We spent the day working at the new house, painting and getting ready for furniture and the final “move-in.” D-Day is Saturday, May 3.
Our new house is just a few blocks from The Fair Grounds, host of the annual Jazz Fest. We had the windows and doors open, but we heard nothing more than a few booms and thumps carried on the wind. Nothing you could identify as anything other than just remnants of music.
Fortunately we had the radio, and WWOZ was broadcasting select acts from the Blues Tent. That’s how I was able to hear Delbert McClinton late in the afternoon. Had I been able to get the Jazz Fest today, I would have been in the Blues Tent for that set.
At one point, my Darling Wife asked that we turn the radio off. “What will we listen to?” asked the Precious Daughter, who was a great help and did her best to keep her budding teen angst at bay. “The Sounds of Silence,” I said.
“We’ll listen to the birds, the cars, the people on the street,” she said earnestly. “We’ll listen to the world around us.”
That struck me and the Precious Daughter as a radical idea, but we gave it a try for a while.
Two interesting observations from this experiment: because of Jazz Fest, there were two small planes circling The Fair Grounds. They were trailing advertising banners and they buzzed over our house at regular intervals. I hadn’t noticed that when the radio was on.
The second thing I noticed was the frequent wail of sirens. We’re near Esplanade and right off Broad, two busy streets that carry a lot of traffic. We experienced the same thing a few years ago when we lived for a year on Esplanade near City Park.
Sirens. Day and night. Believe it or not, you get used to it.
After a long day, we cleaned up and headed back to the trailer. There was a hard rain again this afternoon and the many vacant lots in Vista Park were no doubt saturated. The sun had set and the street lights shined off the wet pavement.
As we walked from car to the FEMA Travel Trailer, my wife noted the echoing noise that filled the street. “Listen to those happy frogs,” she said.
A chorus of amphibian singers filled the night. There was a steady “Chirp, chirp, chirp” being carried by a countless collection of frogs, punctuated by the longer “Ree-bee, ree-bee” and the warbling bass section.
These are the sounds of New Orleans today: frogs, sirens, Jazz Fest.
And these sounds remind me again of the diversity of life in the Crescent City: a soundtrack with room for everybody and everything, a soundtrack worth listening to.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Ashley put street name tiles in the news
A letter from Entergy assures us that New Orleans' distinctive street name tiles will be replaced by the utility company as it proceeds with routine work in our historic neighborhoods. They blame the whole unfortunate episode on "a subcontractor's crew."
And while they claim to have uncovered and dealt with the issue on their own, they mention columnist Chris Rose who wrote briefly about it in The Times-Picayune two weeks ago.
I have no reason to doubt their story, but do take exception that they credit Mr. Rose for calling attention to the matter without any credit to the man who first kicked over this ant pile: Ashley Morris.
Yes, Ashley Morris, the same "pain in the ass" neighbor of Mr. Rose who the columnist realized too late was a true friend of New Orleans.
There's a big difference between people who talk and people who do. It is my observation that the "complainer" gene is rampant in the species, and people like Mr. Rose are an excellent example. By definition, reporters show up after the fact and scribble notes about what happened. Columnists like Mr. Rose complain about why something happened or did not happen largely for entertainment value.
But the credit for making something--anything--happen rarely if ever goes to the journalists. It is the "citizen soldiers" who carry the battle to the enemy. People who show up at City Council meetings and speak up. People who write letters and campaign for good causes. People who alert their neighbors and agitate for change when things go awry.
People like Ashley and the exceptional crew of NOLA Bloggers.
Mr. Rose would marginalize these doers. To him, folks like Ashley are mere "voices in the wilderness, raging at the machine." Although he wrote these words as praise of Ashley, there is clearly a belittling tone to writing that someone spends his time "tilting at windmills."
Well Mr. Rose's column and the letter from Entergy appear to dispel that myth.
Street name tiles are in the news because Ashley made them news.
We interred Ashley's remains several weeks ago, but don't think that means he's finished.
And while they claim to have uncovered and dealt with the issue on their own, they mention columnist Chris Rose who wrote briefly about it in The Times-Picayune two weeks ago.
I have no reason to doubt their story, but do take exception that they credit Mr. Rose for calling attention to the matter without any credit to the man who first kicked over this ant pile: Ashley Morris.
Yes, Ashley Morris, the same "pain in the ass" neighbor of Mr. Rose who the columnist realized too late was a true friend of New Orleans.
There's a big difference between people who talk and people who do. It is my observation that the "complainer" gene is rampant in the species, and people like Mr. Rose are an excellent example. By definition, reporters show up after the fact and scribble notes about what happened. Columnists like Mr. Rose complain about why something happened or did not happen largely for entertainment value.
