Updates

Updates on prior stories:

* New Orleans Police today reported finding the body of a woman who apparently died from multiple stab wounds. The Times-Picayune reports this is the first homocide in the city that was not a part of a police action since just before Hurricane Katrina raped our good city. I had earlier posted that I was, well, disappointed when I heard New Orleans was murder-free for so long. Today's news does not make me feel any better.

* My friend with the refrigerator reports that he can smell a bad odor coming from it. He also reports finding a few bugs in it recently and that his wife will find this totally unacceptable if they're still there when she returns in January. His insurance agent says it's covered, so my friend plans to put it out soon. Oh well. I guess I will have to return the REFRIGERATOR badge I thought I had earned.

* We're getting almost daily mail delivery at the apartment, but I still go to the Post Office once a week to get mail sent to our house that hasn't yet been forwarded. Today I picked up two pieces postmarked October, so I take that as progress.

* My daughter wanted pizza Sunday night, so I went to The Italian Pie on Magazine street. Excellent food and service, however, no sign of my beloved amateur bartender. Eh bien.

A night out with Jack

"Amateur" can be used to say something is good, or something is bad.

Amateur contractors, for instance, are bad. but amateur politicians can be very good. Amateur musicians can be painful, while amateur night at the improv is totally hit or miss.

In a city desperate for workers, desperate for so many trades and professions, amateurs abound. So you've got to be on your guard in New Orleans nowadays. Or not.

When I first got back to town, just four weeks after Katrina and right on the heels of Rita, I came to understand this first hand.

I was working long, late hours. The family was still evacuated, so I was doing the bachelor thing, you know, eating canned food and drinking beer at every meal. So when they reopened The Italian Pie on Magazine and Joseph, man what a beautiful sight that was!

One night, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my pizza, and the cute young bartender asked me what I wanted to drink. "Jack and seven," I said, and was amazed at the reply. "Jack Daniels?"

Okay, flashing lights and sirens could not have been more obvious. It was as if a duck dropped from the ceiling with a placard that said, "AMATEUR."

I chuckled to myself and said yes. I watched as she began to search the rows of bottles for the world-famous "Old No. 7." She found it, and then began to search for the mixer. After looking high and low, she consulted with the shift manager, a tall fellow with a 70's mop of brown hair parted right down the middle. I saw Chandler shake his head to indicate the negative to her.

"We don't have any 7-up," she reported. "Would you like it with Coke or lemonaide?" I shuddered. Lemonaide? What Baptist town did you escape from, I wondered. "Just give it to me on the rocks," I said.

She smiled sweetly, and then returned to the bottle of Jack. With a few cubes in the glass, she started to pour. And pour. And pour.

She delivered the full glass and charged me $4. Suddenly, she was in my estimation the best bartender in the city of New Orleans. I tipped her generously.

Chandler wandered by a couple minutes later, glanced at my drink, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Is that all Jack?" he asked.

"Not only that, she charged me for a regular drink," I said.

He shook his head, "She's new," he said. "This is her first day."

"Well, she's FABULOUS," I said, and we both laughed.

I suppose if I had ordered a Long Island Ice Tea or a Bloody Mary, she'd have made a bloody mess of it and I would not be writing so kindly of her. Any bartender that tips the Jack longer than the 7 is a good mixologist in my book. But one that pours double or more is worthy of worship in my world.

I returned to The Italian Pie several times over the next month, but sadly my amateur bartender was not to be found.

Rest in Peace

I attended the Louisiana Recovery & Rebuilding Conference here in New Orleans on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. An amazing collection of highly committed, community-minded people were there. I was invited to represent the American Society of Civil Engineers.

The goal of the conference was twofold: brainstorm and collaborate on a new vision for the new New Orleans and Southeast Louisiana, and, take that message to the streets via the diverse network of conference attendees.

It was an invigorating experience to say the least. So many good hearts all beating in unison in a big room--I couldn't help but be inspired.

There was one unusual moment, one very ironic moment that stands out as I replay the days in my mind.

Saturday morning before the proceedings got under way, I was milling around in the lobby. We did this every day, we got our coffee and just chatted with whoever was standing around with coffee waiting for things to start.

I got into a conversation with a local activist friend and two other locals who work for a preservation organization here. Just friendly chatting and banter. Then one person made this really incredible statement: Since Hurricane Katrina, there have been no murders in the city of New Orleans.

