tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91016345179016809852024-03-04T20:12:15.515-08:00Bones McGregorCurrently consisting of a series of blogs detailing on-the-ground experiences inside the levees of New Orleans in the days immediately following Hurricane Katrina. Written immediately during and after the events in 2005, simmering and percolating, aging and curing until getting final edits in installments now. For those who are curious or want to remember.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-69337407667343333552014-10-10T19:56:00.000-07:002014-10-11T07:32:09.604-07:00Hurricane Katrina (The 10th Year After-draft) "7 Years Later" Continued Part 11 CONCLUSION14.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Things winding down and boats being pulled from the water, we loaded Sam and Gigi into Morgan’s boat. We partnered with another crew and left to give the Governor’s Office a brief tour. We sped north on Reed Boulevard, the main “canal” providing access to the area. The water level went quickly to six feet, partially covering homes, schools and businesses. The Lake Plaza Shopping Mall eerily sat like an island in the new lake that was a parking lot a few days before. Crossing under Interstate 10, the water level dropped, then rose again quickly on the north side. We passed a partially submerged MacDonald’s and a strip mall, then glided into deeper water as we moved toward Lake Pontchartrain.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Some houses remained submerged below their rooflines. We passed a white rabbit and a domesticated duck floating on debris, survivors still close to their cages. A block before the levee, the water level was too shallow for us to continue. From an officer in the other boat, we determined that a nursing home on Haynes Boulevard, that our nurse friend had hoped to check, was actually miles away and inaccessible from our location. We then accompanied the other boat to a residential area its NOPD passenger had asked to check.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Heading east, we entered an area of much more expensive homes than those in the areas we had been working. Their value did nothing to protect them from Katrina’s wrath. We motored through the quiet suburban streets through an area that appeared to be a central lake around which many of the homes had been built. The expanded lake lacked visible banks and now consumed gazebos, docks and boat sheds. Flocks of ducks flew and set as we passed. At one point, I imagined Morgan reaching for his shotgun thinking of duck gumbo.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We idled around the lake while Sam and I discussed what had happened with the storm. He referred me to a book named “Rising Tide” written years before. It analyzed the 1927 flood, the reaction to it and the political battles that ultimately shaped the Flood Prevention Plan and course of action followed by government since then. In the wake of Katrina, he told me that the book was climbing the best-seller list again.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Winding down, ready to go home, and the adrenaline flow cut off, fatigue began to set in. It was time to go home. No doubt, those waiting for us at the dock felt more strongly about that than we did. We began to head back. We passed SUV’s and two story brick homes, down the tree lined boulevard, past the assisted living high rise and back to Reed Boulevard. We turned south to begin the last leg of the journey. We passed Memorial Hospital and, almost as an afterthought, I remembered the preacher with his hospice patients.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We had not had any word since someone had made contact with him earlier that day. The report then was that two of the patients were hanging on and he was not leaving them. Presumably, as hospice patients, it made better sense to let them pass in peace in their beds rather than forcing a “rescue” upon them. The preacher’s commitment to them, to his job and to his conscience would ensure that they were treated with the best attention and dignity that could be provided under these circumstances.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Morgan drew the motor to an idle and circled the hospice. Finally, after we passed around three sides of the building without obtaining a response, a man emerged on the second floor roof of a wing of the 10+-story building. We threw him an MRE. He held up his hand, thanked us, and informed us that he did not need food. He offered us gasoline, as he had to our comrades a few days before. He reported that there were still two patients alive. Appearing almost apologetic, he told us that one patient had passed on and he needed to move her from the room she occupied with one of the remaining living patients.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There was no hesitation from the R & R guys. Within minutes, the boats were docked near the building. We climbed onto and then crossed the long metal shed covering the submerged cars in the parking lot, to climb onto the second floor roof to join the preacher. A strong smell of decaying flesh hit us in the face almost immediately. Our imaginations created vivid images of what we might find inside the hospice. Upon entering, we were met with only a mild odor, similar to what might be encountered in a functioning nursing home. Later, we were to discover that the stench on the roof came from the carcasses of two giant Rotweiller dogs that had unsuccessfully ridden out the storm under the building’s large air conditioner condensing unit.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After entering the main building, we noticed a room to the left in which two beds were positioned with their feet perpendicular to each other. On one wall to the left was an area that the preacher had apparently used during the six days since the storm, to sit and read or listen to news reports on his portable radio. A scented candle burned. In one bed was an elderly lady, occasionally making barely audible and unintelligible sounds. We began to refer to the preacher, whose name was Greg, as Chaplain. He let us know that this lady continued to refuse any kind of sustenance or medication, but she continued to hang on.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Occasionally, the elderly lady’s eyes opened slightly revealing bright crystals that certainly glowed inside the face of a beautiful spirit in her youth. On her back, she held the bedrail with one hand. I thought of my mother and my godmother, small, beautiful women who had lived into their 80’s. Both now gone, they each had beautiful eyes and boundless spirits that embodied everything that is New Orleans.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Next to the other bed, Chaplain Greg stood with the last piece of white medical tape he used to secure a clean white plastic cover over the patient who had recently passed on. After all of this time, under unimaginable conditions, Greg still maintained an obvious respect for this lady’s dignity. He asked that we move her to an occupied room, but informed us that the bed on which she rested could not fit through the door.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My mind began to consider options and the problems presented by each. As I stumbled mentally considering each, the best and only solution came simply and clearly out of the mouth of one of the R & R guys, problem solvers who spend their days creating solutions. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We’ll move only the mattress and bend its side as we move her undisturbed through the doors”.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The task proved to be only mildly awkward, as her frail frame added little weight to the mattress. She was gently moved to an unoccupied room where the mattress and its occupant were placed onto a bed. She was left to rest in peace.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Outside of the room, we entered a typical hallway you might see in any small hospital. All but one of the doors were closed and each had a clean white sheet stuffed underneath. The door casings were sealed to the door with white plastic tape, as was the sheet to the bottom of the door. I counted eight doors in that section of hallway. The chaplain slowly closed the door, placed a sheet at its base and began to seal off this one in the same fashion as the others.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the room next to the door being sealed by the Chaplain was the second patient. We were told she was in a great deal of pain, suffering the final stages of cancer. The nurse asked the location of IV equipment and liquid morphine to provide her some relief. Greg said he knew of none, and that he had never seen any of the patients given IV’s. He qualified this with the comment that he was “only the chaplain”, presumably meaning he had limited knowledge of medicine and medical treatment. He did say that he had managed to periodically administer morphine orally to her to alleviate her pain, but that he had only one pill left.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gigi checked out available medications, and did what she could to comfort the two ladies. Presumably, we would exit shortly to return home, leaving Chaplain Greg to his task. My fatigue had obviously blinded me by this time, to some things that should have been obvious to me. The stark realities confronted in the last few days had apparently hardened my otherwise overly empathetic nature. I was ready to go and knew that Boss-man Ronny and his crew at the highway knew nothing about what we were doing. I was sure they were ready to go as well.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The nurse noticed that Greg was coughing and was physically and emotionally drained. Despite his efforts to seal off the rooms, he could not protect himself from the potential disease he would come into contact with among the now deceased former patients. He had to go, and the only way to get him to go was to rescue his last two patients. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Focus on the ladies created a dilemma. Do we “rescue” two ladies who have chosen hospice care because they want to die peacefully? To do so would require them being carried into the bright sunlight, something they certainly had not encountered in many weeks, if not months. Then they would somehow need to be lowered into a small, metal fishing boat and carried to the side of a highway with only hope of transport being provided. Their ultimate destination might be a crowded makeshift medical care facility across town at the airport or one arbitrarily chosen by whoever might be driving the land transportation. Also, Greg had professed for a week his intention not to leave. He wished to remain with the ladies to provide whatever attention, care and solace he could while they remained on this earth.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Focus on Greg and a potential long life ahead of him removed the dilemma. His health would be endangered if he stayed and appropriate arrangements could be made for proper removal and care of the ladies.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The wheels were in motion. Assured that the patients would be treated properly, Chaplain Greg was told to pack his things. Ronny was informed of the situation by walkie-talkie. Our friends from NOPD stood by on the roof outside, and began attempts to summon helicopter transport. Within 20 minutes, a medi-vac helicopter hovered overhead and lowered one of its crew onto the roof. Quickly, it was determined that air rescue would not be possible. The roof was too small to land the chopper and it could accommodate only ambulatory patients. If we could bring the patients by boat to the interstate overpass, air transport might be arranged---“might”.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Contact with Ronny back at the highway confirmed the availability of ground transport. He had made arrangements with a passing Navy vehicle connected with a medical ship docked in the Mississippi River. Always prepared, Ronny sent one of the larger flat bottom boats along with three men and two metal, mesh “baskets” designed for transporting injured oilfield workers. Awaiting their arrival, we set about the task of preparing the ladies for the most comfort we could on their impending journey.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The bottoms of the metal stretchers were lined with pads to try to avoid direct contact of the ladies’ frail bodies with the rigid mesh carriers. The large construction workers laid each lady gently into position. Each was covered with a clean white sheet and secured by stretching disposable “ace” bandages repeatedly across the top of the carriers over the sheets. Before being carried into the bright sunlight, their eyes were covered with a small pillowcase after we assured them that the purpose was to protect their eyes on the “little boat ride” they were about to take. At the edge of the roof, the head of the carrier was secured with rope. Maintaining as much of a horizontal position as possible, the baskets were lowered one at a time down to four men in the boat a floor below. The baskets were placed gently on the deck of the boat, one on each side of the center console. A perfect fit.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The boat motored away to unload the fragile cargo along with the complete medical file of each lady. The boat also carried the complete medical files of the various deceased patients who remained at the facility. Sam’s intention was to see that family members were contacted in hopes that they would be consoled with the knowledge that their loved ones had not been deserted. In no more than two or three minutes, they would be at the highway and placed in the Navy transport vehicle.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Out of the door and onto the roof came Chaplain Greg, dressed and carrying his bag. For the first time, he expressed how elated he was to see our boats. Clearly, he was thankful that a solution to his situation had been found. He had family in Slidell he needed to contact. With the twin spans of I-10 crossing over the lake destroyed by the storm, he intended to walk across the Highway 11 Bridge to Slidell. Instead, Sam offered him a ride out of the City, to assist him in reaching his destination and to see that he was not caught up in the evacuation of others being dispersed to all parts of the country.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the shallow water near the highway, the boat could not offload directly onto dry ground. To allow Chaplain Greg the respect he deserved, a ladder was found and a makeshift gangplank fashioned to let him exit the boat without having to wade in the dank, nasty waters. Our goodbyes said, we cleaned up with bottled water, and discarded shoes and shirts hoping to shed the smells, tastes and germs of the day.<br />
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15.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The decision was made to return to our Canal Street campsite before returning home. Some media people and the young lady who had worked side by side with us after joining our force the day before, would be dropped downtown to retrieve their vehicles.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A few media crews and rescue and recovery workers with supplies and communications replaced the crowds of displaced residents, which had filled the elevated highway just three days before. A large fire department from a few states away had set up a tented headquarters on one shoulder of the road. The sky was filled with helicopters. The City appeared otherwise empty. “Dewatering” of the cluttered, ravaged City was projected to take 36-80 days. Utility service and water might not be available for a month or more.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We returned to downtown past the Convention Center. A few people wandered amidst the huge mounds of smelly debris and chairs on the sidewalks and in the streets. The foot of Canal Street and the Harrah’s headquarters was busy with fresh workers and their shiny emergency vehicles from generous communities all over the country. The trolley tracks were vacant and our rag-tag bunch pulled into our reserved spots.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We considered trying to put together a group photo, but opted instead to hit the road. Ronny declared to everyone that he had decided now to get rid of his New Orleans “condominium” to move back home. As many as could, shook hands with Capt. Bayard, each thanking the other with obvious respect. We left in a proud line, the R & R logo now recognizable to many law enforcement officers and our fellow volunteers.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On the west bank of the river, the traffic flow had increased. Approaching Boutte, and the entrance to the I-310 leg that would return us to our I-10 route home, some traffic lights were now working. Our group got splintered and used three separate return routes home. We each spent the Labor Day holiday catching up with family and friends and watching unending news reports from the scene we had just left. Back home, back to reality, our familiar surroundings provided us with comfort, but we realized we were each changed by our experience. The reality to which we had returned would be forever different. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I called and thanked Ronny Lovett for making something possible for me that would not have happened without his generosity and compassion. He had certainly impacted thousands of lives because of it. He dismissed it as simply the right thing to do and discussed returning if other help could be provided. With no regrets, our bodies and minds began to recuperate and to adjust to our new reality. We did not know what the future would hold for the City of New Orleans or its residents. We were gratified that we had been able to be a small part of helping the city right itself so it could begin its long road to recovery as a new, New Orleans with its old heart and soul intact.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-73365603720243422282014-10-10T19:53:00.000-07:002014-10-10T20:18:58.964-07:00Hurricane Katrina (The 10th Year After-draft) "7 Years Later" Continued Part 1010-13<br />
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10.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By that Thursday afternoon, I remained unsettled. Apparently, so did Ronny. With no discussion, Ronny informed me that he wanted to go back. Knowing that circumstances and security were changing daily, we began to try to obtain some source of legal authority to regain entry to the City. With knowledge that St. Bernard Parish remained under water and essentially inaccessible, discussions ensued between our friend, Sam Jones with the Governor’s Office, and Senator Walter Boaso, who represents this area east of New Orleans and south of the area of our previous mission. The parish was not accessible by road. Bounded on the west by the Industrial Canal, on the north by the Intracoastal Waterway, on the south by the Mississippi River, and on the east by marsh and the Gulf of Mexico, access by boat was virtually impossible, due to the extensive levee system.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We were hopeful arrangements for access could be made with authorities because there was great need for boats inside of St. Bernard Parish. That parish had suffered the double whammy of storm surge from the surrounding waters of the gulf and the lake followed by rising water caused by failures in the levees. Word was that many houses were still under water and many residents remained trapped.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The plight of the New Orleans area pulled on my homegrown heartstrings and also on the sentiments of the R & R guys, who by now had adopted New Orleans as their own. Intent on planning better and equipping more thoroughly, a 3:00 a.m. Saturday departure was fixed. To avoid a repeat experience with poorly structured layers of obstruction referred to as “staging areas” by Wildlife & Fisheries officials, we opted to go with the options presented through Senator Boaso. Our only choice would be to try to access St. Bernard Parish from the west bank of the Mississippi River. We were encouraged when informed that the ferry between the west bank of the river and St. Bernard Parish at Chalmette was operating. With the word out, we had the potential to join with other groups and accumulate an even larger contingent to enter the troubled area.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We left a little later than scheduled and met with a few delays. Shortly after sunrise we approached the LaPlace roadblock. Our entry was not so easy this time. The reference to the long line of boats and volunteers in tow did not gain us immediate passage. Dropping references to the Governor’s office, to Sam Jones and to Senator Boaso were still met the officer’s reluctant consideration of our request. He wanted a letter. I was incredulous that a written authorization would be necessary since we understood that all arrangements were in place for our entry. No one mentioned a letter. I maintained eye contact and as honest a gaze as a lawyer can muster. He waved us through but cautioned us,<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You won’t gain entry to the city again without a letter’”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That’s OK”, I thought, “We plan to stay downtown. This is the last access we will need.”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My confidence wavered as we approached a second checkpoint on the west bank of the river just east of Boutte. More vehicles were being turned around than were being allowed to pass. As we approached the City from up river, we noticed the outlying areas coming back to life.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On this fifth day after the storm hit, traffic on the highway had increased dramatically. Some of it consisted of locals, but most of the vehicles carried workers, supplies and equipment to be used in the rescue effort. The stranded masses had by then been transported out of New Orleans to shelters all over the United States. Later, it was reported that the million or more residents of New Orleans relocated by this storm was the largest redistribution of population in this country’s history.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The officer at the roadblock asked for our letter. Again, some name-dropping and the reference to the number of vehicles and workers who had traveled from Lake Charles sufficiently legitimized our group to allow us through.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Don’t come back without a letter”.