But the credit for making something--anything--happen rarely if ever goes to the journalists. It is the "citizen soldiers" who carry the battle to the enemy. People who show up at City Council meetings and speak up. People who write letters and campaign for good causes. People who alert their neighbors and agitate for change when things go awry.
People like Ashley and the exceptional crew of NOLA Bloggers.
Mr. Rose would marginalize these doers. To him, folks like Ashley are mere "voices in the wilderness, raging at the machine." Although he wrote these words as praise of Ashley, there is clearly a belittling tone to writing that someone spends his time "tilting at windmills."
Well Mr. Rose's column and the letter from Entergy appear to dispel that myth.
Street name tiles are in the news because Ashley made them news.
We interred Ashley's remains several weeks ago, but don't think that means he's finished.
Friday, April 18, 2008
As agile and responsive as the world in which we live
In early 2006, the US House of Representatives weighed in with their assessment of the Hurricane Katrina disaster. Their report, "Failure of Initiative," came out too early to be able to discuss the engineering specifics but was nevertheless a thoughtful look at the big picture issues.
The major take-away for me was this statement:
"Officials at all levels seemed to be waiting for the disaster that fit their plans, rather than planning and building scalable capacities to meet whatever Mother Nature threw at them. We again encountered the risk-averse culture that pervades big government, and again recognized the need for organizations as agile and responsive as the 21st century world in which we live."
(From the Report by the Select Bipartisan Committee to Investigate the Preparation for and Response to Hurricane Katrina, http://katrina.house.gov/)
Two big ideas there.
First, since when does Nature play by our rules? She does not, so anyone who plans for a specific scenario and ignores all other scenarios is planning a catastrophe.
And second, you don't avoid risk by ignoring it. You can pretend that there is no risk, but all you're doing is pretending.
When I read the report about two years ago, I immediately copied down that quote and kept it close. I like to remind myself of those two big ideas from time to time, and I hope it helps keep my guard up.
But then recently I gained a new insight. This statement, written to chastise government agencies and functionaries, has much broader application. Could not almost the same be said of many rank-and-file citizens?
Because surely, if we rebuild our houses at exactly the so-called 100-year flood elevation and not one inch higher, if we refuse to even consider raising our homes and simply repair them where they are, regardless of the reality that there recently was 6 or 8 or 10 feet of water in them, are we not guilty of the same poor habits the congressional report excoriates?
And if we rebuild New Orleans and the surrounding communities in exactly the same way, refusing even to consider doing anything differently, rejecting all attempts at improvement, and fail to take advantage of this opportunity to change things, what will be said about the citizens of New Orleans if (when) the city floods again?
We may very well find ourselves accused of "Failure of Initiative."
The major take-away for me was this statement:
"Officials at all levels seemed to be waiting for the disaster that fit their plans, rather than planning and building scalable capacities to meet whatever Mother Nature threw at them. We again encountered the risk-averse culture that pervades big government, and again recognized the need for organizations as agile and responsive as the 21st century world in which we live."
(From the Report by the Select Bipartisan Committee to Investigate the Preparation for and Response to Hurricane Katrina, http://katrina.house.gov/)
Two big ideas there.
First, since when does Nature play by our rules? She does not, so anyone who plans for a specific scenario and ignores all other scenarios is planning a catastrophe.
And second, you don't avoid risk by ignoring it. You can pretend that there is no risk, but all you're doing is pretending.
When I read the report about two years ago, I immediately copied down that quote and kept it close. I like to remind myself of those two big ideas from time to time, and I hope it helps keep my guard up.
But then recently I gained a new insight. This statement, written to chastise government agencies and functionaries, has much broader application. Could not almost the same be said of many rank-and-file citizens?
Because surely, if we rebuild our houses at exactly the so-called 100-year flood elevation and not one inch higher, if we refuse to even consider raising our homes and simply repair them where they are, regardless of the reality that there recently was 6 or 8 or 10 feet of water in them, are we not guilty of the same poor habits the congressional report excoriates?
And if we rebuild New Orleans and the surrounding communities in exactly the same way, refusing even to consider doing anything differently, rejecting all attempts at improvement, and fail to take advantage of this opportunity to change things, what will be said about the citizens of New Orleans if (when) the city floods again?
We may very well find ourselves accused of "Failure of Initiative."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
River rising
Everybody's talking about the rising Mississippi River and the levees that keep it in check. And I'm not just talking about in the coffee shops and beauty parlors of New Orleans; my office is intense with activity.
It's called a flood fight, and with good reason.
When the water gets this high, even though reliably forecast to peak several feet lower than the tops of the levees, the weeks of water pressure and velocity on the levees will take their toll. As in any battle, troops will be deployed and defenses will need to be reinforced as the fight goes on. In 1973, I understand there were two locations where the main levee was showing signs of considerable stress, so a backup levee was constructed to keep the river at bay.
This is normal procedure. Cause for concern--yes. Cause for panic--no.