Zero.

It took about 10 seconds for that to sink in. I just stared straight ahead, absorbing what that means. No murders. Ten weeks. New Orleans.

My friends in the city no doubt understand the power of that statement. New Orleans has habitually been one of the top murder cities in the US. Over the years, per capita, New Orleans has the dubious honor of being the murder captial of America.

But now that is totally over. Now we can boast that we have had zero murders, which puts us on par with Mayberry and Pleasantville. Wow.

At the end of that contemplative moment, I felt the blush of one strong emotion pass through me.

Disappointment.

And as soon as I realized what my reaction was, my reaction changed to embarassment. How could I be disappointed that no one had their life taken prematurely?

I don't know. I can only say that it has something to do with calling attention once again to the scale of this disaster.

Aparently, there are just so few of us in New Oleans. So few that nobody got into anyone else's face for more than two months.

We were losing about 300 souls per year of late. Now that problem is gone. Wiped out, along with the stroried neighborhoods and citizens.

Or perhaps my disappointment comes from the knowledge, the statistical factoid, that more than 1,000 Louisiana residents are dead in Katrina's wake, may they rest in peace.

Not a good trade.

More on the LRRC at: http://www.louisianarecoveryandrebuilding.org/

Dishes, CDs and Coffee Mugs

The first time you see your flooded house, you surrender.

You simply give up. You say things like, "It's all ruined," and, "There's nothing to save." It's just too much to comprehend. You think if you just close your eyes, all will be back to normal when you look again. It doesn't work.

The second time you see your flooded house, you think, perhaps there are a few things I can get. Things of special, sentimental value. Things that are either waterproof, or even if not, would be worth having even if damaged. Things that are emotionally worth the effort of moving furniture, digging through sludge and debris, climbing over and around rotting food and stinking, mildew covered clothes and bedding. Jewelry, awards and pins, little baubles that have value beyond the material.

The third time you see your flooded house, you start to believe that there's a lot of things in there that are actually in pretty good shape, considering. Dishes and classware, for instance, can be salvaged with a little scrubbing and a bleach bath. Stainless silverware is likewise good to go, provided the metal is not pitted. Coffee mugs, that odd assortment that could almost tell your family's history of vacations, schools and professional meetings, might not be worth more than 50 cents, but you just can't leave them behind.

The fourth time you see your flooded house, you pull out your CDs and DVDs. Sure, the boxes are trash, but the discs might still work. Some of them are brown and tarnished, or pitted and peeling. You know those won't play. But a lot of them are still shiny and silver. You give them a good cleaning, and are surprised to find that although they will play and they surely look clean, they still stink. That's okay for the James Brown CDs, but Patsy Cline should not be funky. You look around for other things, but there is very little that the soaking waters have not permanently ruined.

The fifth time you see your flooded house, you surrender. You close you eyes and keep them shut.

Keep the lights on

There's no more telling measure of how devestating Katrina was to New Orleans than the darkness. There are whole areas still without electricity. And these areas are not going to get electricity any time soon.

We've all heard that 80 percent of the city was flooded. We've heard that tens of thousands of our neighbors who evacuated remain scattered. But seeing is believing. Or in this case, not seeing.

After dark, the skyline of New Orleans has its bright spots, like the central business district, the Superdome, Canal Street near the river.

But there are large voids, too. Like Carrollton from Canal Street all the way to Lake Pontchartrain. And New Orleans East.

Huge, gaping, black holes, devoid of light and life.

The light of New Orleans lives, however. It burns brightly in the hearts of all its displaced citizens. It beams from their faces whenever they think of or talk about home. It guides us back to the Crescent City, like a lighthouse guides ships to safe harbor.

This is a light that cannot be extinguished. It is a light that cannot be hidden by a bushel-basket. It is a light that can cut through darkness, even the immense and sad darkness that rests on New Orleans for the time being.

Wynton Marsalis knows the power of this light. Of the tragedy that struck New Orleans he recently wrote, "In New Orleans, we have real big roaches, and we have a saying: 'When you turn the lights on, the roaches scatter.' We must keep the lights on."

We must, and we will.

Partial Post

I went to the Post Office today. To get my mail.