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As we entered the West Bank Expressway, signs of normal day-to-day activity all but disappeared. There remained a significant number of law enforcement, emergency and support vehicles streaming into the City. Three police units sped by with sirens blaring. Up ahead they gathered at a convenience store responding to a call, presumably a “looting”. That term came to be loosely used with exceptions apparently allowed for hungry and thirsty people looking for food and police officers looking for the same or for equipment to assist in their operations. Which type it was at this location was not apparent, as we did not slow. We barely glanced at the scene as we passed.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With the drop of the Senator Boaso’s name, access and an escort were to be provided at the last checkpoint before the Crescent City Connection. With the contingent of workers and equipment, our hopes were that the plans would unfold as expected. No such luck. The lone officer at the barricaded entrance to the City acknowledged that he had heard something about us on his radio. He allowed us entry to the west bank roads leading to the Algiers ferry landing across the river from Chalmette, but provided no escort.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Cajun convoy moved toward the general location of the ferry. The devastation here on the West Bank was from wind more than flooding. We stopped at one point with access blocked by fallen trees and power lines. At the stop, a young lady drove up and stopped to talk to some of our group. From her distinctive drawl, she was clearly a native of New Orleans. She offered gasoline and directions, and asked that we allow her to join in our rescue efforts. We agreed.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She directed us to River Road, where we were forced to travel for approximately two miles on the sloped side of the levee to avoid the string of power lines and poles blocking River Road. The trucks and boats managed well with only the mechanic’s truck nearly bogging down in one of the areas of soft wet ground. The flat bed trailer carrying the cases of bottled water stacked and strapped to it, began to shift and listed to one side.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We were encouraged as we saw signs of the final approach to the ferry. Then we came upon the sight of two monstrous ferryboats grounded at 45º angles on the river side of the levee. High and dry. We stared at the beached bottoms of the ferries glaring back at us over the levees and looked at the mighty Mississippi. We began to consider our options. It did not seem that there were many.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Another group of three boats with whom we had coordinated had arrived shortly before us. Mike Nodier and his group had been drawn to the rescue effort by Mike’s connections to the area. Raised in New Iberia, Mike had lived for an extended period of time in the area, in St. Bernard Parish. That was his destination, come hell or high water. His obsession with getting in to help old friends and neighbors in St. Bernard burned in his eyes as we plotted together in Lake Charles the day before. Nothing was going to stop him from getting his group in.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nodier’s group informed us by walkie-talkie radio to continue on the levee to the launch. Again encouraged, we proceeded along the top of the levee past a bend to the anticipated launch site. The “launch”, as they referred to it, was a concreted portion of the levee sloping at a 45º angle to a wet grassy area adjacent to the river. It was obvious that this “launch” would handle only the smallest of boats behind the biggest of 4-wheel drive trucks. Again though, discouragement did not obstruct progress, and before we knew it, “NuNu” had a flat- bottomed boat in the river ready to go.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Radio contact with the lead group confirmed the presence of a law enforcement relief operation in the Chalmette slip across and up river from our location. My careful, conservative senses were stretched to their limits as the small skiff sped into the current of this country’s largest river. The adrenaline flow was again kicked up a notch. As I strapped on my bright orange life jacket, the best I could manage from my boat mates was to have them politely accept the personal flotation devices I handed to each of them. They placed them on the deck of the boat as Nu-Nu gunned the motor and headed upriver.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Approaching the Chalmette slip on the other side, human activity was obvious on two ferries floating at the entrance. We exited onto a three level tugboat that we later learned was one of the many vessels commandeered by the St. Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Office. A high-ranking law enforcement official pointed to a passing officer, noting that he was carrying the “keys to Chalmette”, a large pair of cable cutters.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was first suggested by the Chief Deputy of the sheriff’s office that we could set up guard posts on levees at key locations of entry into the parish to prevent entry by criminal elements. I corrected the misimpression of this gentleman, telling him that we were construction workers and not trained law enforcement. We were promptly provided free access to a large crew boat and any equipment that we might see that we could use to assist us.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Take whatever you need. We have confiscated everything on the river from Chalmette to the parish line”.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On board our new vessel, the next task was to retrieve our crew and the thousands of bottles of water that we had brought. By the time we had left Thursday morning, there remained tens of thousands of people in the area who could not get drinking water. We were determined to do what we could to fill this void and Ronny had negotiated with a local Wal-Mart store to buy every unsold bottle of water they had on hand.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The listing water trailer was backed part way down the levee. A human chain was formed from trailer to crew boat across a flat boat, and 2,000 bottles of water were passed for transport. With bottles and crew on board, our return trip to the St. Bernard operation began, less a small security force left with the vehicles,<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On arrival at the Chalmette slip, the hope for mechanized removal of the water was scuttled and we formed another water line up the 25-foot wall of the dock. Onto pallets and away by commandeered forklift, the bottled water moved one step closer to its intended destination. Images of folks on rooftops and trapped in attics kept the troops motivated. However, it quickly became apparent that rescues by boat would not be started from this location.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There was need for repair of a roadway adjacent to the slip and two or three of the group began this task. Projected to be a two-day job by the new operators of the facility, the work was complete in less than an hour. By this time, the head of the operation, who had chosen to cool his heels with the security force on the west bank, lost his patience. Ronny summoned the forces to return, declaring that we had not come to build roads but to rescue people. He declared that we were going back into the City to return to the area of those we had left three days before. Failing all else, we would rely on our ability to charm the gatekeeper at the foot of the Crescent City Connection. Our options would be subject only to the limitations of our ingenuity.<br />
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11.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Turning off of River Road, we came upon an unintended roadblock caused by a gathering of various vehicles. Among them was an NOPD unit. Generous and cooperative officers patiently attempted to communicate on the sole channel available to the entire department. Their purpose was to help us to try to reach Capt. Tim Bayard, our downtown contact with the keys to our Canal Street campground. They managed to reach him and received instructions to direct us to Carrollton Avenue at I-10 where we would launch into the water from the interstate. He informed us that he would be unable to provide any law enforcement support for us.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By this time, it was after 2:00 p.m. and we knew that our time in the water would be limited. Despite this and the 95 degree heat, we were excited about the gate to the City being opened and our deployment to our defined task. We were also pleased by the officers’ offer to escort us, additional security that our access to the City would not be impaired. We crossed the Crescent City Connection, necessarily heading west in the eastbound lane to avoid high water covering the eastbound lanes of the interstate up ahead. I noticed our early and unexpected descent down a ramp in the vicinity of the Superdome.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Dome had become the center of international media attention while it housed twenty–five thousand or more as a shelter of last resort to those who could not or would not leave the City during the approach of the storm. Now empty, the crowds were not an issue. Instead, the knowledge that the area of the Superdome was under water was my concern. Near the base of the down ramp, the escorting officers realized that this single lane ramp was not only the wrong route into impassable waters, but it was too narrow for the 17 vehicles with boats to make U-turns.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Each vehicle began the tedious process on the narrow down ramp of unhitching, manually turning and re-hitching each boat, large and small. Delayed for over 30 minutes, the frustrated recovery team moved again toward its destination, longing to launch their boats and crank their motors. The productive recovery effort of the previous Wednesday was still fresh in their memories, and we all wanted to duplicate it.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eventually we were able to enter the correct area of elevated interstate. The Wednesday morning scene of thousands of displaced residents wandering along the shoulder was replaced by the accumulated trash of those who had lived on the road after the storm until their transport out of town. By the time of our entry on this Saturday afternoon, resources had finally been provided to sustain the stranded residents and then to transport them to a better place.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Back at ground level, the adjacent areas appeared nearly deserted, with the exception of an occasional pedestrian wandering aimlessly on the shoulder of the highway. After parking in the left lane of the usually bustling eight-lane interstate, we exited our vehicles and ourselves began to wander, trying to determine how to get the boats in the water. A large man, clearly wet and frustrated, approached us on foot. He appeared angry and ready for confrontation, perhaps uncertain about how we might greet him. His demeanor changed immediately when we offered him a cold bottle of water. He gratefully accepted and stayed to talk briefly before continuing his trek to somewhere. After much trouble launching boats from the slightly inclined interstate, we encountered shallow waters. It was past 5:00 p.m. when all boats reached the assigned area near the Carrollton Shopping Center.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By this time, the scene that media was presenting to the nation seemed unreal and unbelievable. From our position on the ground, or in the water, those descriptions were woefully inadequate. As dusk began to fall, “surreal” again came to mind, in addition to “eerie”, along with some “scary” thrown in as our flatboats quietly glided closer to the edge of old New Orleans. Without law enforcement escorts or presence, we idled slowly through the waters, occasionally thinking of our vehicles left in the care of our own patrol, armed with hand guns, shotguns and automatic weapons. A member of another civilian security force had warned us at the dock, to stay out of certain areas. His warning had been supplemented by his mimicking the firing of a rifle to indicate why the area to be avoided was unsafe.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The smells on this sixth day after were consistently present and intermittently overwhelming. In the shadows of the tangled interstate overpasses, a lone man sifted through his acquisitions of the day stuffed into the small storage compartment of a wave runner. At the first major intersection, we passed two poor souls who didn’t make it. Both were in final resting positions that were difficult to understand. One rested on both knees in shallow water in the inside travel lane of Carrollton Avenue. It appeared as if he had been stopped in his tracks and brought to his knees while trying to cross the street. His face was submerged and squarely planted against the pavement. The other rested on his back on a high piece of neutral ground near the Palmetto Street Canal. His body was rigid and facing the sky with only his elbows, heels and buttocks making contact with the ground. His face grimaced as if frozen in the split second of a nuclear blast. Some speculated that higher waters may have brought them there and dropped them into these strange positions after the waters receded. Others suggested that heat and natural processes just caused them to draw up. Each remained grotesquely positioned amidst floating household items, debris and the stench that had accumulated after the storm.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Almost as soon as the last of the 10 boats entered the area, five could not be located. Our entry without a plan then relegated us to an effort to locate and recover our own people. During this effort, it became obvious to all of us that we would not achieve the high level of recovery that we had reached three days before. We encountered some folks intent on staying in their homes to protect their stuff, despite being told that lights, water and dry land in a few days was not a reasonable reality. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Here in these deserted neighborhoods, we first encountered boaters who appeared to have questionable motives. In those encounters, the occupants of each boat appeared content not to create any controversy. Each waved off the other politely as the boats passed each other to continue their respective missions. Fanning out into a makeshift grid pattern, we continued to search for our comrades.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the long shadows of the afternoon, I was struck for the first time with the New Orleans that might now be forever lost. Much of the architecture of the City is unique and defines the City as distinctly as does the spirit, character and vitality of its people. All of it is connected in one way or another to the City’s historic diversity. Realizing that the sites I was experiencing in the nearly deserted metropolis would be experienced by few and recorded by even less, I borrowed the last nine shots of a disposable camera from a boat mate. This provided only a few shots of a limited area, but I knew these would convey enough information to family and friends to give some sense of the enormity of this disaster. It might preserve some memory of a part of this historic City that I began to realize could be forever lost.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We returned to our starting point and were relieved to see the remaining boats heading back to our launch in the right lane of I-10 next to Xavier University. We trailered the boats then moved toward the trolley tracks at the foot of Canal Street in hopes that the same location would provide us a place to rest for the evening.<br />
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12.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sticking with our attempts to be more prepared for this trip, we stopped periodically to retrieve a few of the hundreds of unopened boxes of bottled water lining the interstate. Evidently it had been too much, too late brought to those who by this time had been transported to their new temporary homes. This water would allow us to wash the sweat, the smell and hopefully the bacteria from the new city swamp off of our bodies. I stopped my truck to retrieve from the highway shoulder 20 gallons still packed and sealed in the original containers. The water had baked all day in the sun, and provided promise of something close to a warm shower that evening.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We entered downtown as if we owned it. An impressive line of vehicles, the length of a small Mardi Gras parade, we rolled into our spot on Canal Street as if it had our names on it.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We shared MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat) provided to us by City police as we sat on the beds of our trucks and recounted our stories. We laughed that national media was reporting a City run by armed thugs ruling the streets. We had occasional contact with family by text message and spoke with NOPD officers who had not seen their families since before the storm.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During one of the stops on interstate to retrieve water, one member of our group happened upon a junior high math book amidst the debris and opened it in curiosity. Inside he found a 4 page hand-written letter to no one in particular. It appeared to detail experiences of the writer during the storm and the days after while he was confined in the Superdome. It was difficult to read due to the writer’s apparent limited education level, but it was fascinating. We took turns reading it by flashlight, as it was passed around carefully and handled gently to avoid damaging it. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During the night, a contingent of mules galloped past, chased by police. A cool front came through providing relief. The 42-floor Sheraton Hotel lit up briefly, amidst the downtown darkness, a sign of hope to those who were awake to see it.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Much was different on this Sunday morning compared to four days before when the Dome, Convention Center and expressways were jammed with frustrated people. By Sunday, the buses, planes, water wagons and National Guard had arrived. The Dome and Convention Center, once overflowing with anxious evacuees, was now occupied only by mounds of stinking debris and garbage next to unopened cases of bottled water. The City was silent but for the passing helicopters that filled the sky. The radio carried stories of snipers and criminals. Some told of bands of thugs roaming the streets reducing law enforcement to defending a single building from the rooftop. We saw none of that, but knew that we were not seeing the entire City.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Capt. Bayard described the intended missions that would move up Canal Street or target possible retrieval of families in the Carrollton area, which we had explored briefly the night before. We expressed our desire to return to the search area of New Orleans East where we had left folks who expected us to return. Capt. Bayard agreed and deployed us to that area again.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Each boat was to be assigned a law enforcement officer and boats were to work in pairs. Though we had not witnessed the reported criminal element, stories being told indicated that many of those who remained in the City might be up to no good. Awakening around daybreak, we were more relaxed. The most popular gathering spot was around the Coleman coffeepot brought on this trip by one of the more practical thinkers in the group.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The plan was to deploy back to Reed Blvd. at 7:00 a.m. Around 6:30 a.m., a young lady in her 20’s and a gentleman in his 50’s entered our trolley track campsite with plastic i.d. tags hanging around their necks. From CNN, they inquired about our group and were directed to Ronny. They wanted an on-air live interview. Ronny wouldn’t do it. He designated his legal counsel as spokesman. We explained that we had little time due to our planned 7:00 a.m. deployment with our NOPD friends. We moved a block up Canal Street to meet Soledad O’Brien, formerly with the weekend version of the NBC Today Show. She had recently moved to a more prominent position with CNN as host of its Morning Show.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was disappointed to see the cameras positioned to show the collapsed brick wall of a two-story building as a backdrop for the interview. I thought the impression given viewers of a downtown New Orleans akin to London after the Blitzkrieg was unfortunate. A rescue and relief effort rejuvenated with fire and rescue personnel from across the nation was bustling less than a block away on Canal Street. It seemed to me, that would have been a more accurate and appropriate setting to show.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was asked about our group and its activities and got to tell about the generous group of guys and a few of their amazing stories. Asked about the violence and turmoil, I honestly told Ms. O’Brien that we had seen none of it, and that we had slept safely in the beds of our pickup trucks on Canal Street the night before. The interview finished, I returned to the group after agreeing to allow her to accompany us in one of our boats later that morning.<br />