This is considerably different than a hurricane event. For one, the river is a well defined problem. We have mountains of historical data and a thorough understanding of how its waters flow. Hurricanes, to the contrary, are still very unpredictable. The National Weather Service has made huge strides in tropical cyclone prediction in recent decades, but it remains a game of odds. We don't have such gaps of knowledge when facing our foe in the Mississippi River. We know what's coming and when with great accuracy.
When a hurricane comes, all we can do is run away or hide behind levees. Again, a flood fight is different in that we can do much more. We have tools at our disposal--spillways that we can use to reduce pressure on our levees and divert the peak flows of the river.
Another difference is in how we conduct the fight. During the height of a hurricane it is simply not possible to closely monitor flood defenses or to attempt repairs. Even pump operators must take refuge in armored "safe houses" when the wind is at its worst. But the Mississippi River provides no such obstacle. Throughout the flood fight, inspectors will drive the levees and look for even the smallest indication of trouble. And when trouble occurs, crews will be able to respond quickly.
We can take solace in the knowledge that the river has not flooded the city since then: the levees have worked every time.
However, we must not let any of this lead us to be complacent. Just as we should never forget the hard lessons of 2005, we must always remember the suffering of 1927.
There's a reason it's called a flood fight. And the fight is on.
It's called a flood fight, and with good reason.
When the water gets this high, even though reliably forecast to peak several feet lower than the tops of the levees, the weeks of water pressure and velocity on the levees will take their toll. As in any battle, troops will be deployed and defenses will need to be reinforced as the fight goes on. In 1973, I understand there were two locations where the main levee was showing signs of considerable stress, so a backup levee was constructed to keep the river at bay.
This is normal procedure. Cause for concern--yes. Cause for panic--no.
This is considerably different than a hurricane event. For one, the river is a well defined problem. We have mountains of historical data and a thorough understanding of how its waters flow. Hurricanes, to the contrary, are still very unpredictable. The National Weather Service has made huge strides in tropical cyclone prediction in recent decades, but it remains a game of odds. We don't have such gaps of knowledge when facing our foe in the Mississippi River. We know what's coming and when with great accuracy.
When a hurricane comes, all we can do is run away or hide behind levees. Again, a flood fight is different in that we can do much more. We have tools at our disposal--spillways that we can use to reduce pressure on our levees and divert the peak flows of the river.
Another difference is in how we conduct the fight. During the height of a hurricane it is simply not possible to closely monitor flood defenses or to attempt repairs. Even pump operators must take refuge in armored "safe houses" when the wind is at its worst. But the Mississippi River provides no such obstacle. Throughout the flood fight, inspectors will drive the levees and look for even the smallest indication of trouble. And when trouble occurs, crews will be able to respond quickly.
We can take solace in the knowledge that the river has not flooded the city since then: the levees have worked every time.
However, we must not let any of this lead us to be complacent. Just as we should never forget the hard lessons of 2005, we must always remember the suffering of 1927.
There's a reason it's called a flood fight. And the fight is on.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Remember Ashley Morris
"Ashley Morris, PhD, passed away on April 2nd, 2008. Ashley was a father, a husband, a teacher, a scientist, a musician, and above all, a New Orleanian. He was a fiery spirit who inspired and energized anyone whose life he touched. Ashley left behind a wife and three small children and expenses are mounting. Please remember Ashley and help his family by making a donation through the PayPal link below."
Ashley Morris Fund
Ashley Morris Fund
Keep Me in Your Heart
Greg Peters over at Suspect Device gives us this tribute to Dr. Ashley Morris. It features photos of his family and friends and the music of Warren Zevon.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Ashley Morris
Died yesterday.
It's hard to believe someone who lived and loved with such ferocity could suddenly be... gone.
The NOLA Bloggers are still in shock, but so too are they mobilizing to help Ashley's wife and three children. Talk of fundraising and memorials that will carry his passions forward are in high gear.
Ashley was both large and larger than life. As passionate and enraged as he often was on his blog, in person he was one of the most considerate and affable people you could possibly know.
Some quick stories to remember:
When we had what was left of our house demolished, I blogged about losing my albums. My music collection was mostly 70's and 80's rock and punk, and I lamented that many were either too rare or too local to ever replace. Ashley immediately rushed in to help. He offered to give me his collection of old LPs and a turntable that he said he no longer used. Ashley noted that we shared a similar appreciation for early punk rock. Tempting as it was, I had to turn him down because there was no room in a FEMA travel trailer for such a gift. Undeterred, he later offered to give me a TV.
When the Saints returned to the Superdome, Ashley was right there. His blogs about that experience were so powerful, so completely heartfelt for something as trivial as a football game--yet Ashley was able to make the connection between a mere game and the soul of this struggling city, a city down physically and emotionally. His words poured out of his blog like fine wine, each phrase so delicious to savor. Out of the blue one day, Ashley invited me to be his guest at the next Saints game. This time I took him up on his generosity and we enjoyed a smashing Saints victory.