So many things we used to take for granted. Regular mail delivery is one of them. In the destroyed neighborhoods, there is no mail service, nor is there need for it.

But even in areas not badly damaged by the storms and the flooding, the sight of a bag-carrying blue uniform is rarer than sympathy cards for Tom Benson. We’ve been at our new apartment for two weeks, and we’ve been visited a total two times. Neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night can stop the mail, but labor shortages—game over!

The Post Office is as stressed as every other employer in New Orleans right now. They’re struggling to repair and reopen damaged facilities, trying to catch up on the backlog of work, and all the while trying to maintain the semblance of ordinary business operations. And they’re doing all of this with a reduced labor force.

Sure, we put in forwarding requests with the Post Office, but that’s just increased their workload exponentially as each piece of mail must be handled multiple times to get from mail sorter A to letter carrier B.

That’s why I went to the Post Office to get my mail.

I’m not complaining, really I’m not. They’re doing their best to make it painless. They’ve come up with a fairly good process.

As you enter the building, you are directed to a table to fill out a little slip of paper. Name, street address, zip code. You give it to the lady at the counter, show a picture I.D. and she tells you to go wait in the lobby by the Post Office Boxes. Every few minutes, someone comes out with a handful of mail, shouts out the address or name, and you collect your mail, if there is any.

It was a curious thing, standing there in the post office. About two dozen of us, trying to be patient, waiting for the right number to be called as though this were Friday night Bingo.

“2553 Eads!” the lady called. A happy customer came forward to collect a thick wad of envelopes wrapped in a rubber band.

“6210 St. Anthony!” An unkempt young man smiled and waved, “That’s me.” He wears a fine layer of white dust that is evidence that he’s been working on the house.

“5829 Pratt!” I stiffen. Others stare with sadness. A middle-aged woman who looks like she’s been assigned to a hard labor camp comes forward to get two thin envelopes. Her expression does not change as she takes her mail and pushes on the glass door to leave. Most of watching understand her pain. Pratt is the first street on the west side of the London Avenue Canal. From her address, we know the levee broke a few doors down the street from her home. We know that dunes of sand, silt and clay cover her street and likely fill her home. She’s our neighbor and also a total stranger. We feel sympathy, empathy, and sadness for ourselves all in the same moment.

After about 10 minutes, I am handed a single letter and a post card.

Gettin' Carried Away

Is it because we've been having such a rough time of it that we are so ready to just celebrate for any silly reason? Or is it that New Orleans is a town that always has and always will celebrate the little things?

This is a true story, I swear it!

I can't put a date on it, but we've been doing this for several years, the wife and me. We've been nice to the garbage men.

It sounds like such a simple thing, and yet, the looks we sometimes get...

Anyway, more than a decade ago when we were still living in our first house, my wife and I got into the habit of giving cold drinks to the garbage men. I mean, it's just a simple act of kindness. An acknowledgment that these men who bust their asses lifting cans and bags of trash and run behind the trucks for who knows how many hours a day in the heat and humidity of New Orleans, that what they do is really really hard work. And I'm pretty sure none of them are getting rich doing this.

Let's just say it's a no-brainer.

We got into the habit that every time we see them coming down the street, we'd run and bring them cokes, water, whatever we had that was cold and packaged to go. I think they liked it. In fact I know they liked it, because one time a few years ago, we weren't outside when they passed, so they came and knocked on the door.

Later, my wife started to just put bottles of water out on the front porch two days a week.

Trash pick-up has not been so good of late. Sure, FEMA's got these contractors all over the city picking up refrigerators, scooping up construction debris, hauling off fallen limbs and trees. But ordinary household trash has gone untouched.

And I know my friends from out of town or of state are saying, “What? They’re still picking up storm debris more than two months later?” YES. Best estimates are that it will be TWO YEARS before we can haul it all away. So perhaps you’ll now understand the current interest is trash pick-up.

Finally, just yesterday, regular trash pick-up service was restarted city-wide. And my wife was home when the big, noisy trash truck came a-rumbling down the block. You would have thought she was a child hearing the ice cream truck the way she responded. Quick as she could, she grabbed a handful of water bottles for perhaps the hardest working, and perhaps for today at least, the most appreciated men in the city.

By the time she made it outside, the trash truck had already gone a few houses down the street. A couple cars were following, having no way to safely pass the truck and the garbage men darting back and forth. My wife ran up to the men, gave them the water and thanked them for their efforts. They thanked her back, of course.