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13.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Soon loaded in our vehicles, we were pleased to be accompanied by two ambulances with EMTs, in addition to our law enforcement contingent. We moved east through the area of the Convention Center past the blocks and blocks of garbage and debris. The City was virtually silent now, but with new smells. Noticeable was the increased presence of law enforcement, National Guard, and emergency personnel from towns and counties across the country.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We glided quietly onto the nearly deserted interstate cluttered by boxes, trash, bottled water and other remnants of the bus loading areas thrown up on the expressway during the days before. Past the clutter and through the bumper-high water again, our line returned to Chef Menteur Highway. In the shadows of the overpass and the location of the Wednesday blockade, three men shuffled through the debris of the now deserted temporary settlement. Though we saw no violence or criminal activity, we remained on constant guard for what might happen.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At Reed Boulevard, the increased amount of trash since our last visit was a sign that a significant volume of people had been brought through the area since we left. The stench of the garbage joined with the pungent odors emanating from the launch site. The water was now blacker and seemed thicker than it did on Wednesday.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The first boats launched sped off with their impatient pilots and without escorts to the high-rise assisted living facility to check on our few friends left behind. A short time later we were happy to confirm that the facility had been emptied and cleared by NOPD since we had left.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Also different than our previous trip, those in charge professed their intentions to grid the area and organize the search. After a planning session among law enforcement, boats began spreading to five launch areas spread out over a five-mile stretch of The Chef. Before the last six boats could leave, a sudden spike in intensity was obvious as officers received sketchy radio contact of an ongoing incident<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>From one of our boats at Reed Boulevard, a homicide investigator, in cutoff camouflage pants, an NOPD shirt and knee boots, jumped to dry land. With radio in hand, he let loose a string of exclamations apparently directed to those who were the topic of the radio conversation. Our impression was that a group of bad guys with guns were in our area in gunfights with law enforcement. I was only a little comforted by the fact that on this trip, our group had come well armed with handguns, automatic rifles and shotguns. I had even found my 12-gauge shotgun hidden on a shelf in my closet, and held it close for comfort.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Deployment of boats stopped as the drama developed and the situation unfolded. Four of the culprits were down, apparently on their way to meet their Maker. Two or three were still engaged with officers. Eventually, we learned that a group of six or seven had descended upon a vehicle crossing the area of high water that we had crossed ourselves. Their intentions were to carjack the vehicle. The culprits were not aware that a well-equipped contingent of law enforcement approached the scene close behind the vehicle the bandits sought to misappropriate for their own use. Word was that law enforcement prevailed in the confrontation. From then on, we held our weapons a little tighter and at the ready.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Less than an hour later, chatter on the police radio channel increased again. We heard,<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> “Officer down in a boat …Reed Boulevard and Pressburg … fired on”.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That was two blocks from our base. It was our boat and our guys. Four more boats were scrambled into the water. Word was that the SWAT team or tactical contingent would go out in boats to the scene of the incident. Minutes passed and an officer exited a police unit arriving at the scene. He was clearly angry that “they” had the road blocked and the Tac Unit could not pass, apparently referring to some other arm of law enforcement over which he had no authority.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Again, like Wednesday night, we found our guys potentially in harm’s way, and were helpless to do anything. From the area of the call, smoke bellowed into the air from an obvious fire. Still no word. Four boats sat still in the water, their drivers armed and ready, awaiting the SWAT team. Ronny was ready to go, armed with an automatic rifle and standing in a boat like George Washington in the famous painting of his crossing of the Delaware River. The ranking NOPD lieutenant at the scene told him to “Stand down”, but Ronny either did not hear him or ignored him.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Law enforcement’s single radio channel was cracking with chatter of officers trying to evaluate and respond to the situation. That effort was briefly interrupted by someone, oblivious to the unfolding drama, requesting drop locations and telephone numbers for clothes donations. A frustrated officer politely asked for the channel to remain clear for handling of this more urgent situation.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No sniper located, it was eventually surmised by those of us as the “launch” that the house fire had ignited rounds of ammunition in the house. Upon the return of our biggest vessel, a 25-foot bay boat, we heard the rest of the story. Upon seeing the smoke, Shannon had steered the boat into the vicinity of the fire. At a point about ½ block from the fire, the boat stalled. With the boat temporarily dead in the water, the rounds of ammunition inside the burning house began igniting. The poor policemen, probably from traffic patrol, reported being under fire and the boat down in the water. Adrenaline had flowed at the scene and in everyone tuned to the lone, fractured radio channel. Though now clarified at this location of the incident, stories would certainly expand around the metropolitan area recounting increasingly exaggerated versions of the confrontation between police and snipers.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This Sunday was clearly going to produce less evacuees and more risk than the Wednesday before. For the rest of the morning and into the scorching afternoon, the boats covered the grid methodically. Occasionally, they would return with an area resident. More often it was with stories of those who refused to leave their pets, their homes or their stuff. By early afternoon, Capt. Bayard personally appeared to thank the R & R crew and to inform us that the effort was moving from rescue to recovery mode. Speculation by some public officials by midday Sunday was that there might be 10,000 dead on the streets and in the flooded homes, hospitals and nursing homes of the City.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With Timmy Bayard were a crew from the New York Times and “someone from the Governor’s Office”. Upon seeing our good friend Sam Jones, who helped coordinate our gate passes in St. Bernard Parish, I gave him a hug and was introduced to Gigi, a nurse who accompanied him. Sam had become a close friend to Sara and me during the previous two years. His generous and sympathetic nature paired with his political astuteness and quiet enthusiasm was a unique combination in the current political arena of uninformed bipartisan bickering. It also was the bond that made our relatively brief friendship seem as if it had been lifelong. I never managed to speak to the New York Times group.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-62215070766538609342014-10-10T19:51:00.002-07:002014-10-13T14:49:27.980-07:00Hurricane Katrina & NOLA (The 10th Year After-draft) "7 Years Later" Continued Part 9 7-9<br />
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7.<br />
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Upon returning to the Chef Menteur ”dock” we had lukewarm water and sodas to choke down giant white pills given to us by someone with NOPD. We were told that these were to fight off infection we might contract from being in the stagnating water and all that with which it was mixed. Until that moment, it had not occurred to me that the water in which we had spent most of the day was any different than the water of Lake Pontchartrain in which we swam as children. Then, we were only occasionally deterred by periodic warnings following rains due to elevated bacteria levels. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sara’s empty stomach reacted violently to the medication. She spent most of the return trip with her head buried in an old Burger King cup that she periodically emptied out of the window. It was not a pleasant ride back for her, for this and other reasons.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As the setting sun began to cast long shadows on the highway, our group headed back down The Chef toward the City. We were joined in a single line by Louisiana and Texas Wildlife vehicles, various law enforcement officers and other rescue groups. Local radio still reported large crowds in the Superdome without food or water and masses still accumulated on the elevated interstate. Locals wandered The Chef outside of buildings battered by the storm and by those in search of food, water, auto parts and electronics.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Again, the word “surreal” occurred to me as the apt description of the scene, but that was soon to be an understatement. Slowing to pass cluttered portions of roadway, we were passed by four or five people in a mail truck. They did not appear to be postal service employees. Then, along the sidewalk drove an odd piece of equipment about 10 feet tall, resembling a sort of lift truck. With two occupants, it sped by of us as fast as it could go, toward the interstate. As our line of trucks and boats reached the interstate overpass under which we needed to pass to regain entry to the City, it came to a halt.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>From my position about 10 vehicles back, I gazed toward the overpass. Across the road I could see the mail truck, the lift truck, an 18-wheeler, a U-haul, various vehicles and maybe as many as 200 people. Whether they wanted attention, food and water, or a confrontation, it was clear that this was an intentional roadblock.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Not for the first time, and not for the last, I thought about my children back home. The two youngest, in first and third grade, had some comprehension that mom and dad had gone to help people. The older three, in college and beyond, were scared and somewhat angry with us. None of them could have imagined that their crazy parents were at that moment surrounded on three sides by floodwaters and stalled at a roadblock by hungry, frustrated and angry strangers.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gradually, in a subdued but obvious show of force, law enforcement vehicles and Wildlife & Fisheries trucks with boats in tow glided toward the overpass along each side of the stopped caravan. The large pickup trucks with their dark, tinted windows, and flashing lights moved to the front. With black barrels of shotguns and long rifles in open view, they eventually provided sufficient encouragement for the blockade to yield. The line of haggard, good Samaritans passed, lacking any resources to allow them to offer transport, food, water, or shelter.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Was this final adventure of the day? Not by a long shot.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>8.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Local radio reported that the levee breaks had still not been sealed, but that the levels in the lake and City had equalized. We did not know if that level would allow us to again pass safely through the water to return to our downtown campground. Fortunately, this was not our next adventure. Within a few minutes, our water passage safely accomplished, we moved on the elevated interstate toward the Superdome.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>News stories confirmed that no food or water had arrived. Transport out of the City had still not been arranged for those stranded by the storm. In the Superdome, the “shelter of last resort”, 25,000 or more stranded citizens dreaded the prospect of a fourth night in the un-air-conditioned Dome with limited food and water. On our return, we passed uncounted thousands on the 5-mile stretch of interstate. It was not until we exited to travel the last half-mile from the interstate to Canal Street that we came face to face with the most graphic indication of the extent to which the situation had mushroomed during the course of this Wednesday.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our line approached the area of the Morial Convention Center, outside of which a few hundred individuals had wandered the sidewalks the night before. Tonight the streets were clogged like St. Charles Avenue on Mardi Gras Day, only there was no celebrating and there were no beads. My internal adrenaline pump moved to “MAX”, as our parade came to a halt surrounded by the crowd. Television reports of various riots and NBA victory celebrations with overturned vehicles in flames ran through my brain. I did not know the state of mind of these masses of people, and all sorts of wild imaginings ran through my head as we sat stalled in their midst.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I worried for the boats of my generous comrades who had ventured into the City, not understanding all of what they had agreed to do, or what it had evolved to be. Next to the car, a young man walked onto a large piece of plywood on wheels teetering on the curb. “BAM!” Sara and I jumped. Her continued problems caused by the medication and lack of food only heightened her reaction to the sudden loud noise. If this did not snap us to attention, the single gunshot heard moments later did, though we never saw a gun, a shooter or a victim.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After about five minutes of anxious waiting, we made the turn and moved smoothly and safely through the crowd. Not a scratch. Our space still “reserved”, we parked three wide and 12 deep on the “neutral ground” of Canal Street.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No group works harder or better than the R & R family. Their leader has somehow instilled in them his own work ethic and pride in providing a quality product. They also play hard, and playing often involves beer. Lots of beer. It was a clear indication of the seriousness with which they undertook this mission that their coolers were packed with water and cola, but not beer.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our crew discarded its infected clothes and cleaned up with disinfectant wipes or bottled water or bleach. Lacking chicken or pots on which to cook gumbo as this group would normally do, each of us chose a spot on the curb, or on a tailgate, to feast on chips, crackers, warm Coke and bottled water.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A long day over. Time to rest. Well, not yet …<br />
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9.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The NOPD command center was abuzz across the street under the covered drive in front of Harrah’s Casino. The heightened unrest at the Convention Center obviously contributed to the elevated level of activity of the police. Tonight, the Tactical Unit, or SWAT team, was huddled together in full gear, fully armed and 40+ strong. There was no shortage of adrenaline there either.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Barely three blocks from the masses at the Convention Center, our position was far from secure. In the event of problems that the small contingent of police could not contain, we were sitting ducks, barely armed with nowhere to go. The mighty Mississippi was on one side and Canal Street was under water just six blocks away in the other direction. To the north was the French Quarter, high and dry, but it was bounded on three sides by water. The only dry exit route required passage by or near the Convention Center. That route provided the only access to the river bridge and the outside world. At what point does a body exhaust its capability to produce adrenaline?<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In this atmosphere, everyone independently began considering whether to stay or leave. Our supplies were low and our hopes to get fuel at the police command were dashed by the absence of the fuel truck that had been there the night before. We knew that there were more folks to pull out; especially those in the high-rise, but safety now seemed to be a very real concern. Simultaneously, we were listening to local broadcast radio stations, law enforcement radio communications and discussions between police personnel across the street. Our communication outside was limited to text messaging on some of our cell phones, and we began to report in to those family members we could reach.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sitting at the wheel of my parked truck, I was startled by a police officer who appeared at the driver’s window of the truck without any warning.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We need your help, sir. Are you in charge here?”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That I might be in charge was an impression that Ronny allowed to occur in his attempts to avoid being cast into the limelight. Much of the communication with outside authority had passed through Sara or me.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I responded, “What do you need?”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The young SWAT officer explained that two of their team had not returned from a late afternoon assignment, and, being unable to contact them, four others had been sent in to a flooded downtown neighborhood. None of them had been heard from and it was now nearly 9:00 o’clock p.m. They wanted boats with operators to get members of their unit into the area north of Claiborne Avenue on Esplanade Avenue between Broad Street and City Park.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Esplanade Avenue begins at the northeastern corner of the French Quarter and runs west-northwest to the south end of City Park. Though still an impressive thoroughfare of large stately homes along oak lined sidewalks, it had aged and lost much of its original luster. Like most of the City tonight though, it was a dark foreboding canal, inhabited by unknown characters, with unknown motives. The lawyer in me wanted details about the mission and questioned the sanity of sending three out-of-towners with no knowledge of the City on a search and rescue mission wearing only T-shirts, shorts and tennis shoes.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My concern heightened as the members of the Tactical Unit gathered around encased in their body armor and armed to the teeth. The only “plan” suggested was to go into the area and look for the men until they were found.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eventually, the officer said, “Look, you’re either gonna help us or you’re not. It’s up to you.”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ronny was brought into the conversation. After 10 minutes, he noted in frustration that the officer had told him three different stories while trying to engage our help. Tensions were high. Unknown dangers, whether real or imagined, appeared to be all around. Now some of the group was being asked to carry three boatloads of tactical specialists into the dark bowels of “New Venice” to rescue six armed officers whose fate was unknown. The choice was soon removed when the desperate officer declared Marshall Law, commandeering the boats. Of course, Marshall Law was not in effect and he had no authority to commandeer the boats, but it was his last resort.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ronny Lovett would never force his people to put themselves in danger or do what he would not do himself. No doubt his heart was heavy and his concern great. However, I suspect that he was close enough to this crew of high-spirited adventurers to know that there would be at least three willing volunteers. The boats were promptly manned and on their way to launch off one of the I-10 exit ramps near Esplanade Avenue. For 5½ hours, we did not know if we would ever see them again. When they left, we did not know for certain that we could hold our position until they returned. Two things were certain: We were not leaving until they returned, but we were leaving when they returned.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>By now, Sara had a new cause and forced herself to recover from the three hours of retching, nausea and headache caused by the unknown medication and lack of food. She sought out the captain of the Tac Unit. He only thought he’d had a hard day before the moment she found him. Eventually, a dialogue developed as he became aware that our group was there at the request of the governor. Of course, this was a slightly exaggerated impression Sara created with an appropriate stretch of the facts under the circumstances. The Tac Cap feigned regret over his officer’s unilateral declaration of Marshall Law to commandeer the boats, and he provided no less than five apologies. More would have come had I not interrupted him. I explained that we would be pleased if the mission would be successful and our friends returned safely. In that case, I told him his apologies were unnecessary. However, if they did not return safely, his apologies meant nothing.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All day we had worked side by side with members of the Narcotics Division of the NOPD and we had befriended each other. That group was outraged that the Tac Unit had infiltrated our ranks and stolen our people as they did. It made for a colorful discussion to pass the next few hours while we waited without word.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Near midnight, a troop carrier exited Canal Street into the light of the covered Harrah’s drive. Cheers erupted as officers in SWAT gear and fatigues greeted each other, two even hugging. This appeared to be their lost comrades, but we got no report on the status of ours. I crossed the street and asked the Tac Cap for a report.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We got radio contact and the boats are on their way”, he said.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Half an hour later, not knowing if “on their way” meant by water or land, I was told that they were about a mile away. 45 minutes after that, I was told they were about ¼ mile away. Finally, by 1:30 a.m., our guys drove up to our cheers and celebrations. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During the 5½-hour wait, nearly the entire contingent of police across the street had, at one point, scrambled and sped off in the direction of the Convention Center. It was immediately apparent that we were on our own, both now and should there be problems later. It was also clear that whatever trouble might be brewing three blocks over, had not resolved. As they rushed off, Capt. Bayard, at the end of his 18-hour day, yelled,<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“There are not enough of you to deal with them.”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No one listened. Fortunately, about 30 minutes later, they returned.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It became evident later that the crowd was not confronting the police. A small, despicable, criminal element, that was despicable and criminal before Hurricane Katrina, was confronting, intimidating and assaulting the beleaguered crowd at the Convention Center and the police when given the opportunity. There was no way to know that from our time and place. Upon return of our three boat captains, available fuel was dispersed and we were off at 2:00 a.m. for Lake Charles.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our trip was diverted to Boutte, south of New Orleans, so we could drop a nurse who was anxious to see her husband and kids. She had worked side by side with us, and Ronny had promised her a ride despite the late hour. She was so grateful she cried uncontrollably during the last half mile of the trip on the final approach to her home. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After fueling up south of Baton Rouge, our vehicles eventually separated, each to make their own way home. Barely able to see due to fatigue, Sara and I traded off driving about every 10 minutes. By 6:00 a.m. Thursday morning, we arrived home. We bathed and crawled into bed thinking we would sleep away the day. I awoke about 3 hours later, rested but restless. I began to think about New Orleans again.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-20047781133651529882013-06-27T06:30:00.000-07:002013-06-27T06:43:11.560-07:00Katrina and the Cajun Navy (7 yrs later) - Pt. 8<br />