Ashley later had a large fleur de lis inked into his arm. When I saw him at Rising Tide II last year, I immediately asked to see the tattoo. Ashley's grin grew as wide as his biceps as he yanked up his sleeve. Nobody ever loved such a dysfunctional, backward, messed-up place as New Orleans as much as Ashley did.
Nobody.
It's hard to believe someone who lived and loved with such ferocity could suddenly be... gone.
The NOLA Bloggers are still in shock, but so too are they mobilizing to help Ashley's wife and three children. Talk of fundraising and memorials that will carry his passions forward are in high gear.
Ashley was both large and larger than life. As passionate and enraged as he often was on his blog, in person he was one of the most considerate and affable people you could possibly know.
Some quick stories to remember:
When we had what was left of our house demolished, I blogged about losing my albums. My music collection was mostly 70's and 80's rock and punk, and I lamented that many were either too rare or too local to ever replace. Ashley immediately rushed in to help. He offered to give me his collection of old LPs and a turntable that he said he no longer used. Ashley noted that we shared a similar appreciation for early punk rock. Tempting as it was, I had to turn him down because there was no room in a FEMA travel trailer for such a gift. Undeterred, he later offered to give me a TV.
When the Saints returned to the Superdome, Ashley was right there. His blogs about that experience were so powerful, so completely heartfelt for something as trivial as a football game--yet Ashley was able to make the connection between a mere game and the soul of this struggling city, a city down physically and emotionally. His words poured out of his blog like fine wine, each phrase so delicious to savor. Out of the blue one day, Ashley invited me to be his guest at the next Saints game. This time I took him up on his generosity and we enjoyed a smashing Saints victory.
Ashley later had a large fleur de lis inked into his arm. When I saw him at Rising Tide II last year, I immediately asked to see the tattoo. Ashley's grin grew as wide as his biceps as he yanked up his sleeve. Nobody ever loved such a dysfunctional, backward, messed-up place as New Orleans as much as Ashley did.
Nobody.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Ruminations of debris
I'm still picking up trash.
--and for you wags who grew up "cruising" the discos of the late 70's, that's not what I'm talking about.
What I mean is, I'm still picking up plastic bags and various paper wrappers along the streets of Vista Park, the tree-shaded neighborhood of New Orleans flooded by the London Avenue Canal breach in 2005.
When I first saw my house several weeks after Hurricane Katrina, the street, sidewalk, driveway and lawn were covered with about one-half inch of dirt, the dark sediment left by flood water that rushed in and left slowly. And there was all sorts of trash about as well. Things that floated or were washed from who-knows-where to end up on my quiet street.
Odd things, like a pink Care Bear doll and a DVD of the movie "Honey, I Shrunk the Kids." Curious, I picked up the silver disk, washed it off and kept it. I still have it and it works just fine.
Other things, like plastic wrapping from military MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) and plastic water bottles were obviously post-storm debris. In those early days I had no trash can so I just made a pile of the trash I found and trash I generated--as if putting trash in a specific pile amounted to a hill of beans back then.
Months later when the family returned and we settled into the FEMA Travel Trailer, trash along our once-idyllic street filled the gutters like leaves in autumn. All around us, houses were being gutted, unceremoniously disemboweled and the entrails piled along the right-of-way. All manner of refuse found its way up and down the street. Old magazines, bottles of nail polish, cancelled checks, flattened boxes that used to hold macaroni dinners…
For months, the activity was non-stop, as was the litter. Bobcats with solid-rubber tires rumbled to and fro like large, slow sugar ants, scooping trash and rumbling off to find more. Demolition crews took their turn, too, taking out six houses in the immediate area of our government-issued temporary home.
The one constant was the trash. At some point I decided that the Bobcats and demo crews were only going to pick up most of the trash. Large debris was not a problem; furniture and 2x4's all got scooped up and carried away. But the small stuff, whether paper or glass or plastic, seemed to escape the claw of the backhoe and the bucket of the Bobcat. Small stuff that could blow down the street, or be carried by rainwater toward the catch basin, evaded capture and congregated in the gutters of the neighborhood. And so I began to make trash sweeps of the street.
Right away I noticed a disturbing trend. A lot of the trash I was picking up was of the drink bottle and fast-food variety. This is trash not left over from somebody's destroyed dwelling, but trash brought in and dropped by the workers themselves. Lots of water bottles and coke cans. Lots of Burger King wrappers and Styrofoam plates.
It struck me as completely contrary. Grateful as I was for the government-funded clean-up crews, the volunteer house gutting teams, and the contract workers rebuilding the houses, it made me angry that they would consider my neighborhood suitable for dumping their trash. I fantasized about seeing such a person one day, catching him or her in the act of tossing an empty plastic water bottle to the side of the road. I imagined the confrontation, the righteous ire of my admonitions, the stumbling regret of the accused…
But it only happened in my head as I zigzagged up and down the street picking up trash.