And then, the unexpected happened. Those folks in their cars, witnesses to the gifts my wife gave the workers, rolled down their windows. You might have thought they were upset to be stuck behind a garbage truck. You might expect they would be angry with my wife for further delaying their slow progress. But no, not today.

They rolled down their windows and they cheered.

"Hooray!" they shouted, "Let's hear it for the garbage men! We really appreciate them!"

Is it because we've been having such a rough time of it that we are so ready to just celebrate for any silly reason? Or is it that New Orleans is a town that always has and always will celebrate the little things?

Food for Thought

"Everybody is miserable because you can't go anywhere without getting caught in traffic. We went to dinner the other night and it took an hour and a half to get our food." That's the lament of a co-worker of mine.

He's talking about life in Metairie, the bedroom community next to New Orleans. They suffered some flooding and wind damage from the hurricanes, but nothing on a scale to compare with my neighborhood, or the neighborhoods to the East.

As a result, most of the population of Metairie is back, along with a big chunk of New Orleanians in need of places to live, work, eat and shop. The results: gridlock, long lines, loss of civility, indigestion. Oh, the humanity!

This is a curious turn of events, indeed.

You would expect that those of us "struggling to survive" in the decimated city would be much worse off than our counterparts on the other side of the 17th Street Canal.

But listen to this: I can go out to eat at any of several restaurants, and waiting is not a problem. Neither is traffic. Or parking.

A few nights ago, I took the family and a friend out to eat at Mona's Cafe on Carrollton Avenue. We walked right in and had food on the table faster than you can say "Shish ka-Bob's Your Uncle." Excellent service and eats. Lebanese tea, falafel, hummus, authentic background music.

And just yesterday, we met my parents for lunch at the Freret Street Cafe, a cute little place that is essentially an early 20th century gas station painted yellow. The weather was beautiful, so we sat outside under the canopy painted with palm fronds. They serve a variety of sandwiches and grilled plates, the best of which was the shrimp po-boy that my wife ordered. It was bursting with fried shrimp to rival any I've ever seen in New Orleans.

I guess what I'm saying is, life is good in New Orleans. Uptown is doing just fine, thank you. Even in its current condition, it's a great place to be.

For my Metairie friends, I am reminded of Emma Lazarus' verse, "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Who knows, maybe that yellow paint at the Freret Street Cafe is supposed to be gold.

Restaurants:
Mona’s Cafe, 1120 South Carrollton Ave., 861-8174.
Freret Street Cafe, corner of Freret and Lowerline.

Staring in the Rear-View Mirror

The military has this saying, that you have to be careful you're not just preparing for the last war. What that means is simply to look forward, not back, when planning for the future.

For the good citizens in uniform, that means don't assume the enemies of the future will use the same weapons and tactics of the past. Technology, politics, economics, even cultures change with time.

Put another way: You'll never get safely to your destination if all you do is stare in the rear-view mirror.

I hope we keep this in mind as we rebuild New Orleans and South Louisiana. Yes, Katrina was a bitch, and Rita was her wicked sister, but they're not the only threats to our homes and neighborhoods.

For the past few weeks, I've been hearing a lot of talk about building higher levees and raising houses. And that's nothing but smart coming out of what we've just been through.

But is that all?

No doubt that if my house had been about 8 feet higher I'd be a much happier man. No doubt that if my neighbors were likewise elevated we'd be waving to each other across the lawns instead of emailing each other from two, three, four states apart.

But if that's all we do, if we just build higher and quit there, I'm afraid we'll be prepared for Hurricane Katrina only. And I think we all know that Katrina will never come again.

Hurricanes bring more than storm surges; they also bring high winds. Katrina knocked out a lot of windows from high rise buildings and tore shingles from rooftops across the city, and she wasn't even all that strong.

If we're going to rebuild smart, it's got to be not just higher, but stronger. We've got to design our homes and businesses to withstand destructive hurricane-force winds.

Right up front, we can look at roofing and see if there's a way to improve the performance of roofs. A quick look down any street in town at all the blue roofs should give us a clue as to how poorly our roofing systems perform even under minor hurricane force winds.