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<b><i>This is the ninth installment on this topic.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>To read from the beginning please go to entries beginning 9/20/12.</i></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1010 Lake Forest Blvd<br />
(7 years post-Katrina)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Returning from the stairwell filled with mostly elderly folks, I pushed through the chest-deep water back to the closest boat, now positioned in the corner of the meeting room at the base of the stairwell. Though only a few feet from the base of the steps, no-one could access the boat without submitting themselves and their senses to the chill of the murky waters or by being carried. As my thought process moved from the initial encounter with the residents, into planning logistics, my eye caught movement from a room to the left, adjacent to the meeting area in which we were now "staging" removal of the patient souls in the stairway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To my surprise, I saw what clearly appeared to be a young family. Dad in chest deep water, maybe in his early 30's, mom a few inches shorter, each carrying a small child aged maybe 6 and 8. They plowed through the water as a unit moving toward the meeting room, and from their expression, decidedly toward the first boat. My first reaction, considering those in line positioned in the stairwell to wait their turns, was that these youngsters were not following the certain protocol I had already formulated in my mind. They were not lending proper respect to the old folks organized in proper fashion as if they had each drawn numbers to be serviced in order and with appropriate decorum. This young family was "cutting". </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In this makeshift rescue by untrained organizers, for a moment, it kinda pissed me off.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the wisdom of the moment it struck me that, this young family was as anxious to remove itself from this indefinite aquatic isolation as were those in the stairway. It did not appear that either group was aware of the others. Even if they had been, my experiences later in the day would fortify the notion that among those ready to leave, "first come first served" would, in many cases be the primary protocol. For efficiency, the young family was placed into the first boat and pushed away toward the exit allowing the next small craft to drift into place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With the first four rescued and a few more aluminum craft drifting in to begin moving those in line, Sara ascended the first of many stairways in the </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">building to begin her floor-by-floor “evaluation”. Within minutes, many of the residents knew Sara's name and she knew theirs. Instant friends. Once the situation was assessed, I left the transport to others and joined Sara inside the building. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With my hiking boots filled with water, and my clothes saturated and dripping, I accompanied Sara up into this unexplored territory to learn the specifics of what we would be facing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She had determined that there were no less than 10 residents at least partially confined to wheelchairs, and half as many recent surgery patients still on the mend. Many of those who were ambulatory were weak or impaired with bad knees, legs, backs and the like, although there were a few younger families with preschool children. We discovered that the living situations for each resident were uncomfortable but not yet intolerable. The building housed its occupants in comfortable though not extravagant apartments. Without running water or electricity for nearly three days, refrigerators could have held remnants of bottled water on hand before the storm. Freezers sparingly opened and food cabinets could still hold essentials for their owners' sustenance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Occasionally, during the constant flow of boats from this location and many others in the area, I would periodically return to the "landing" to monitor the situation and coordinate, if necessary with the retrieval of residents. "In America" anyone would expect resources and personnel to be available with coordination of efforts to transform the chaos of a natural disaster into an organized and fluid recovery. Not yet! </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the day progressed, it became painfully obvious that the “seamless” coordination of rescue and relief operations promised by FEMA had not yet materialized.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those brought to the road by boat were dropped in the blazing sun, on the smoldering asphalt shoulder of the highway to wait for land transport. Their wait was excruciatingly long, but they had no choice but to remain patient, as they had nowhere else to go. All they could do was sit, without water, without food, without their animal companions and without shelter.</span><br />
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<a href="http://img.gawkerassets.com/img/17uj2s71y40jljpg/ku-xlarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://img.gawkerassets.com/img/17uj2s71y40jljpg/ku-xlarge.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Transport vehicles appeared to wander into the area without schedule or plan. Rather than "first come first served" it became more "survival of the fittest" as many of the weaker and less agile would be brushed aside by those who best positioned themselves to enter whatever kind of wheeled transport might arrive. Those unable to gain entry on one wagon,would wait for the next carrier to unpredictably come by. Again, I was aggravated that this did not fit the mold of my upbringing. However, we were forced to accept that this discourteous unfairness was just another layer of skin on this big onion that we were not equipped to deal with.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Officers and some kind citizens attempted to care for the frail and injured, and to provide priority access for those not strong enough to fend for themselves. All in all it was a situation under limited control with little organization. </span><br />
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<a href="http://glutenfreegirlrunning.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/uhaul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://glutenfreegirlrunning.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/uhaul.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the day wore on with the prolonged intense heat and crowds on the roadside growing, it began to eat at some of us that many folks were not feeling “rescued”. Their placement on the highway to bake in the sun for hours, to await transport, occasionally by bus, but also by U-haul truck, open troop carrier or dump truck, was not what we envisioned or what they deserved after the ordeal they had already been through. We had no knowledge or control over their destinations. Our job was to get them out of the water. We had no information, authority or input beyond that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The high-rise residents who were able, filed out of their 168 apartments. They ventured one-by-one, down the dark stairwells to the dock-less boat mooring. When their turns came, they would submit to partial submersion in the increasingly acrid waters before entering one of the tin can units of the rescue flotilla. For the entire day, our clothes saturated and skin wrinkled, we stood chest deep in water assisting each passenger. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those who did not need to be lifted into the boat were directed to step onto the underwater chair positioned next to it. This provided us with assistance in getting each of them above the 4-foot water level and the additional foot and a half over the edge of the boat. Mickey Monceaux, an 11-year charter employee of R&R, assisting those who could not do so themselves, lifted more that a couple of tons of passengers into boats during the course of the day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Between boatloads, we would clomp up and down the stairwells, boots weighted with water, sweeping the building for those remaining. In the later hours, those remaining presented the most challenges. This was not due to their demeanor, as they were cooperative, kind and appreciative. These has limitations that prevented them from crowding into the stairwells to await their turns in line for debarkation. Despite impediments, the ones who couldn't make it to the submerged dining area to the bouncing watercraft, were nevertheless ready to go. They expected to leave like everyone else, and they expected to do it today Unfortunately, the circumstances evolved to the point that some would have to wait through the night... and perhaps beyond that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A late afternoon survey revealed four residents in wheelchairs who could not walk down the stairs, even with assistance. One of those, a charming and pleasant lady named Connie, much younger than most of the other residents, had a serious brittle bone disease. She was encouraging, but made it amply clear that we would risk seriously injuring her if she had to leave her electric wheelchair. It occurred to me that housing wheelchair bound residents in a high-rise with no generator backup for elevators showed little forethought or no concern.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We considered trying to carry her from her chair down the many flights of stairs, but in our fatigued and saturated state, we risked injury to her and to ourselves trying to negotiate down the wet, slippery stairs. We considered moving her down the 6 or 8 flights in her wheelchair, but I had discovered earlier that day how bulky, unwieldy and extremely heavy these electric wheelchairs are. It had taken four of us to move each of three other electric wheelchairs without occupants earlier in the day. Connie was scared to go and she was scared to stay. Although the sun was still shining</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, we had no options.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In one of the hallways, on a mid-level floor, lay a gentleman in his 60's or older, on his back, either sleeping or unconscious. I learned later that he had unfailingly assisted Sara throughout the day in locating and organizing residents. Now at <st1:time hour="17" minute="0" w:st="on">5:00 p.m.</st1:time>, he was passed out in a hallway. “Diabetic coma” we were told by a gentleman who we guessed was a relative or a close friend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In an apartment, we found two residents recovering from recent surgeries. With their spouses, they were packed and waiting in anticipation at the doors of their apartments as if expecting a taxi to arrive to drive them to the airport.</span><br />
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<a href="http://cdn.madamenoire.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/sick-elderly-man-378x396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://cdn.madamenoire.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/sick-elderly-man-378x396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The boat returned with the news that there was no insulin for our diabetic friend, no other medical resources and no further land transport that afternoon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those remaining had physical impairments of some kind, limiting their mobility at very least. Earlier, I had asked each of them if they wished to risk injury by being moved with our limited resources, and each had said yes. As the daylight was waning</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I returned to inform each of them that we could not take them that day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I could only relate this information to our unconscious diabetic friend through his nephew who would stay to tend to him through the night without medication. We lifted that gentleman off the floor and into his wheelchair and I mustered some weak words of encouragement for his nephew. I felt helpless and guilty that I was leaving them for the night. The only consolation was that they were better off here in familiar shelter than left on the roadside to fen for themselves.</span></div>
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" style="cursor: move;" width="0" /></a><a href="http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:HUAM:INV047413P_dynmc?width=560&height=560" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:HUAM:INV047413P_dynmc?width=560&height=560" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We plodded wearily down from the upper floors, one fight at a time, checking each level for residents. Almost desperately, one of the long-married couples called to me as I walked away. Seated in their living room, dressed and prepared to leave, they let me know they would be ready at daybreak. I nodded and assured them that they would not be forgotten.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Connie, the lady with the brittle bone disease and confined to her wheelchair, sat at her spot by the window and looked toward the city's skyline over the flood waters. As everyone seemed to be doing mentally, she struggled openly to comprehend it when I told her the entire city looked like the view out of her window. I emphasized that no one knew when it was going away. On her shoulder sat a parakeet she referred to as “her life”.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although Connie was usually surrounded in this building by hundreds of other residents, she was essentially confined to her chair and to this space due to her condition. This bird represented something akin to family to her. Now, it was only her and her parakeet, being left to stare out the window at the sky, the moon and the water while contemplating what life held for her next. She beseeched me to promise that I would return in the morning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Many of these occupants were at times in their lives that they had little more than themselves and the possessions contained in the confines of their living quarters. Their lobby, meeting room and cafeteria had by this time been under water for three days and would be for an indeterminate time to come. The parking lot, before Katrina, was the convenient welcoming area for the vehicles of family and friends who might visit, and for medical or emergency vehicles when needed. Now it too was cut off by the same darkening liquid that would seem to grow darker and thicker during the night.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Spirits buoyed by the arrival of boats this morning were now being replaced by tentative patience. These old souls, now stranded for three days feared that no-one would ever return if the opportunity today was missed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Encouraged by information that Ronny had befriended a group of volunteers with fire-rescue and EMT experience as well as equipment, I assured the residents that they could expect a level of safety in their removal tomorrow that we could not have provided them today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Moving into the sunlight out of the bowels of the last dark stairway, I thought for a moment that we had could make one or two more loads. Just as fleetingly, my mind flashed to images of the wet stairs, the heavy wheelchairs, the impaired residents and the turmoil at the roadside throughout the day. I accepted that we had done all that we could that day, and that those left in their familiar surroundings above would be in the best place until reinforcements arrived in the morning. Maybe by then, the area-wide strategic operation might be organized enough to actually do something with these less fortunate ones who needed care for their impairments.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">M</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">y 50-year old body, pushed to its limits, did not feel pain or fatigue, presumably thanks to my adrenaline-diluted blood. Little in my usually mundane daily schedule could compare with my experiences of the last day and a half. It seemed like weeks since this had started. The isolation and poor conditions were unlike anything I had encountered before. The amount of physical effort and mental stress had been at levels ten or a hundred fold what I normally dealt with. At the same time, this experience was awakening senses long unused and was in many ways invigorating. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We floated slowly and carefully, retracing our flooded path back to the roadside dock. The waters and the day itself seemed refreshingly serene as the late afternoon sky turned orange and reflected off of the waters around us. Though it seemed like the end of the day was approaching, I knew nothing of the adventures we would face in its remaining few hours.</span><br />
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To be continued</div>
<a href="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" 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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-67686568604264036572012-11-29T18:31:00.001-08:002012-12-20T14:31:17.067-08:00Katrina and The Cajun Navy - Seven Years Later (Pt.7)<br />
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<b><i>This is the eighth installment on this topic.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>To read from the beginning please go to entries beginning 9/20/12.<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 24px;">Parallel to The Chef, approximately one mile to the north is I-10 and equally as far north of that is Hayne Boulevard running along the </span><st1:place style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 24px;" w:st="on">Pontchartrain lakefront</st1:place><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 24px;">. These east-west thoroughfares are tied together by </span><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">4-6 primary roadways running roughly north and south. Since those are approximately equidistant from each other between our starting point and the I-610 connection to St. Bernard Parish on the far east end near the NASA plant, these roads would be our staging areas.</span></span><br />
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<img alt="Holiday Inn Express New Orleans East Map" height="280" src="http://cdn.destination360.com/north-america/us/louisiana/new-orleans/holiday-inn-express-new-orleans-east-map.gif" width="400" /></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">Each of them was situated closely enough to the high water that the elevation of Hwy 90 provided nearly perfect boat launches into the flooding. Our group's vessels were dispersed at four of these launch locations. Ours in particular set up operations at </span><st1:street style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Read
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">Because we could launch only one rig at at time, many were afloat and gone before anyone appeared with instructions or guidance. Impatiently and hurriedly, they sped off, hopefully to return with people and information. All boats could steer only north initially. We assumed there would be some organization to their action once they began hitting the cross streets of the neighborhoods where they might fan out for full coverage of the area. The water in the roadways provided ample clearance for the propellers almost immediately after entry. After each boat had barely left the "dock", their motors were opened full throttle, sending wakes into the small front yards and walls of the closely-spaced homes.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">Once the last boat had set off, it seemed the others began returning almost immediately, loaded with weary faces. Some appeared relieved, some concerned. Some had minor injuries and some had different levels of disabilities. Some were reluctant to show relief just yet, as they seemed to know this was only one short leg of a much longer ordeal that had begun with the clouds moving in before the wind and water. Where, when or how it would end remained to be seen.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">Our guys were gone again as soon as unloading was complete.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;"><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">It did not seem that we had just begun preparing for this journey only about 24 hours before. We were in a new place and a different time. It had taken ages, it seemed, to get there. We had hit brick walls and had stopped and started so many times that no one was concerned with details or plans when the crews finally got into the water and began shoving off. Not much was discussed about what would happen next.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">The arriving passengers were impatient as well, to have their chance to step out of each small dinghy and to walk on dry ground. Their exits were prompt. Except for a few errant slips, all who could disembark themselves did so quickly and without incident. Those who were sick, infirm, elderly or otherwise impaired would be helped or lifted carefully and gently by the biggest and burliest of our guys. Upon exiting, many engaged in idle chatter and some exchanged greetings and smiles. </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">Each would have stories of the last few days and would begin sharing them with each other.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">During the cooling breeze of the boat ride and the excitement of the rescue, most seemed to not yet notice the rapidly elevating temperature that was now approaching 90 degrees. It was barely mid-morning. Losing their sea legs, they began to survey the scene. Some curious, some bewildered, none could find any immediate indication or guidance as to what would happen next. Like gathering at a corner stop for a city bus with no impending arrival time, the not-yet-fully-rescued strangers drifted up to the shoulder of the highway. No shade, no water. Optional seating was provided by only the hot asphalt shoulder or the grassy sloping ground adjacent to The Chef.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">Having spent over two days without electricity, running water or air-conditioning in the sweltering New Orleans heat, it is likely that some hoped for, if not expected, air-conditioned buses and bottled water to greet them. After all, they were being rescued, weren't they? Maybe later.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">With one of the first groups brought