After many months, the trash seems to be under control. Perhaps it's because the daily traffic of workers in the neighborhood has abated somewhat since late last year. Or perhaps it is because the street looks cleaner to the casual observer, which inspires him or her to not act as if our neighborhood is just a giant dump.
Whichever, I am grateful. I am still picking up trash, but it is mostly paper and plastic wrapping from someone's new appliances that was probably pulled from a proper trash pile by the wind. Most of the trash I gather now is not the remains of Vista Park's past, but its effort to forge a future.
--and for you wags who grew up "cruising" the discos of the late 70's, that's not what I'm talking about.
What I mean is, I'm still picking up plastic bags and various paper wrappers along the streets of Vista Park, the tree-shaded neighborhood of New Orleans flooded by the London Avenue Canal breach in 2005.
When I first saw my house several weeks after Hurricane Katrina, the street, sidewalk, driveway and lawn were covered with about one-half inch of dirt, the dark sediment left by flood water that rushed in and left slowly. And there was all sorts of trash about as well. Things that floated or were washed from who-knows-where to end up on my quiet street.
Odd things, like a pink Care Bear doll and a DVD of the movie "Honey, I Shrunk the Kids." Curious, I picked up the silver disk, washed it off and kept it. I still have it and it works just fine.
Other things, like plastic wrapping from military MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) and plastic water bottles were obviously post-storm debris. In those early days I had no trash can so I just made a pile of the trash I found and trash I generated--as if putting trash in a specific pile amounted to a hill of beans back then.
Months later when the family returned and we settled into the FEMA Travel Trailer, trash along our once-idyllic street filled the gutters like leaves in autumn. All around us, houses were being gutted, unceremoniously disemboweled and the entrails piled along the right-of-way. All manner of refuse found its way up and down the street. Old magazines, bottles of nail polish, cancelled checks, flattened boxes that used to hold macaroni dinners…
For months, the activity was non-stop, as was the litter. Bobcats with solid-rubber tires rumbled to and fro like large, slow sugar ants, scooping trash and rumbling off to find more. Demolition crews took their turn, too, taking out six houses in the immediate area of our government-issued temporary home.
The one constant was the trash. At some point I decided that the Bobcats and demo crews were only going to pick up most of the trash. Large debris was not a problem; furniture and 2x4's all got scooped up and carried away. But the small stuff, whether paper or glass or plastic, seemed to escape the claw of the backhoe and the bucket of the Bobcat. Small stuff that could blow down the street, or be carried by rainwater toward the catch basin, evaded capture and congregated in the gutters of the neighborhood. And so I began to make trash sweeps of the street.
Right away I noticed a disturbing trend. A lot of the trash I was picking up was of the drink bottle and fast-food variety. This is trash not left over from somebody's destroyed dwelling, but trash brought in and dropped by the workers themselves. Lots of water bottles and coke cans. Lots of Burger King wrappers and Styrofoam plates.
It struck me as completely contrary. Grateful as I was for the government-funded clean-up crews, the volunteer house gutting teams, and the contract workers rebuilding the houses, it made me angry that they would consider my neighborhood suitable for dumping their trash. I fantasized about seeing such a person one day, catching him or her in the act of tossing an empty plastic water bottle to the side of the road. I imagined the confrontation, the righteous ire of my admonitions, the stumbling regret of the accused…
But it only happened in my head as I zigzagged up and down the street picking up trash.
After many months, the trash seems to be under control. Perhaps it's because the daily traffic of workers in the neighborhood has abated somewhat since late last year. Or perhaps it is because the street looks cleaner to the casual observer, which inspires him or her to not act as if our neighborhood is just a giant dump.
Whichever, I am grateful. I am still picking up trash, but it is mostly paper and plastic wrapping from someone's new appliances that was probably pulled from a proper trash pile by the wind. Most of the trash I gather now is not the remains of Vista Park's past, but its effort to forge a future.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Not there
We like to think we can control time. We schedule everything down to the minute, with alarm clocks and watches and cell phones that prompt us with beeps to move on to the next task. We pride ourselves with being able to calculate the precise moment when the apparent path of the sun crosses over the equator and signals that time of year we designate as Spring.
And when it suits us, we change time, going forward and backward an hour as the mood strikes us. We call this Daylight Savings Time, as if we can bank the extra hour and as if we can control time.
We control nothing.
Time rampages forward as it damn well pleases. As if we could build a wall or an embankment to stop or slow, or funnel time to a place we'd find more useful or pleasing. But time is unstoppable, unchangeable.