And what about shutters? They've become a joke in all the newer neighborhoods. Most of them are just color-coordinated vinyl bolted to the brick. Again, recent hurricanes like Cindy and Katrina really didn't blow too hard on our town, but one day a 160 mph monster will come through, and we'd better be ready. We should have actual, functioning shutters on every new home, and we should encourage same on all existing homes when they renovate.

These are just a couple suggestions to consider as we rebuild our city. Everyone's talking about rebuilding smarter and better. I just hope we're smart enough to not just protect ourselves from the last hurricane.

A proud accomplishment

I have done it. Not too many people can say that. And I'm thinking it deserves a place on my resume, somewhere between my Bachelor's Degree and completion of Army Basic Training.

Most people, faced with the same problem, punted. They turned away and refused to face it. But not me, I set my mind to the task and I did it.

I cleaned a refrigerator.

I will pause momentarily to bask in your admiration.

Thank you. Thank you.

Post Katrina, a plague of epic proportions infested our refrigerators. Food left for days and weeks took on new life and new civilizations, moldily growing where no food in our homes has ever grown before.

The more common cure: duct tape and dump it. Get it outta here and mark it as hazardous waste! Although many wags labelled their boxes as containing Saints Owner Tom Benson or former FEMA leader Mike Brown, the true contents are far more disgusting.

People have asked me, how and why?

The how was not so bad as you would imagine. My secret, if you will, was simply to fill two trash cans with the contents of the ice box while thinking as little as possible about what it was I was removing. I did not stop to ponder, for instance, that this brownish bag of goo was at one time tomatoes, or veal, or rice. Just toss it and forget it.

And the bugs, well, best not to think too long about them, either. Sure, there were a lot of those guys in both the fridge and freezer compartments, and no doubt they had a knock-down-drag-out party in our absence. But how did they get in there? My advice: don't ask, don't tell.

After that it was not so bad. A lot of 409 and bleach and baking soda.

And why? Well, when I first came back to town I was staying at a friend's house who was not planning to return for many more weeks. I guess I wanted to do him a favor, and I guess, too, that I wanted to be able to have a place for the beer.

Yes, that is my story. If I still had an Army uniform, I'd sew a REFRIGERATOR badge on my shoulder, like the RANGER and AIRBORNE tabs some soldiers wear.

I have done it.

And now, I will enjoy a cold beer and apply ointment to this unusual rash I have developed.

It's my job

For the last three years, my morning commute has taken me up Carrollton Avenue to the river. Those of you with a hobby of collecting hangovers will know that's where the bar and grill called Cooter Brown's is located.

For the last three years, almost every morning, I have seen a lone worker, cleaning up the mess that the all-night partiers invariably left behind.

And last week, after an absense of about two months brought no doubt by the intrusion of Katrina in our lives, he was back.

Wearing a black apron and white shrimping boots, the tall thin man uses a hose, a broom and a shovel to wash and sweep and scrape Cooter's back into shape. Regardless of the weather or holidays, he's been there every morning that I've been by there.

Can I tell you how excited I was to see him there? It sounds crazy, but it was like seeing the first flowers after a long hard winter. It was like seeing a ship emerge safely from the fog. I wanted him to know how happy it made me just to see him sweeping and hosing. I wanted to share this feeling with him.

So I pulled over and hopped out to meet this man.

Perhaps frightened, and certainly surprised, he shyly told me his name was Robert. I told him how glad I was to see him, a person I'd never met, a man I only knew as a touchstone of normalcy in these crazy times.

He smiled, showing a gold tooth. He said he'd been cleaning up Cooter Brown's for 16 years. I told him he was doing a great job, and thanked him for coming back to our wrecked town.

"It's my job," he said.

I wanted to ask him a dozen more questions, but he didn't seem comfortable talking to me. Perhaps Robert is naturally shy, a person who would prefer not being noticed and talked to. That might be why he took the late-night cleaning job in the first place, and why he did it so well.

Or, perhaps he just thought I was insane, stopping to shake the hand of a janitor in the early morning light.

So I didn't keep him. I wished him well, got back in my car and continued on my way.

And Robert went back to cleaning, just like he's always done.

Welcome back, Robert. Thanks again.

Rebuilding

People keep asking me, "Are you planning to rebuild on your property?"

The answer is, "No way! I'm not going to rebuild ON the property, I'm going to rebuild about 10 feet ABOVE my property."