lifetime of eating out.
But the point of this is Sen. Vitter’s principled stand against what has become of Ruth’s Chris Steak House. I try to imagine him there, surrounded by plates of sizzling strip steaks, filet mignon, and buttered vegetables--and resisting.
Wow.
Like I said, on almost any other day the senator gives me indigestion. But on this occasion, Sen. Vitter cut right to the bone and revealed the sweet pink center of life in post-K New Orleans: We stand together, and when we do, nobody can hurt us.
Fellow blogger Mr. Clio called for a boycott late last year in an attempt to persuade the CEOs of Ruth’s Chris to change their minds. I join him and our senator in his boycott of the corporation that holds Ms. Ruth’s name and recipes, but knows nothing about loyalty.
Besides, I’ve always preferred Crescent City Steaks anyway.
Sen. Vitter attended a gathering of the Louisiana Restaurant Association last week at the Ruth’s Chris Steak House in Washington. Nothing remarkable about that, except that, according to The Times-Picayune, Sen. Vitter refused to eat the free food.
As every New Orleanian knows, Ruth’s Chris was founded and franchised all around the world by our own Ruth Fertel. When beloved Ms. Ruth passed a few years ago, the company was taken over by a Board of Directors who were not from New Orleans.
The word on the street is that the company had been chaffing to move its corporate headquarters long before the venerable Ms. Ruth died, but this much is undisputed fact: in the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and with Ms. Ruth out of the picture, the corporation quickly moved its world headquarters to Florida.
Common expressions like, “Kicking a man when he’s down,” and, “Pouring salt on a wound,” hardly capture the disappointment we in New Orleans had in watching them pack up and leave.
Be that as it may, New Orleans has managed to survive this corporate insult. We’ve still got more fine restaurants than most people could ever enjoy in a lifetime of eating out.
But the point of this is Sen. Vitter’s principled stand against what has become of Ruth’s Chris Steak House. I try to imagine him there, surrounded by plates of sizzling strip steaks, filet mignon, and buttered vegetables--and resisting.
Wow.
Like I said, on almost any other day the senator gives me indigestion. But on this occasion, Sen. Vitter cut right to the bone and revealed the sweet pink center of life in post-K New Orleans: We stand together, and when we do, nobody can hurt us.
Fellow blogger Mr. Clio called for a boycott late last year in an attempt to persuade the CEOs of Ruth’s Chris to change their minds. I join him and our senator in his boycott of the corporation that holds Ms. Ruth’s name and recipes, but knows nothing about loyalty.
Besides, I’ve always preferred Crescent City Steaks anyway.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)