We recently set our clocks forward in this annual ritual. On the Friday prior, I had left the FEMA Travel Trailer in dawn's early light. But on Monday, I emerged from our boxy abode to the darkness of my still recovering neighborhood. All around me was illuminated by the yellow glow of the trailer porch light. A little beyond was visible under the glare of street lights.
Now that my house is gone, and the houses that used to stand on either side of my house, and several other houses through the immediate area, I can see much more of Vista Park than I could see before the flooding. Which is to say, I can see farther because there is much less to see in this part of New Orleans.
The house is gone, but a little strip of walkway remains. The nice folks who installed the Emergency Housing Unit here made sure to line up the trailer steps with the walkway, so it almost looks like it belongs there. But this concrete walk goes about 12 feet, and then ends. At nothing.
Sometimes I look down as I walk this path. I look down and imagine that Katrina never happened, that the floodwalls are still standing, that our blond brick house is still there. I focus on the concrete walk and shut out the recent images of my city, instead pretending that the past was present, allowing my mind to trip momentarily into the images of what used to be.
But inevitably, I reach the end of that walkway, and the house is not there, the daydream bursts and the reality of the situation floods back in. I look up, and I look around at the empty lots, at the mix of repaired and empty houses around me.
Yes, we made the dawn come later and delayed nightfall, but who are we really fooling?
Time rushes forward and sweeps us along with it. We control nothing.
The sooner we figure that out, the better.
And when it suits us, we change time, going forward and backward an hour as the mood strikes us. We call this Daylight Savings Time, as if we can bank the extra hour and as if we can control time.
We control nothing.
Time rampages forward as it damn well pleases. As if we could build a wall or an embankment to stop or slow, or funnel time to a place we'd find more useful or pleasing. But time is unstoppable, unchangeable.
We recently set our clocks forward in this annual ritual. On the Friday prior, I had left the FEMA Travel Trailer in dawn's early light. But on Monday, I emerged from our boxy abode to the darkness of my still recovering neighborhood. All around me was illuminated by the yellow glow of the trailer porch light. A little beyond was visible under the glare of street lights.
Now that my house is gone, and the houses that used to stand on either side of my house, and several other houses through the immediate area, I can see much more of Vista Park than I could see before the flooding. Which is to say, I can see farther because there is much less to see in this part of New Orleans.
The house is gone, but a little strip of walkway remains. The nice folks who installed the Emergency Housing Unit here made sure to line up the trailer steps with the walkway, so it almost looks like it belongs there. But this concrete walk goes about 12 feet, and then ends. At nothing.
Sometimes I look down as I walk this path. I look down and imagine that Katrina never happened, that the floodwalls are still standing, that our blond brick house is still there. I focus on the concrete walk and shut out the recent images of my city, instead pretending that the past was present, allowing my mind to trip momentarily into the images of what used to be.
But inevitably, I reach the end of that walkway, and the house is not there, the daydream bursts and the reality of the situation floods back in. I look up, and I look around at the empty lots, at the mix of repaired and empty houses around me.
Yes, we made the dawn come later and delayed nightfall, but who are we really fooling?
Time rushes forward and sweeps us along with it. We control nothing.
The sooner we figure that out, the better.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Winter trees
I have not posted much about the neighborhood lately. And that's because I'm leaving.
I had such grand plans. I was going to build the model home on my street. I was going to build tall and strong on our vacant lot. I was going to lead the way and build the house of the future New Orleans.
But now, for the many reasons explained in prior posts, I am leaving. I'm selling to the Road Home and hitting the road for the relative high ground of Esplanade Ridge.
And I feel like I'm selling out.
Am I happy about the new house? Yes. Am I excited? Yes.
But these happy emotions are tempered by the feeling that I'm abandoning my neighbors and my neighborhood.
Our street ends in a cul-de-sac, around which a half-dozen or so houses are arranged. They always were a solid community of their own down there, always reliable for their pumpkin-carving parties in the fall, New Year's Eve parties in the winter, and the occasional neighborhood gathering all the rest of the year.
Almost every one of those families is back. They fixed up their slab-on-grade houses and moved right back in as fast as they could. I think most of them were back before 2007 arrived. And they're back at it--hosting parties and making the kind of neighborhood noises that we used to take for granted in Vista Park.
On New Year’s Eve just a couple of months ago, I took my Precious Daughter down to the cul-de-sac about a half-an-hour before midnight so that she could see the mass expenditure of money in sparks and explosions. They put on quite a show, and for a few moments there you could almost imagine that everything was back to normal, that everything was okay, or that Katrina and the 6 feet of flood water that drowned every house and building in this neighborhood had never happened.
Almost.
But the reality is that we are living with one eye closed. We see the good, the grand, the potential of this cluster of houses and all the joy it brings these families. And we refuse to see the bad, the catastrophic, the reality that these houses have a better than 26% chance of flooding again before most of them can pay off their SBA disaster assistance loans. That's a 1-in-4 chance or more of rising water returning.