in, was a slender lady, past middle age but with straight blonde hair styled
like a much younger woman. She was happy
to be on dry ground but obviously distraught. Unlike others, she did not seem so excited about being safe or out of whatever situation she had left. She told her personal tale of having weathered the storm with her sister. From her tone, it was clear it was not just any sister, if there can be such a thing. This was her lifelong friend, confidante and soul mate. I would guess they were inseparable and could have wished for no better companions than each other for fighting a hurricane. At least they were in their home, with each other. As the story unfolded, it became clear that she had not only lost track of her sister, but she had lost her completely. As she sobbed uncontrollably, she told us that her sister had been dragged from her very grasp by raging wind and waters and that she had no doubt died.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">Happy that our charge had escaped the torrent and that she was now safe, those who could hear her slowed or stopped their frenetic motion to listen and to share her loss. It was again one of those moments in which the insulation of distance and relationship that shielded us from emotion had crumbled, exposing each of us to this real, very personal circumstance. In these fleeting moments, that we would experience repeatedly during the next few days, our dispassionate rescue job was altered and snapped into a sudden surge of emotion and human connection. Those who heard her were happy she was now safe and heartbroken for her
loss.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">The lady regained her composure and disappeared into the crowd to melt in the sweltering sun at the corner and to await the next chapter of her fate with a heavy heart. As the scores, and then hundreds of bedraggled were deposited onto the concrete bank of the new lakefront, they joined the crowd with the others, clueless about what lay before them. Within the hour of the grief-stricken sister arriving, a joyous scream rose up from the crowd in which she had become invisible. Everyone within the sound of her jubilation celebrated in some fashion, the arrival and heartfelt embrace of the first sister with the second who was very much alive.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">As the folks passed us to grow into the masses on the corner we </span><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 150%;">were able to piece together their stories and form some idea of the circumstances and conditions they had left, and that we would face going in. Our travelers were coming from rooftops and from attics of homes soaked and consumed by 6-8 feet of water by this third day. Their stories confirmed what we had gathered in bits and pieces from authorities. The water in the mile from The Chef to I-10 progressed from inches to over 6 feet. Beyond that its depth increased to as much as 12 feet approaching the lakefront.</span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The residential neighborhoods at the north and the south were interrupted in the middle by a light commercial corridor along I-10. The once grand Lake Forest Plaza Mall west of Read and south of the interstate was a showcase in its day, 30+ years before. Despite its size it contained no residences and no victims as far as we knew. However, adjacent to it was Methodist Hospital, Metropolitan Hospital, and various apartment complexes and hotels. On the east side of Read, the commercial development did not run as deep. Before transitioning again into suburban developments, the convenience stores, gas stations and hotels on the east side of Read stood as the front line before a high rise assisted living facility on which some of us would soon focus.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">At first, we heard only stories from the Metropolitan Hospital. The information that trickled down to us indicated that it was in fact a hospice. It held patients on their final
journey in this world, who had opted to forego medical treatment and
life-sustaining care. The word from that
building was that a preacher or a priest remained, and that he refused to leave
these dying patients. He had food and
water and the number in his care was not clear. He asked for nothing and would accept nothing, wanting us to use our resources for others. He offered
us gasoline if we needed it. Unless he was running generators, he
certainly would not need it. Every car in the parking lot was completely
submerged by flood waters. Because it seemed to be a situation under control, we bypassed the hospice for the rest of the day, tending to others more in need of our services.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="211" src="http://inapcache.boston.com/universal/site_graphics/blogs/bigpicture/katrina5_08_27/k47_24801491.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">5 years post Katrina<br />
(AP/Boston Globe)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">acknowledged</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> organizer, director and
head honcho of our group was </span><st1:personname style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Ronny Lovett</st1:personname><span style="line-height: 150%;">,
the owner of </span><st1:personname style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">R & R Construction. That company employed most of our rescuers.</st1:personname><span style="line-height: 150%;"> However, by her nature, to which Ronny fully and voluntarily deferred at times, the <i>de facto</i> managing director, drill sergeant and
organizer extraordinaire was Sara.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Sara had been instrumental in putting Ronny in business 10 years earlier. She </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">was the company's CPA </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">and was Ronny's long-time friend and </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">adviser.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> Small in stature, her position on anything
was always crystal clear and her decisions always certain. Regardless of their position on those decisions, no one considered questioning her here as her decisiveness and casual assumption of authority lulled all into a comfortable sense of security. Outside of this situation, on a normal day, questioning her still required preparation, fortitude and stubbornness whether for debate or true conflict. Any discussion would almost certainly end upon her subtly convincing her opponent that they had won her over...to her side. She was dictatorial through her gifts of persuasion and never abused her influence. When she adopted a cause, the troops rallied.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Her cause on this day would become a 15-floor assisted living facility jutting into the sky out of a concrete parking lot. Its location was about a block east of Read, a block south of I-10 and behind the half submerged branch of the New Orleans Public Library.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Sara first engaged me to assist her in
“evaluating the situation” at this high rise facility. At the time, it was not clear just what it was or who was in it. After 12 years of marriage, I knew that Sara asking me to help her evaluate the situation meant that I was to shadow her and follow her instructions as <u>she</u> evaluated the
situation. She would plan a strategy within minutes of her arrival.</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Our flat bottom metal marsh boat drifted carefully up to the edge of the parking lot of the non-descript pale building. The structure, surrounded by the expansive lot and then by streets, residences and low-slung stores in the distance, had nothing to block its view. From the road, we could see into the bottom floor that was under four or more feet of
water. At first, there seemed to be a clear shot across the lot to the entrance of the building. On second glance, it was clear that it would require a careful approach to avoid the vehicles and other unknown obstacles hidden just beneath the darkened surface of the water.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">We idled in cautiously into an area of sights and sounds of life emanating from the many screened windows on higher levels of the concrete box. In direct view, on the bottom floor, was an opening that appeared to have housed a large plate glass opening, possibly a door 10 -12 feet wide. To attempt to get a handle on the location and size of the population inside, we first </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">meandered slowly around the entire base of the building </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">following the sounds of the variety of voices coming from within. Greeted by a host of excited and happy welcomes from many of the fifteen floors, it became obvious that there were more than a few people inside. We returned to the large opening to determine if that space would provide a viable entryway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">Floating slowly, and a bit apprehensively past the cased gateway into the the shadows of the interior, the height of the ground level room was diminished by more than half by the the elevated liquid floor. We found ourselves inside some sort of meeting room or dining area with little clearance between the tops of our heads and the sheet rock ceiling. To the left, the top of an electric organ was
exposed. Bibles and pamphlets floated amidst debris
and the occasional dead bird or rodent. Tables and chairs were barely visible beneath the surface of the water which rippled ever so slightly from beneath the gentle drift of the boat.</span></div>
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the rear and in the center of the room, in an alcove past an open door, an area reserved for religious worship was visible. A group of candles
sat on a small altar protruding just above the water line.
On the wall was a familiar picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. </span></span><span style="line-height: 150%;">As a lifelong Catholic I
recognized this framed iconic image from my youth. Familiarity with it was reinforced and forever etched into my mind by the five years I spent in the city under the tutelage of the </span><a href="http://www.brothersofthesacredheart.org/" style="line-height: 150%;">Brothers of the Sacred Heart</a> <i style="line-height: 150%;">(Sacre' Couer)</i><span style="line-height: 150%;"> as an 8th grader at St. Aloysius High School and then four more at </span><a href="http://www.brothermartin.com/" style="line-height: 150%;">Brother Martin High </a><span style="line-height: 150%;">between 1969 and </span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">1973.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">In the far back
corner of the dining area, to the right of our path from the sunlit exterior entrance stood a blank metal door. Once opened, indirect light from our point of entry provided minimal illumination into the bottom of a dark, bare concrete stairwell landing. From our perspective as passengers in the flat-bottom aluminum boat, the sight of three bare concrete walls inside the stairwell indicated that it came down from the second story behind the wall to our right. Any signs of life, or of the pathway to the upper floors would come only after entry into the stairwell followed by an immediate 180 degree turn to the right. The entire landing was under 3-4 feet of water indicating that the lower five or six stairs would also be submerged. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">From above that dank floodline which we could now only imagine, and before any faces were seen, came the very real sounds of human activity and the </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">animated voices of people jostling for positions. The dark water, we would soon determine, acted as a weak and temporary force field restraining the mass of people anxiously waiting for transport. In the meantime they politely, but unflinchingly held the positions they had established on the inclined concourse. Had a larger craft been positioned at the landing, their anxiousness would likely have fueled a more forceful crush of bodies into the small portal to their rescue. With only the sounds of the first small dinghy invisibly clanging into the walls of the dining room and into the door casing of the stairwell, the anxious residents restrained their instincts and maintained a semblance of impatient decorum.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">To discover and actually view the reality of what we were presuming based upon sounds and circumstance required some of us to exit the boat and move without its protections into the stair well aperture. Leaving only our pilot afloat we lowered our feet, and then our legs into the uncertainty of the stained water until they disappeared from sight. As we descended deeper beneath the surface we were each briefly struck by the unexpected cool snap of the water as it enveloped our stomachs and lower backs.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">Using our feet as if they were red-tipped canes, we each felt about negotiating around objects large and small, some fixed and others bouncing randomly about. With the guarded anticipation of walking along the muddy bottom of a backwoods pond or a cypress swamp, we slid slowly along toward the single step up into the stairwell, hoping not to encounter any of the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OP4cZM-Y54">wild imaginings</a></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"> then fleeting through our brains.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Of more realistic concern should have been the risk of injury from some yet hidden source revealed only upon the infliction of pain. Even a minor injury could be devastating, if not life threatening, considering our remote location and lack of facilities. The water was still cool and only a short time had passed since its intrusion into the habitat of the landlubbers. It had not yet occurred to us that it was any more dangerous in these waters than it was in the lake waters in which we would dip ourselves and our fishing lines in the 60's in between "No Swimming" notices caused by elevated bacteria levels. (See <a href="http://www.saveourlake.org/">Save Our Lake.org</a>)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">As we successfully fumbled onto the landing we turned and peered up into the rectangular tube ascending to the dim light trickling downward from the second floor entry door propped open against the interior wall. In between that door and the motley rescuers were 40 or more faces, some smiling, some fearful, but all anxious. To this day, my recalled first impression was of images of elderly, desperate prisoners peering from the confines of trains during WWII not knowing if they were being rescued or being left to their own devices to escape an impossible plight.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">Of course, that impression is grossly exaggerated, but in the dark, humid confines of the stairway filled with forlorn and </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">beleaguered citizens stacked sardine-style shoulder to shoulder between cold concrete walls, pushing forward, both physically and mentally towards potential freedom, that initial impression remains in my brain's <a href="http://www.webopedia.com/TERM/R/RAM.html">RAM</a>. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-1836525036060043342012-11-12T17:23:00.002-08:002012-12-20T13:54:36.334-08:00Katrina and The Cajun Navy - 7 Years Later (Pt.6)<br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is the seventh installment on this topic.</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">To read from the beginning please go to entries beginning 9/20/12. </span></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRhydC2o5PFt3_NL3fWL7piUurPSxEU4THBklRiiUETEE2SPhgo" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRhydC2o5PFt3_NL3fWL7piUurPSxEU4THBklRiiUETEE2SPhgo" width="118" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">To describe the NOPD officer as "youthful" is almost an understatement. He was not a kid, but in his short-term memory he could remember being one. He wore enough uniform or accoutrements to barely reveal his authority but he carried himself in such a way as to assure everyone that he had the information we needed. The other officers with us deferred to him so we all gathered to listen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> <i> “If you see something you need that
would assist you in accomplishing our m</i></span><i><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">ission, like a ladder or a rope, take
it. If you can make a record of where i</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">t
came from, do it in the hopes that we might be able to return it.”</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After that last statement, I found myself glancing around, first at the faces of the volunteers and then at the immediate landscape around us. Did anyone believe that we could borrow tools and return them?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">From everything apparent to us since we had arrived in the city, this group was the first organized effort to enter this area with the job of removing citizens from their now 2 day-old plight. We were provided no equipment we did not pack ourselves, and about an equal amount of information on what we were to do and how we were to do it. The young officer spoke as if he had more information than us, but uttered no specifics that would allow us to confirm that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Other than the movements and conversations of this group, it was eerily quiet all about. The overpass above connected east and west bound bands of silent interstate. Chef Menteur to the front and back appeared desolate. No signs of life. The early sun was beginning to encourage formation of the first beads of sweat on our adrenaline-pumped contingent.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">Scores of imaginations of those now standing and half-listening </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">were actively forging images of what might lay before us</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">, with only the limited stimulus or input of the scenes absorbed during this brief morning. No one really seemed to know. The earlier suggestion that we might return necessary tools taken for our mission had only momentarily aligned with our 21st century sensibilities. Almost instantaneously a more primitive instinct told us that some of the rules on the outside simply could not apply today. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQs1rgDsTjS060wSP_XI_qGdF8xDNKWCZDDts9vGKJ8-xRxh5FC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQs1rgDsTjS060wSP_XI_qGdF8xDNKWCZDDts9vGKJ8-xRxh5FC" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OK this is a little exaggerated<br />
but you get the point</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Their status as lawmen apparently gave our Assumption Parish counterparts a free pass to carry their firearms into the city. They wore their </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Kevlar vests and tactical utility belts while brandishing short-barrel shotguns, automatic rifles and weapons my unsophisticated eye could not identify. I had not seen a weapon on or in the possession of any of our guys. Although, as sure as each of them had put a pocket knife in their pants with their keys when they left home, some carried guns of some kind.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="133" src="http://adventureamigos.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/Flight_of_the_Navigator_35581_Medium.jpg" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flight of the Navigator</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Knowledge is power. My designated status on this mission was that of a home-grown New Orleans boy among a gathering of wide-eyed foreigners trusting me as their navigator. That knowledge, and whatever perceived status I held as the company attorney allowed me to disguise the fact that I was a misfit in this bevy of swamp rats.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Many of these guys had begun hunting squirrels and rabbits as children with guns they received before they were potty-trained. Having had an active childhood playing organized sports until dislocating an ankle playing football, I turned in high school to student government and service organizations. There was a natural progression into law school. I loved to fish when I got the occasional opportunity but I did not grow up hunting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">To these guys, guns were like bicycles to a suburban kid. They were part of their identity, a kind of extension of who they are. They were comfortable using guns, and they were more secure with them at their sides. I began to hunt socially when southwest Louisiana became an integral part of my life late during college, but the shotgun I owned on this particular day was better off at home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">While our construction crew still felt </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">compelled to stealthily conceal their weapons, even if only by light t-shirts, our deputy friends felt just as compelled to exhibit theirs for all to see. Pumped up, whether by adrenaline flow or their training, they were ready to go. I suddenly felt naked, briefly wishing I had pulled
my one shotgun out of the closet, or from wherever I had left it after I used it
last.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> <i>“If you encounter a dead body, don’t
touch it. Leave it alone. That will be handled later. We are here to help people. There have been some reports of rescuers
being shot at and boats being taken. If
it gets too rough in there, we’re getting out.
Bring those who will leave, but don’t force them. No pets.
Do not travel alone. Go out in
pairs. As far as weapons, carry what you
feel you need for protection.” </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><b>Kind of late for the whole weapons thing!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><b>Man,
did I feel naked.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><a href="http://thumbs.trulia-cdn.com/pictures/thumbs_3/ps.45/2/7/8/8/picture-uh=dedbf5e0fc16ce64358d6688b353d38-ps=278891bf81b9d361397672636b78e415-3814-Mimosa-Dr-New-Orleans-LA-70131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://thumbs.trulia-cdn.com/pictures/thumbs_3/ps.45/2/7/8/8/picture-uh=dedbf5e0fc16ce64358d6688b353d38-ps=278891bf81b9d361397672636b78e415-3814-Mimosa-Dr-New-Orleans-LA-70131.jpg" style="line-height: 150%;" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Many childhood memories came to mind of my aunt’s new brick home purchased as the suburbs popped up in this area in the 60's. It was new and it was brick so it was fancier than anything any of my family
had ever lived in before that time. Despite aging and some disrepair in parts of the area, it remained the
home to many middle and upper-middle class residents. We would learn that some of them were the very police, fire and other public agency employees we would be working with. </span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.apwa.net/Images/Publications/Reporter/new%20orleans%20-%20house%20and%20car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://www.apwa.net/Images/Publications/Reporter/new%20orleans%20-%20house%20and%20car.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">We loaded up and our convoy shoved off, heading east. Quickly, the divided highway began to resemble television news images of distant foreign war zones. Sections of the asphalt over-laid concrete highway were obliterated. Everywhere was debris. Signs, utility poles and wires were down and buildings were literally blown apart. Our senses, heightened by the ominous tone of the officer's projection of what might lay ahead, were now cranked up to another level by the debris strewn gauntlet we now had to pass.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">As we painstakingly progressed, we began to notice locals roaming about. They did not look friendly. Was it real or imagined? Were they angry with us as representatives of the authorities who had not yet exercised their powers to drop resources upon them sooner? Was it just frustration? </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Was this our perception due to our new perspective? It did seem we were more separated from the makeshift HQ and home base on Canal Street, whether only physically, or psychologically as well. It felt as if we were farther from people, from civilization, from mankind. Senses began to signal that all of this was really more unreal than real. Whatever the reality, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">as we headed deeper into this new wasteland, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">the uncertainty of what awaited us was festering increased anxiety and elevated tension. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">A glance to the left, north toward </span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Lake Pontchartrain,</st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> revealed streets under water within
100 feet of The Chef. With its permanent shore out of sight about two miles away, its temporary boundary was now a stone's throw from the man-made elevation of the </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">string of ground we were now traversing. It then occurred to me that the the
high waters through which we had barely passed earlier could be impassable on our
return, depending upon the level at which the intruding waters of the lake and the city would equalize. Just six inches more could leave us stranded amidst strangers whose frustration was rapidly growing.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglpauP5_FT2Pi7xWUE_0zAYVuW0hk_5Hk2UJ00TAejeQpGybXuns9GjxZNdiAbf8XQgjDNyQ_-7azxOSfo60nm8WymKBTg1ryBRCemZlMOnFxJXPbPzIR2yVlFiIlDzNmCyFggYM4OuBk/s1600/katrina1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglpauP5_FT2Pi7xWUE_0zAYVuW0hk_5Hk2UJ00TAejeQpGybXuns9GjxZNdiAbf8XQgjDNyQ_-7azxOSfo60nm8WymKBTg1ryBRCemZlMOnFxJXPbPzIR2yVlFiIlDzNmCyFggYM4OuBk/s200/katrina1.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://www.apwa.net/Images/Publications/Reporter/bayou%20-%20road%20damage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://www.apwa.net/Images/Publications/Reporter/bayou%20-%20road%20damage.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Our movement was slowed by chunks and sheets of
asphalt ripped from parking lots, then lifted and dropped onto the main roadway by wind or water. In one block, balls, pins and paraphernalia from a bowling alley were strewn randomly about the parking lot, into the street and across it onto the lot of an auto parts store. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">At an obstructed area ahead, the
lead vehicle slowed to zig-zag across the median to avoid debris. The first gathering of people that could be considered a crowd seemed to be mulling into the direction of our passing parade. We noticed that the lead vehicle was approached by an individual, who then approached the driver of each following vehicle in succession. He clearly was trying to get someone's attention and appeared to speak briefly to those who slowed and allowed him to do so. Each one moved on in steady pursuit of the first.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Without hesitation, the man moved in a direct line from the window of the vehicle in front of us, to my driver's window. He was a young stocky man, probably in his late 20's. He was obviously distraught and was perspiring heavily. His pleas to the drivers ahead of us had brought him closer to those vehicles than anyone had approached any vehicle all morning. Those others who had waived their containers and approached earlier this morning, had appeared to quickly resign themselves to the fact that our appearance was not their rescue, and they reluctantly accepted our passing. This gentleman seemed neither resigned or agreeable to this entire string of relief passing him by.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As he left the window of the vehicle in front of us, he was undeterred by the apparent rejection he had met. During his looming approach, I thought, and I may have said out loud to myself, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><i><span style="line-height: 150%;">“Don’t stop, </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">we've</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> got to get where
we’re going.”</span></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In addition to sticking with the mission of reaching our assigned territory, I realized that slowing long enough to actually
hear a particular person’s problem would make moving on that much more
difficult. Regardless, I found myself confronted with a face, a person and dilemma. By my nature, I could not and would not ignore him completely by merely driving on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Could I hear what was deeply troubling him and still drive on after he shared it with me? I slowed without stopping, to indicate to him, and to me, that we had other plans. He walked along and spoke politely, but beseechingly, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> <i>“Please, my girlfriend has been in
labor for hours. It’s a breached birth
and she needs some help. She needs to
get some help. She can’t have the baby
here in the street.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="line-height: 150%;">His face was contorted with anguish. The perspiration poured off of his face and
onto his already saturated shirt. It
appeared to me that this was more sweat than he could have possibly accumulated by this
early hour of the morning. No doubt his distress was real and was great, and he must have been suffering with it for quite some
time trapped here powerless, literally and figuratively.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">My
stumbling reply was something to the effect that:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> <i>“We have to stick with what the police
have told us to do. We cannot move off of that track.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He pleaded:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> <i>“Can’t
you just take us where we can get some help?”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Again
I fumbled,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><i>“I’m
sorry, we can’t.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Reluctantly I drove on, consumed suddenly by my deeply ingrained Catholic guilt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“Dammit”,</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">I thought,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><i><span style="line-height: 150%;">“It </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">would've</span></i><span style="line-height: 150%;"><i> been
easier had I not had to actually talk to a real person.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Had I avoided the face, the person,
and the need, it </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">would have</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> been easier on my conscience. But the buffer zone provided by separation and distance had been shattered. The guilt faded as I focused on the propeller of the boat in front of us.</span></span><br />
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<img height="133" src="http://documents.stanford.edu/67/admin/image.html?imageid=1596062" width="200" /> <img height="132" src="http://itsgettinghotinhere.files.wordpress.com/2007/12/a4mid.jpg?w=355&h=237" width="200" /><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Not that it provided any consolation, but had I known then what became strikingly clear during the next few days, my response would have been different. It would have been clear and certain. It could have been simple and to the point:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> <i>“I’m sorry, sir, but there is nowhere
to take her. There is no place to get her
help. There are no resources in another location. We could only move her to another place just like this one...or worse”</i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">During this day and those following, individual
volunteers worked valiantly with limited
resources and virtually no communications. They were guided by </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">rag-tag authorities heavily burdened and pre-occupied by the knowledge that their own homes and families were suffering the ravages of the storm. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> Everyone knew that federal, state and local with powers and resources were out there, somewhere. No one quite understood why they not in here?</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.nerdylorrin.net/jerry/Katrina/photos/Katrina-PoliticalMBrownFEMA-MChertoffSecyHomland-ThadAllenUSCGViceAdmiral-FEMAMediaCenterBatonROugeLA9Sept-Reuters-BrianSnyder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="122" src="http://www.nerdylorrin.net/jerry/Katrina/photos/Katrina-PoliticalMBrownFEMA-MChertoffSecyHomland-ThadAllenUSCGViceAdmiral-FEMAMediaCenterBatonROugeLA9Sept-Reuters-BrianSnyder.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">It would become apparent that "the powers that be" were having better luck maintaining that buffer of separation and distance that delayed them</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> putting faces and names on the people in the
crowds. Were the crowds on the interstate just inanimate groups or census numbers? How could government not feel compelled to move faster?</span><br />
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<img height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d8/Superdome_shelter.jpg/250px-Superdome_shelter.jpg" width="300" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Those masses from the bridges and the fringes of the flooding would move eventually to the over-crowded Superdome. Those eventually "rescued" would be dropped at the convention center like airline baggage awaiting transfer to another flight. They would cram into the dark, musty buildings only to later overflow into the surrounding streets and sidewalks when the air became dank and un-breathable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Where was the cavalry? For days, as the rescues progressed, unless one was on the verge of death and got transferred to the MASH unit at the airport, there was no medical care.</span><br />
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<img height="257" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ97gJAOI1yV4S8vAWmtPVCbvqJFyOQDb3eJwH5N2MDQ2I8N_Yg" width="400" /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">For those now left on the overpasses, bridges, and rooftops of the city, there
was no food or even water. A national outcry spurred action by authorities
four days after Katrina hit, but until then, both the rescuers and those to be rescued were pretty much on their own.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">On this day, our thoughts returned to the man and the plight of his girlfriend and their baby.
Some of us surely rationalized that his story was an exaggerated attempt to get a
ride not otherwise available. If so, he was quite the actor. Whatever is the reality, we later
would know that moving her would not have improved her chances for a safe
delivery of a healthy baby. There was simply no place to move her where she
would have been helped. Mother Nature, who had helped create her circumstances, was her best ally to get her and her child through the birth. All we could do was keep her in our thoughts and prayers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">We moved on. It seemed on initial glance that the cruelty of nature and
the circumstances had created this new perspective of reality. In fact, in the big picture, it all became obvious that nature is not cruel, she is just much bigger than us. She is not </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">vengeful, just indiscriminate...and predictable. Hurricanes are no surprise to those who love to live in the gulf south. They are just a measured risk we accept for the benefits of living here.</span><br />
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<img height="186" src="http://www.crt.state.la.us/parks/LOOP/slideshow/photos/image3.jpg" style="text-align: center;" width="200" /> <a href="http://beachcomberpete.com/home/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Mississippi-River-and-city-of-New-Orleans-United-States1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://beachcomberpete.com/home/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Mississippi-River-and-city-of-New-Orleans-United-States1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.network-marketing-business-school.com/images/USA-Flag-Map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="http://www.network-marketing-business-school.com/images/USA-Flag-Map.jpg" style="line-height: 150%;" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">In this </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;"> of opportunity and wealth, we may live our whole lives without confronting the difficulties of accomplishing survival in other parts of the world. We were now getting the opportunity to obtain first-hand, a brief, clear glimpse of the lifelong plight of a large
segment of the world’s population that lives </span><a href="http://water.org/" style="line-height: 150%;">without running water</a><span style="line-height: 150%;">, </span><a href="http://www.globalpost.com/dispatch/africa/101021/ghana-electricity" style="line-height: 150%;">without electricity</a><span style="line-height: 150%;"> or </span><a href="http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/" style="line-height: 150%;">without medical care on demand</a><span style="line-height: 150%;">.
It was completely alien to this home-grown, NOLA ex-pat lawyer raised in a modest household that never lacked necessities or medical care. Though hand-me-downs and public health care were the norms for my nine brothers and sisters, they were nevertheless available.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS_OegCCekS3ulCQbHxnuu58WwbTx6wahWplV_YmjPlR04bz5yy" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS_OegCCekS3ulCQbHxnuu58WwbTx6wahWplV_YmjPlR04bz5yy" /></a>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The story of the man and his girlfriend would become one of many on a list of experiences to occur during the brief few days that would soon pass. The weekend before, in the comfort of our homes a short drive away, we could not have known that we would now be here beyond Thunderdome, and that bottled water would become a treasure more valuable than any other possession.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b style="line-height: 150%;"><i><u>To Be Continued</u></i></b></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-30066995409511096612012-11-06T03:25:00.002-08:002012-11-13T05:01:31.983-08:00Katrina and the Cajun Navy - 7 years Later (Pt. 5)<br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is the sixth installment on this topic.</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">To read from the beginning please go to entries beginning 9/20/12. </span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Despite the plummeting adrenaline and the general fatigue from the long day, sleep on the concrete sidewalk did not come easy. We had tools for our work, but virtually no one had put much thought into sleep. There were no sleeping bags, and in the heat of a Louisiana August there were no jackets or sweatshirts to roll up as substitutes for pillows.</span></div>
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<a href="http://s1.favim.com/orig/17/dream-dreams-insomnia-sleep-sleeping-Favim.com-194471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="http://s1.favim.com/orig/17/dream-dreams-insomnia-sleep-sleeping-Favim.com-194471.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2iRz_MZjZCQ/TWXZA5u-xQI/AAAAAAAAAJI/XPMfOGjD4bI/s1600/insomnia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2iRz_MZjZCQ/TWXZA5u-xQI/AAAAAAAAAJI/XPMfOGjD4bI/s200/insomnia.jpg" width="188" /></a><span style="line-height: 150%;">The night was one of cat naps. Like the recurring dream of half-sleep that won't progress forward or go away, the concrete repeatedly reminded, during awake times, that there was nowhere to go and nothing to do except to wait out the night until morning. The monotony of sleeplessness was broken by the occasional distraction of the waning activity at police headquarters under the casino overhang across the street.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Eventually, almost forgivingly, da</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">wn was breaking.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">As the yellow-orange glow of sunrise brightened over the horizon behind the constant flow of the Great River, our crew began to assemble. Everyone was ready, again, to finally get started and to do it before the welcoming sunrise hue of this warm, comfortable daybreak was transformed into a fiery-hot summer morning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">While our guys (and Sara) were shaking off the remnants of the night and preparing for the day's adventure, I noticed our same NOPD friends curbside near the casino. Not yet fully geared up for the day's activities, we moved toward each other and exchanged greetings. We talked casually about where we were from and why we were there, sharing some personal stories before reverting to work mode. We provided them with general information about the resources we had available to us and our common work background. It was determined that we could be best utilized in an area known as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eastern_New_Orleans">New Orleans East</a>, a name that simply and </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">precisely describes its location</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Roughly following the meander of the Old Spanish Trail across southern Louisiana, US Highway 90 was the primary east-west transportation route in the area after the Industrial Revolution met the horseless carriage in the early and mid 20th century. </span></div>