My neighbors may or may not want to acknowledge this, but they must certainly know it's possible. It is as if they wink at fate and the weather and the promise of a world-class hurricane protection system that will not be complete until several years from now. They see only what they want to see.
In a way that's probably better. Because if they really acknowledged the risk, they might not be able to sleep at night. They might not be able to laugh and enjoy their fireworks on a cold December night not even a half mile from one of the major canal breaches that decimated this city.
I found it hard to talk to my neighbors that night, carrying the knowledge that we were on our way out. We had already made plans to leave and sell to the Road Home--and that decision placed an infinitely high and wide wall between us. We no longer had the things in common that bonded us together. They were staying; I was leaving. They had rebuilt in place; I was moving to higher ground. They staked their money and lives to their pre-flood houses; I had knocked down what was left of our house and was selling out ASAP.
No longer friends across the fence, we were more like two ships passing in the night.
The cold of December has long since passed, and January, too. The trees of Vista Park are still dormant, although only a few are bare. But as they have for millennia, those winter trees will bloom again. We plan not to be here to see them, but they will grow lush and green again in the thick New Orleans heat of spring and summer. And for as long as they can--as long as nature allows them--Vista Park and the many other neighborhoods of New Orleans will blossom into the fullness of life.
It's just that I won't be there. I know my neighbors will probably not understand our decision to sell and leave any more than I can understand their reasoning to stay and repair. I wish them well.
I had such grand plans. I was going to build the model home on my street. I was going to build tall and strong on our vacant lot. I was going to lead the way and build the house of the future New Orleans.
But now, for the many reasons explained in prior posts, I am leaving. I'm selling to the Road Home and hitting the road for the relative high ground of Esplanade Ridge.
And I feel like I'm selling out.
Am I happy about the new house? Yes. Am I excited? Yes.
But these happy emotions are tempered by the feeling that I'm abandoning my neighbors and my neighborhood.
Our street ends in a cul-de-sac, around which a half-dozen or so houses are arranged. They always were a solid community of their own down there, always reliable for their pumpkin-carving parties in the fall, New Year's Eve parties in the winter, and the occasional neighborhood gathering all the rest of the year.
Almost every one of those families is back. They fixed up their slab-on-grade houses and moved right back in as fast as they could. I think most of them were back before 2007 arrived. And they're back at it--hosting parties and making the kind of neighborhood noises that we used to take for granted in Vista Park.
On New Year’s Eve just a couple of months ago, I took my Precious Daughter down to the cul-de-sac about a half-an-hour before midnight so that she could see the mass expenditure of money in sparks and explosions. They put on quite a show, and for a few moments there you could almost imagine that everything was back to normal, that everything was okay, or that Katrina and the 6 feet of flood water that drowned every house and building in this neighborhood had never happened.
Almost.
But the reality is that we are living with one eye closed. We see the good, the grand, the potential of this cluster of houses and all the joy it brings these families. And we refuse to see the bad, the catastrophic, the reality that these houses have a better than 26% chance of flooding again before most of them can pay off their SBA disaster assistance loans. That's a 1-in-4 chance or more of rising water returning.
My neighbors may or may not want to acknowledge this, but they must certainly know it's possible. It is as if they wink at fate and the weather and the promise of a world-class hurricane protection system that will not be complete until several years from now. They see only what they want to see.
In a way that's probably better. Because if they really acknowledged the risk, they might not be able to sleep at night. They might not be able to laugh and enjoy their fireworks on a cold December night not even a half mile from one of the major canal breaches that decimated this city.
I found it hard to talk to my neighbors that night, carrying the knowledge that we were on our way out. We had already made plans to leave and sell to the Road Home--and that decision placed an infinitely high and wide wall between us. We no longer had the things in common that bonded us together. They were staying; I was leaving. They had rebuilt in place; I was moving to higher ground. They staked their money and lives to their pre-flood houses; I had knocked down what was left of our house and was selling out ASAP.
No longer friends across the fence, we were more like two ships passing in the night.
The cold of December has long since passed, and January, too. The trees of Vista Park are still dormant, although only a few are bare. But as they have for millennia, those winter trees will bloom again. We plan not to be here to see them, but they will grow lush and green again in the thick New Orleans heat of spring and summer. And for as long as they can--as long as nature allows them--Vista Park and the many other neighborhoods of New Orleans will blossom into the fullness of life.
It's just that I won't be there. I know my neighbors will probably not understand our decision to sell and leave any more than I can understand their reasoning to stay and repair. I wish them well.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Dear Senator Obama,
I was not able to attend your rally today at Tulane University in New Orleans, but I did read your scripted remarks online.
I want to thank you for taking a strong stand in support of building significantly improved hurricane protections around the New Orleans area. I particularly appreciate your use of the words, "Never again." This is truly a level of commitment that no one in Washington--with the exception of the Louisiana delegation--has dared articulate. Again, thanks.