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<a href="http://thm-a02.yimg.com/nimage/6fab310ae526a9a0" imageanchor="1" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://thm-a02.yimg.com/nimage/6fab310ae526a9a0" width="320" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/xJnYZG7MVXY/0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/xJnYZG7MVXY/0.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://www.loopnet.com/Attachments/4/7/9/xy_47937B3B-32F4-4901-8B8C-2763D14CF718__.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://www.loopnet.com/Attachments/4/7/9/xy_47937B3B-32F4-4901-8B8C-2763D14CF718__.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Warehouses, trucking companies, industrial centers and commercial building sprung up in towns and cities along Hwy 90 prior to the emergence of the next generation of highways in the form of President Eisenhower's Interstate system. By the time of Katrina, many of the bustling commercial, industrial and transportation facilities that had sprouted mid-century were now filled with aging, rusted and deteriorating buildings and infrastructure. Many of these areas now survived as home to budget hotels, bowling alleys, struggling diners and low-rent warehouses.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">However, across vast areas of reclaimed swamp between the old Highway 90 and the lakefront, the new Interstate 10 ran parallel and about midway between the two. After the completion of I-10 in the 1960's, new shiny suburbs had sprouted. America discovered suburbia as the oil and gas industry, port-related projects and tourism in New Orleans grew.</span></div>
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<img height="133" src="http://www.nationalgeographicstock.com/comp/MM7/481/1094234.jpg" width="200" /><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"> </span></div>
<img src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS1shYIg_wDADxyE_uzcfJMQc-pjI86WkDwO6zbQTdyOKtgKQT4eQ" /><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">The </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michoud_Assembly_Facility" style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">NASA facility at Michoud</a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> was located in an area of eastern New Orleans East during the early years of the nation's space program, and was the location at which the external tanks for the space shuttle project were manufactured from 1973 until 2010.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Added access had been provided by the Interstate and a new bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway into St. Bernard Parish. South of the Orleans Parish peninsula, St. Bernard and its numerous well-settled communities had developed along the river, the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet and various other waterways that provided access to and from the gulf. We would find out later, that these avenues of boat access had proven to be devastatingly efficient corridors for the funneling of tidal surge during Katrina. Our attempts to reach into that area would come later. On this day we were headed to the area of old US 90.</span><br />
<img src="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/galleries/bcove/assets/35020e5f-ad40-4c2a-9929-3c9311b6d3c5.jpg" /><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
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<a href="http://www.legendsofamerica.com/photos-nativeamerican/Louisiana%20Indians%20Walking%20Along%20a%20Bayou%20by%20Alfred%20Boisseau,1846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://www.legendsofamerica.com/photos-nativeamerican/Louisiana%20Indians%20Walking%20Along%20a%20Bayou%20by%20Alfred%20Boisseau,1846.jpg" style="line-height: 150%;" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">In this area of eastern New Orleans, when Highway 90 was still the main thoroughfare through the City, it had been named “</span><st1:street style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Chef Menteur Highway</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">”. The name is French and closely connected to legends of the indigenous Choctaw Indian Tribe. Some stories suggest that it is related to a territorial governor of the state who reneged on a treaty with the tribe. Others say it refers to the winding Mississippi River whose path and swirling currents could not be trusted. The translation into English is "Lying Chief". To locals, this section of highway is known simply as "The Chef". </span><br />
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<a href="http://louisiana.sierraclub.org/images/atcha_map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="http://louisiana.sierraclub.org/images/atcha_map.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Presumably for adequate numbers, and also to provide some trained law enforcement resources, we were paired with a contingent of </span><a href="http://www.assumptionla.com/" style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Assumption Parish</a> <span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">sheriff’s deputies</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">. Assumption Parish is nestled southwest of New Orleans in an area between the Mississippi River Delta and the vast Atchafalaya Basin.</span></div>
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<a href="http://laweb.gat.atl.publicus.com/storyimage/LA/20120516/NEWS/305169999/AR/0/AR-305169999.jpg&MaxW=315&MaxH=230" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://laweb.gat.atl.publicus.com/storyimage/LA/20120516/NEWS/305169999/AR/0/AR-305169999.jpg&MaxW=315&MaxH=230" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">With less that 25,000 people in its 365 square miles, the parish is home to rich alluvial sugar cane farms and swampy, wooded lowlands bounding with fisheries and wildlife. It's communities of Pierre Part, Labadieville, Paincourtville, Belle Rose and others reflect its people's strong ties back to the eviction of vast numbers of French from Nova Scotia by the British in the late 1700's. Being from the same background of those Acadians (Cajuns) who found permanent homes in south Louisiana, many of our folks could expect to share similarities with our new partners.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">With the length of our entourage nearly doubled in size, we set out from the foot of Canal Street, out of the area of Harrah’s Casino, the Hilton
Hotel, and the <st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center. Despite our size, we hung closely together and plodded carefully toward the </st1:placetype>elevated
expressway between the Crescent City Connection and I-10. We would enter the same multi-lane highway that had brought us down the bridge from the west bank when we had entered the day before. Today we would turn away from the bridge and go deeper into the city, away from the river and towards the lake.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">Our memories retained images of </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">street flooding and filled drainage ditches during</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> our entry the day before into the western suburbs. Water nearly encroached on the interstate, but did not impair our passage.</span><br />
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<img src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTe5N07wON70Rbt4QU5uwUCvKuT4Gybuqcbljs-4C-Trt0U4ijLdg" /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Traversing over to and then back from the west bank via the two river bridge systems to enter downtown we had passed significant wind damage and debris. Street flooding and swelled waterways was less evident on the west bank.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">From the vantage point of our campsite at the foot of Canal Street, we saw concrete street and sidewalks disappear into water which transitioned from ankle deep to waist deep. In the distance was the I-10 overpass, an overpass we would soon cross on this new morning.</span><br />
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<a href="http://students.cis.uab.edu/nate1357/poland1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="http://students.cis.uab.edu/nate1357/poland1.jpg" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; text-align: justify;" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">During our prematurely terminated mission to Poland Avenue in the Ninth Ward, the shallow flood waters met the dry pavement and grass neutral ground but did not seem to prevent residents on the edge of the flooded area from wading or walking in and out of their homes if needed.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">We had returned to our high ground for the evening and had tried to rest on hard, dry pavement near the trolley tracks. These were only images of the storm's aftermath then stored in our memory banks.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">From the descending ramp of the river bridge, to the intersection with I-10 in the shadow of the Superdome, and then northeast almost to the Industrial Canal, this main thruway is elevated overpass hovering above the city below.</span><br />
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<img height="192" src="http://www.seattlemet.com/data/publicola-assets/2010/07/Clairborne_Expressway_elevated.jpg" width="320" /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Nothing we had heard on the radio or from other workers, and nothing we had seen since our entry into the city had prepared us for the sights we would see as we motored forward on the elevated expressway. We first noticed a few pedestrians walking from the area of I-10 toward the high ground from which we had entered. For a few short blocks, the ground 15-20' below the roadway remained visible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">A few blocks more, approaching the Dome, our adventure was transported into a
surreal sort of Twilight Zone. At first surprising, it quickly graduated to stunning then shocking. It was a transitional slap in the face, waking us all up to the gravity of what was developing, now two days after the storm.</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> As our caravan snaked onto I-10 east and around
the Dome, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">the transition of reality began as the crowds on the elevated concrete surface grew. We simply did not expect to see, or pass through the center of hundreds, then thousands of people walking, sitting, standing and moving aimlessly about the shoulders of this raised interstate highway. </span><br />
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<img src="http://kieladrianscott.com/core/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/katrina_survivors2.jpg" style="line-height: 150%;" /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">After passing over Canal Street, at a location nearly 2 miles from the river, the expanse of the city on all sides became visible. We knew there would be water, but did not comprehend how much of it. On all sides, water reached to the mid-h</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">eight</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> of homes and businesses.</span></div>
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<span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="130" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRRCNr830j375cV6UD-1sRgZJMPK-eBgvmeQbBle-x0_gN_Wa_D1w" width="200" /></span></div>
<a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5230/5657820527_35f5b55b21_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5230/5657820527_35f5b55b21_m.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Windows and doors of elevated structures were only half-visible. The water was silent and still. Nothing stirred. The morning sun glistened off of barely visible rooftops of submerged automobiles. The infinite canals ran farther than the eye could see, even from this elevated look-out point.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">During the coming hours and days we would encounter things we had never seen before and would not have imagined until after our eyes and brains had seen and comprehended them. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Our brains filtered well, as they do in unreal circumstances, absorbing the constant flow of extraordinary and unreal experiences and sites we would encounter. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">The previously incomprehensible would become
status quo. Our senses were
spared the psychological meltdown that might have occurred had we been able to
assimilate all that we would see as we would see it. Once ratcheted up by what we were now confronting, we began to assimilate and adjust to the new normal around us.</span><br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQencpO42pfimjkXEQYZjm_JN8AuX2KP6PJU4vTVIWc4Kol_K9GNg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQencpO42pfimjkXEQYZjm_JN8AuX2KP6PJU4vTVIWc4Kol_K9GNg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Only in a few places did the shelter of a higher roadway provide a small area of shade for a small part of the masses assembled on the concrete. The accumulation of groups began to make sense in view of the 4-8 feet of water creeping up the various access ramps at which larger numbers of folks had congregated. The fact that they were there and appeared to be in need of medical care, shelter and probably food was the first stark indication of the level of the tragedy this City had suffered</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After passing over <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Tulane Avenue and </st1:address></st1:street>Canal Street, followed by Elysian
Fields and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Franklin Avenue</st1:city></st1:place>,
it became obvious that these thousands must have nowhere
else to go. Given a choice, any choice, they would not be here. The flooding was indiscriminate and was not limited to poor or undeveloped areas.</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.usdat.us/secretary/archives/refugees_1.jpg" /><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The dark waters had risen quietly in the black night and had crept voraciously across the city's grid. Having come to rest after passing through windows, doors and any crack or crevice, they were now engulfing, like a virus, the floors, walls and furniture of historic homes, museums, churches, businesses, cemeteries and every
street. From this perspective, the
entire City, as far as the eye could see, was under water...alot of it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="http://ncptt.nps.gov/wp-content/uploads/floodwaters-after-hurricane-katrina-300x200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ncptt.nps.gov/wp-content/uploads/floodwaters-after-hurricane-katrina-300x200.jpg" style="line-height: 150%;" /></a><img height="211" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRlFBPdZcZwDOYfe-r26p695ziFv8YXqtmOVvB0syYlu_53asqwmw" width="320" /> </div>
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<a href="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/40756000/jpg/_40756594_mother_daughter_ap203b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/40756000/jpg/_40756594_mother_daughter_ap203b.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">These locals had probably weathered many storms in the comfort of their homes, fearing and experiencing only the loss of electricity for a day or two. Now they had been driven to high ground like ants from an underground colony. As we passed, some spoke. Though mostly unintelligible due to the wind blowing into windows of the trucks as we passed the crowd, they were obviously making pleas for assistance.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.rossway.net/mariner_water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.rossway.net/mariner_water.jpg" width="153" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">More and more, we noticed many with containers, mostly plastic, mostly clear and mostly empty. It was the jolt of another simple reality: These people had no water. As in </span><i style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, </i><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">"Water, water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://foodmuseum.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/nola.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://foodmuseum.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/nola.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">On this highway, devoid of other vehicles, now turned into a huge pedestrian waiting area, our boat parade certainly looked official enough that these patient transients could reasonably have expected that they were being rescued. At least they may have believed that we were coming to provide them some relief. It was the first tough lesson that our task
at hand would require us to restrain our personal desire to help everyone we encountered. It was not, and would not be easy to do. <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">They pleaded, waving their arms and their empty vessels as we passed by unceremoniously.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Looking deeper into the masses and at individual people and faces, we saw wheelchairs,
injuries, fatigue and desperation. Many clearly had medical issues. Some appeared semi-conscious, while some looked to be propped up, seated and leaning against the
railing of the interstate.</span><br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTb4GzH8U0AfuOPb938F3s1l-oug6ryPQAvALLwiHJsxqnmGS12" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTb4GzH8U0AfuOPb938F3s1l-oug6ryPQAvALLwiHJsxqnmGS12" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">We passed
children, mothers, grandparents and teenagers of every shape, size, and age wandering aimlessly with nowhere to go. Obviously thirsty
and hungry, they were doing what human beings do when friends, family and community are challenged by circumstances: they were attempting to assist and comfort each other.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.tandfonline.com/na101/home/literatum/publisher/tandf/journals/content/hvcq20/2007/hvcq20.v014.i02/15551390701555969/production/images/medium/hvcq_a_255454_o_uf0001.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://www.tandfonline.com/na101/home/literatum/publisher/tandf/journals/content/hvcq20/2007/hvcq20.v014.i02/15551390701555969/production/images/medium/hvcq_a_255454_o_uf0001.gif" width="200" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As the situation dragged them well into a second day, they lacked the resources to handle it much longer. Reasonably, they could expect help from those charged with resources of the bigger community of city, state and nation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">At this point they would happily accept it from
anyone willing to give it. Our struggle with moving on without assisting those on this stranded corridor was eased by two thoughts: the understanding of the importance of our specific mission; and our assumption that others, better equipped than us would soon follow like the cavalry to bring in aid and relief. That kind of assumption would not come so quickly or comfortably as the response to Katrina unfolded.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As the interstate nears the eastern area of the city, it returns briefly to ground level in anticipation of rising yet again, to greater heights at its crossing of the Industrial Canal on the "High Rise".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The crowds thinned somewhat as we moved closer to the older industrial area of Hwy 90, just before the suburban expanse of New Orleans East. Between the two bridges our string of 40+ trucks and boats slowed and then ground to a halt. After a brief wait, the lead vehicle could be seen maneuvering to make an apparent U-turn, struggling in the 3-lane roadway with the length added by the trailered boat behind it. Just ahead of it, the reason was obvious. At this low point in the roadway, high water was preventing passage.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.jasonhirschfeld.com/hurricane-katrina/two-men-paddle-in-high-water-by-the-bridge-crossing-the-industrial-canal-to-the-lower-ninth-ward-after-hurricane-katrina-devastated-the-area-august-31-2005-in-new-orleans-la-s_153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="201" src="http://www.jasonhirschfeld.com/hurricane-katrina/two-men-paddle-in-high-water-by-the-bridge-crossing-the-industrial-canal-to-the-lower-ninth-ward-after-hurricane-katrina-devastated-the-area-august-31-2005-in-new-orleans-la-s_153.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">The transition of the sloping roadway into the flooding could have been a well designed boat launch. Unfortunately, we were not yet at our destination and could not know if the new waterways would provide us access. The trailing tandems followed the leader in turn. Of course, in re-tracing our steps we would again pass the tired and thirsty we had just left behind. On this second drive-by, more of them appeared frustrated bordering on angry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Some in our group had never been to </span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">. None had ever experienced a situation
like this, but we could imagine that something similar must have
occurred, somewhere else, sometime.