I would also like to ask a favor of you. It is a simple thing I am asking, but I hope you will recognize how vitally important this is to citizens in Louisiana--and many more citizens across America--who live with the risk of flooding daily.
In your speech, you refer to the current objective to provide protection from a "100-year storm."
Senator, I must tell you there is no such thing as a "100-year storm."
The terminology "100-year flood" or "100-year storm" may be popular in the common vernacular, but it is patently misleading. What we are really talking about is the flood or storm that has a 1 percent chance of occurring or being exceeded in any given year. It is a theoretical weather event that is used to benchmark the risk of flooding.
Such careless terminology encourages the belief that such storms are rare and only occur once in a lifetime or less. Unfortunately this is not the case.
That 1 percent chance only applies to one year. Once we experience a "bad" year, there is no assurance whatsoever that we will have 99 "good" years. We could, in fact, see two consecutive "100-year" hurricanes occur in back-to-back years.
We need only recall the hyper-activity of tropical cyclones in the Gulf of Mexico in 2005 to recognize that large back-to-back storms are not some distant probability. Hurricanes Katrina, Rita and Wilma all reached Category 5 status on the Saffir-Simpson scale in just a single hurricane season.
In fact, statistics reveal how common that "100-year" event can be. There is a 26% chance that a 1% storm or flood will occur within 30 years. And there's a better than 50% chance that a person will experience the 1% flood within a normal lifetime.
Once in 100 years? Not by a long shot.
And so the favor I ask of you is that you take care to use the correct terminology when talking about hurricane and flood protection. Could you say, "1 percent per year chance of exceedence," or, "1 in 100 chance per year of being exceeded." In my work as a Civil Engineer, we often call it the "1% storm" for short.
Because Americans are looking to you for leadership, it is imperative that your proposals regarding hurricane protection be as accurate and precise as possible. The risk we face from flooding and hurricanes is real and must not be carelessly dismissed or misrepresented. That's the mistake we made before.
I hope I will again hear that you say, "Never again" when talking about hurricane protection. That's the kind of commitment to protecting Americans that can really make a difference and improve the quality of life for all.
Respectfully,
Tim
http://www.timsnamelessblog.blogspot.com/
(This letter was suggested by Maitri.)
I want to thank you for taking a strong stand in support of building significantly improved hurricane protections around the New Orleans area. I particularly appreciate your use of the words, "Never again." This is truly a level of commitment that no one in Washington--with the exception of the Louisiana delegation--has dared articulate. Again, thanks.
I would also like to ask a favor of you. It is a simple thing I am asking, but I hope you will recognize how vitally important this is to citizens in Louisiana--and many more citizens across America--who live with the risk of flooding daily.
In your speech, you refer to the current objective to provide protection from a "100-year storm."
Senator, I must tell you there is no such thing as a "100-year storm."
The terminology "100-year flood" or "100-year storm" may be popular in the common vernacular, but it is patently misleading. What we are really talking about is the flood or storm that has a 1 percent chance of occurring or being exceeded in any given year. It is a theoretical weather event that is used to benchmark the risk of flooding.
Such careless terminology encourages the belief that such storms are rare and only occur once in a lifetime or less. Unfortunately this is not the case.
That 1 percent chance only applies to one year. Once we experience a "bad" year, there is no assurance whatsoever that we will have 99 "good" years. We could, in fact, see two consecutive "100-year" hurricanes occur in back-to-back years.
We need only recall the hyper-activity of tropical cyclones in the Gulf of Mexico in 2005 to recognize that large back-to-back storms are not some distant probability. Hurricanes Katrina, Rita and Wilma all reached Category 5 status on the Saffir-Simpson scale in just a single hurricane season.
In fact, statistics reveal how common that "100-year" event can be. There is a 26% chance that a 1% storm or flood will occur within 30 years. And there's a better than 50% chance that a person will experience the 1% flood within a normal lifetime.
Once in 100 years? Not by a long shot.
And so the favor I ask of you is that you take care to use the correct terminology when talking about hurricane and flood protection. Could you say, "1 percent per year chance of exceedence," or, "1 in 100 chance per year of being exceeded." In my work as a Civil Engineer, we often call it the "1% storm" for short.
Because Americans are looking to you for leadership, it is imperative that your proposals regarding hurricane protection be as accurate and precise as possible. The risk we face from flooding and hurricanes is real and must not be carelessly dismissed or misrepresented. That's the mistake we made before.
I hope I will again hear that you say, "Never again" when talking about hurricane protection. That's the kind of commitment to protecting Americans that can really make a difference and improve the quality of life for all.
Respectfully,
Tim
http://www.timsnamelessblog.blogspot.com/
(This letter was suggested by Maitri.)
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