There was nothing to indicate at this time that any of these folks felt abandoned or helpless enough to do anyone harm in their anger and frustration. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Though they were clearly in need of assistance, we had a mission, a purpose and a goal. Again we drove by, perhaps a little faster this time, not needing to absorb the scene as we had on the first pass.</span><br />
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<a href="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2011/8/5/1312568639173/New-Orleans-bridge-after--007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2011/8/5/1312568639173/New-Orleans-bridge-after--007.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">We zipped along, as quickly as our motorcade could without splintering. Headed westbound in the intended eastbound lanes, we exited on the entrance ramp at which we had begun. We turned right, into the shadow of the raised roadway we just left. Then, surprisingly to those following, and without hesitation, the leader of the pack veered right again, up the exit ramp of the westbound highway. Apparently, our new route could be reached from the same roadway, but we were all curious about using the parallel side of the same course that we had just left. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">We again moved northeast, but this time in the
opposite travel lanes. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">On this span both the route and the scenes were identical to those we had just encountered on the adjacent twin span. A sort of </span><i style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">deja vu.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We came upon more crowds. A large man, in loose gym shorts and a baggy, white, T-shirt soiled by extended wear, sat propped against the bridge
railing. He appeared to be in his 60's and one of his legs bore numerous scars from earlier injuries or surgeries. Based on his closed eyes, the manner in which he was situated against the railing, and the grotesque swelling of his leg, he was either unconscious or in too much pain to move.</span><br />
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<a href="http://cdn5.wn.com/ph/img/91/f0/875bf9796247fcce61971a87f979-grande.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://cdn5.wn.com/ph/img/91/f0/875bf9796247fcce61971a87f979-grande.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">There were more dogs, shopping carts
and ice chests amidst the crowds on this side, or it may be that we just began to look beyond the people. The dogs roamed about, much like their human counterparts.</span></span><br />
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<img height="108" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTH6ctBE0F_aruagFkQG0I11OedP_eua2B8tH-Mkb60FpSHsnrs6A" style="line-height: 150%;" width="320" /></div>
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<a href="http://latimesphoto.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/katrina_anniversary010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="126" src="http://latimesphoto.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/katrina_anniversary010.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The carts and chests lay abandoned and empty after having served their purposes during the exodus of those now stranded, and moving helplessly about these bridges. Even those walking seemed not to have destinations and looked to be moving about merely to imply progress.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">By this time, nearing 7:30 on Wednesday morning, two days after the storm, we had only sketchy information about the broken levees in the canals near the lakefront. It indicated that the levees had broken late, perhaps even after Big K had passed. We were aware that </span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Lake Pontchartrain</st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> had continued to dump itself through the levee breaks into the city bowl, but we had no idea whether it continued to pour in or the rate of the flow. Reports were that water was continuing to rise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><img height="182" src="http://i.huffpost.com/gen/195688/thumbs/r-HURRICANE-KATRINA-large570.jpg" width="320" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><img height="300" src="http://whereyat.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/katrina-new-orleans-flooding2.jpg" width="400" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><img src="http://www.republicanrebel.com/katrina_wading.jpg" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3065/2727458868_7afe0c94e6_o.jpg" /></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">The front man slowed and then, like the steady progression of falling dominoes, we all came to a stop at the edge of the area of the high water that had turned us back earlier. Why were we again visiting this impassable barrier? The lead truck lurched forward, its wheels disappearing beneath the water's surface. Holding our collective breaths, we watched as the dripping rims emerged on the other side.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2011/09/03/article-2033124-0DB2DF0B00000578-35_634x365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2011/09/03/article-2033124-0DB2DF0B00000578-35_634x365.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As each awaited a turn and inched closer to the section of invisible roadway, it became apparent that the water level on this side was slightly more shallow than in the eastbound lanes. As we dunked our vehicle's front bumper into our liquid nemesis, a wake was sent toward the
concrete divider at the center of the interstate. There, the silent movement of the rising wave struck the beveled concrete and rose up its side before being forced back to return and greet the following vehicles during their crossings. We rose from the deep and successfully passed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">With the uncertainty of the water crossing behind us, we were struck by the sight of a stretch limousine and various vehicles randomly strewn about, each having failed to complete the same passage we had just made.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">On the up-ramp of the High Rise, the tandem pieces of our traveling necklace re-assembled onto their invisible string one by one. We ascended to the peak and into the face of the morning sun.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.corbisimages.com/images/Corbis-0000206169-001.jpg?size=67&uid=74473030-5818-443c-aaee-75567a1c0b3b" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="http://www.corbisimages.com/images/Corbis-0000206169-001.jpg?size=67&uid=74473030-5818-443c-aaee-75567a1c0b3b" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Descending we confronted a scene that could have been from the movie "Beyond Thunderdome". Empty </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">18 wheeler trailers were strewn alongside the interstate, doors blown open and empty. Best guess is they were blown from piggyback
ride on a railroad flat car and thrown like Legos by a 3 year old to rest as they sat, waiting to greet us as we neared our exit.</span><br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR59OFTRNnwU_7__wAK0YY7OnnMC4-dFX2xRONg5ckrhjAWF3U-" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR59OFTRNnwU_7__wAK0YY7OnnMC4-dFX2xRONg5ckrhjAWF3U-" style="line-height: 150%;" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">One was tossed against the center median and another dropped on
the highway shoulder, twisted, distorted and upside down.</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">No doubt, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas could devise and create these scenes in a Hollywood film, but these were real. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">We passed beyond the upended
trailers and exited the highway into a cloverleaf interchange moving contrary to the intended flow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Onto Chef Menteur we scooted under the overpass cover and beyond. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Side by side, three abreast, directed due east, and 12-15 deep, the engines idled then stopped, the rigs trailing back into the shadow of the highway bridge. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Heads popped out of open doors and moved about in anticipation of new instructions, still hoping to be near the beginning of our quest. Those who did not stand in the beds of their trucks, congregated together to receive the next phase of our marching orders. Those instructions came from </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">a youthful </span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> police officer
we’d never met before and knew we would probably never see again.</span><br />
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<img height="200" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e0/Fleur_de_lis_of_Florence.svg/250px-Fleur_de_lis_of_Florence.svg.png" width="142" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b><i><u>to be continued</u></i></b></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-53176847236424799942012-10-26T08:30:00.005-07:002012-10-28T16:45:16.413-07:00Katrina and the Cajun Navy - 7 Years Later (Pt. 4)<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; font-size: xx-small;"><i><b>This is the fifth installment on this topic.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; font-size: xx-small;"><i><b>To read from the beginning please go to posts beginning 9/20/12.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Before, during and since the Big Girl had passed through, our consumption of news programming from all types of media outlets had been virtually uninterrupted. From the time we began to organize and mobilize on Tuesday morning, our information had come exclusively from radio. In the now well-established age of 24-hour news coupled with the developing genre of reality television, aggressive media seemed intent on dramatizing the already dramatic. Achieving increased market share was the primary goal to be achieved by many so-called "news organizations". Once informative, fact-based news reporting was being replaced in this generation by often inflammatory and polarizing cable networks boldly promoting political, social and religious agendas as purported "news".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">What chills the conscience on Tuesday becomes the norm by Wednesday, and has to be met and exceeded by Thursday. With these underpinnings, national media had to transform the information in the developing drama post-Katrina and entertain the citizens of the world on their unlimited supply of electronic devices</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Inside of the levees though, the source of the news had been thrown back into the relative Dark Ages. Limited communication made the translation of piecemeal information into a story unreliable. I</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">n many cases r</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">eporting of events was over- dramatized guesswork. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Across the country and the world, those outside of the levees teetered on the edges of their seats as events unfolded.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">It could be said that there had previously been a relatively standard pattern to the development of most disasters. The storm, or other event, would approach, strike and create a peak of destruction and then subside. During the final phase, rescue and re-building resources could enter the affected areas and render aid. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Unlike the flooding in the case of many natural disasters that soon subsided after the onslaught of the rising waters, this situation was deteriorating tragically and disproportionately with the passing hours. The water rose, and then it stayed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 24px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 24px;">Horribly, we would find out later, its victims in those first hours and days, were unsuspecting elderly and/or handicapped. Surely, to their horror, they awoke trapped by rising flood waters, many in their own beds, in their own homes. Nowhere to go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 24px;">Unable to flee or protect themselves. Many who could flee the rising water, found their way into their attics, only to be eventually confronted there with stagnating air that would heat to desert-like temperatures as the sun rose and passed across the south Louisiana sky. No relief was provided by the humid, Mississippi Delta nights that cooled only into the 80's before quickly transitioning in the daylight hours into virtual outdoor saunas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Add to all of this, the fact that assistance was not flowing freely into the city. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Passionate people felt compelled to do something to assist, and help</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> was mobilizing all over the country, and the world. However, getting into the flooded bowl of the city was proving to be more difficult than our entrance in the early hours of the crisis. As the hours passed, the bureaucracy grew.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 24px;">We were happy to be inside, and to be in</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 24px;">a position to do something positive. I think we all sub-consciously expected to enter this American city and promptly have access to resources. You know, "We can put a man on the moon, but..." Surprisingly, no...stunningly, we were carrying what came to be, relatively speaking, enviable resources. What we had was minimal, but in what appeared to be a devastated infrastructure, we would hold on tight to the tools we had.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Communication was a different story. OK. No it wasn't. Land telephone lines were down, and like the electricity, old-fashioned phone communication was probably out for days, if not weeks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">But in this wireless era we would be OK with our cell phones.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">OK, no we wouldn't. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">In the age of ever-expanding digital communication we believed that contact with the world was always at our fingertips. Wrong again! Apparently, a few downed or damaged cellular towers could disable communication as easily as downing a few old-fashioned radio towers or telephone poles could.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Limited texting would become available in a day or so, but for providing communication either inside or outside of the levees, cell phones were about as useful as two paper cups on a string.</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Whodathunkit???</span><br />
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Po<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">lice, fire, rescue, emergency personnel and volunteers could communicate with each other on only a single frequency. Throughout the entire metropolitan area of the city, one frequency was being used in a make-shift party-line mode. Everyone could talk, and deciphering the identity and location of the participants was as challenging as the message itself. Nothing seemed to be coordinated, and people were in desperate need in conditions that appeared insurmountable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Initially, we were just hopeful that we might be able to be helpful. As the hours passed, we experienced a growing sense that we were absolutely essential to a sorely deficient rescue effort and that we might even save a few lives. That sense of urgency and potential usefulness in such an indescribably huge event filtered, and maybe blocked out completely any apprehension, fear or hesitation. In a situation in which good judgment would have otherwise produced concern, caution, planning and possibly retreat, we continued blindly on our unwavering course into the unknown. The familiar surrounding of this great city that we loved provided comfort and hope keeping safer, conservative judgment at bay.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Our determination and the need to adapt to our surroundings and circumstances left no time or opportunity for worry. We would later discover that our families , out of contact and feeding on the media hyperbole were beyond anxious. Many, we would learn were downright scared for us, fearing the worst. I'm sure that some were angry at us for our foolishness...at our ages. With no direct contact they found it easy to work themselves up into a frenzied combination of fear and anxiety. Fortunately for us, they could not confront us about it until later, after they knew we were safe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Focused on the purpose of our mission, on the edge of the great <st1:place w:st="on">Mississippi River</st1:place> and in the heart of the now devastated city, we were still waiting. With our boats still trailered and not in the water, our frustration was compounded by delays. Adrenaline staved off fatigue from the day already full of activity and high drama. The boats were not afloat. Our constant thought was, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">“There are people in attics, on rooftops and in need. Let’s go!”, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">while "Hurry up and wait" seemed to be the resonant, underlying theme. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Finally our long line of trucks and boats weaved around the Casino building at the foot of historic Canal Street like a Chinese parade dragon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">We came to a halt facing down-river toward the convention center and the river bridge, into the direction from which we had come. We had made almost a full circle around the huge casino and found ourselves at the front of the pack. While waiting in line, we had gathered some sketchy details about the situation in the rest of the city.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 24px;">From the foot of Canal Street we could see the flood waters only a couple of blocks away. It was high and dry from the river levee almost to Bourbon Street where ankle deep water began a northward progression to a full 12' depth a few miles away at the Pontchartrain lakefront.</span><br />
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The only </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 24px;">area that the broken levees and the lake's waters had left accessible by land</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 24px;"> was a strip along the crescent of the Mississippi River, as narrow as only a few blocks in some areas. It seemed odd that the area closest to the river would spared the wrath of the flood, but centuries of pre-levee flooding and silting had created this high ground upon which this city was born. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">We would learn that t</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">he buildings, vehicles and virtually all of the assets of the New Orleans Police Department were under water. All of the assets except the human ones. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">At the front of the line we now occupied, w</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">e encountered two gentlemen in street attire. </span><br />
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<a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR16rWcxhM6KkzkbJABMu1fmNdhkdeBT3EtApEsQAbHoMC48UAtf0NC98F-" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR16rWcxhM6KkzkbJABMu1fmNdhkdeBT3EtApEsQAbHoMC48UAtf0NC98F-" /></a>T<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">hey presented as authority figures and acted as if they were overseeing a plan of action directed at our goal. Lt. Dean and Capt. Bayard of the New Orleans Police Department appeared fatigued, but they were aggressively organizing and directing boat owners, and assigning groups for deployment. Surprisingly, I recognized Timmy Bayard as a fellow alum of Brother Martin High School and a guy with whom I used to occasionally play pick up basketball 30+ years ago. Their enthusiasm and devotion to what they were doing was evident as they busily attempted to transform a hodge-podge rescue operation into a well-oiled machine.</span></div>
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQHW_O6paTovIGspTL9LCrC8UYgdG1apUSdMHpn5YSC350058l0EQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQHW_O6paTovIGspTL9LCrC8UYgdG1apUSdMHpn5YSC350058l0EQ" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">It was determined that we would deploy to that part of the Ninth Ward of Orleans Parish separated from the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lower_Ninth_Ward">Lower Ninth Ward</a> by the Industrial Canal. The Inner Harbor Navigation Canal (its proper name) is a man-made canal, with locks, connecting Lake Pontchartrain to the Mississippi River. As its nickname implies, it is used for docking, repairs and heavy industrial activities related to shipping. Three major levee breaches had occurred on the eastern side of the canal</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> opening the way for indistinguishable lake and river waters to flow mercilessly into the largely-residential Lower Ninth Ward. By this time it was entirely inundated.</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.csmonitor.com/var/ezflow_site/storage/images/media/content/graphics/2012/0227-weekly/aninthward_g1/11777350-1-eng-US/ANINTHWARD_g1_full_600.jpg" /></div>
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/ce/Industrial_Canal_and_Claiborne_Bridge.jpg/220px-Industrial_Canal_and_Claiborne_Bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/ce/Industrial_Canal_and_Claiborne_Bridge.jpg/220px-Industrial_Canal_and_Claiborne_Bridge.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">The Upper Ninth Ward received most of its flood waters from levee breaks nearer the lake in the 17th Street and London Avenue Canals. These flooded areas were accessible by vehicles only from dry ground in the area of the river. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Because of the location of downtown and the French Quarter on the uphill side of the Mississippi's crescent where the river flows north, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">we would need to drive north, parallel to the river to approach our destination. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">The drive would be less than 3 miles. Under normal conditions, absent debris and downed trees and power lines, it would take less than 10 minutes. The planned launch site was near enough to the levee breaks that</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> we were cautioned not to motor our boats within two blocks of them. Officers' Bayard and Dean provided instructions referencing </span><st1:placename style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;" w:st="on">Poland</st1:placename><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> Avenue,</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> the Lower Ninth Ward, the </span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;" w:st="on">St.</st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> Claude Avenue Bridge and similar local landmarks.</span><br />
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<img src="http://external.ak.fbcdn.net/safe_image.php?d=AQDSC8woR81c-pof&url=http%3A%2F%2Ffb.ecn.api.tiles.virtualearth.net%2Fapi%2FGetMap.ashx%3Fb%3Dr%252Cmkt.en-US%252Cstl.fb%26key%3DAqSHdMNkhSvgWwMhbqyiqgW1IhMNeV56Gb0WkfgEDm6jSsfX9gDGmlOUEt3i44Jk%26td%3DD1%26h%3D249%26w%3D483%26ppl%3D54%252C%252C29.9622%252C-90.0319%26z%3D12&jq=100" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Though these were familiar to me, my southwest Cajun podnas were like deer in the headlights. They assumed, without knowing, that I had some idea of where we would be going. Though they were all hardened blue collar country boys, they all were dealing with their own personal trepidations in this strange place. Most of them could find their way out of the </span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;" w:st="on">Southwest Louisiana</st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> marshes in the dark, while dragging a boatload of freshly-killed game, but they were completely unfamiliar with the city’s confusing web of tangled streets.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"><a href="http://www.cartogrammar.com/images/streetnumbers/neworleans.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://www.cartogrammar.com/images/streetnumbers/neworleans.png" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; text-align: justify;" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Laid out over hundreds of years, as dry ground was re-claimed from swamps, the city's streets are confusing to motorists with maps, and more so to southwest Louisiana boaters without them. Our hopes were to have an escort to our destination and guides at our sides beyond that to keep order and to conduct an effective and efficient rescue operation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">My concerns heightened when I witnessed Lt. Dean re-explain his instructions three times to our blue-jean clad NOPD escort officer. It was some consolation that our group would be able to remain together. If our guide got lost we would all be lost together. In any event, there was devastation throughout the city and if we didn't wind up where we were supposed to be, there surely would be ample work to keep us busy. With no hesitation, and with blind trust, our parade dragon fell in behind our unsure escort. We eased slowly around the casino again, across Canal Street and into the famous <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Quarter">French Quarter</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="267" src="http://blog.jawsnap.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/nola_french_quarter.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Decatur Street</td></tr>
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<st1:street style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Decatur Street</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> is the street closest to the river running parallel to it through the Vieux Carré, or the “</span><st1:street style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Old Square</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">” as it was named by the original French settlers who laid out the city in a grid on this limited area of high ground. The area, approximately 13 blocks along the riverfront and 6-8 blocks deep had come to be known worldwide as the French Quarter. To locals it is simply “The Quarter”. When </span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> was settled in the early 1700’s, the Quarter was high ground surrounded by lowlands and swamps. Those lower areas would be claimed over the years for farming, then for residential and commercial development as this world-class trade center grew. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Ferdinand DeSoto of Spain "discovered" the mighty river in 1542, though it had been known and used by Native Americans for thousands of years. Though the Spanish claimed it, they found the area too wild and made no attempt to settle it. In 1682 LaSalle claimed it for France and named it “Louisiane” for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">France</st1:country></st1:place>’s King Louis XIV who was looking to expand his empire. On Mardi Gras day in 1699 Iberville reached the mouth of the <st1:place w:st="on">Mississippi River</st1:place> from the Gulf of Mexico. However, the entrance to the river was so treacherous that he established a permanent settlement on the gulf coast, rather than risk losing his ships trying to enter the river's mouth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">In 1718 Iberville’s brother, Bienville created a <a href="http://www.neworleansonline.com/neworleans/multicultural/multiculturalhistory/french.html">permanent settlement</a> in a crescent shaped section of the river and named it in honor of the Duc d’Orleans. The site chosen was a small area of high ground that had long been used by local Indians as a depot and market for goods. The location was ideal as it was a short distance between the river and the large shallow lake to the north named by the French settlers for the Duke of Pontchartrain. Nearly three centuries later, Katrina (<a href="http://levees.org/myth-busters-by-levees-org/">with the help of failed levees</a>) had in short course turned these historically friendly water bodies into weapons of destruction during her swift pass through the city.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7F3mnmGcleTyDfojERQRFtlTNXPuJz0e0488j6I1Rxk9SCptrD859CtSQb-zug0uDgcjH2TK7x2hL-aRYqgTTBZ6TEc7_Hq9yx9OYlyBC0LOMX2s68JYCr2jfr5Eva79gsgG4QYLOswU/s1600/CafeDuMonde_Beignets1a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7F3mnmGcleTyDfojERQRFtlTNXPuJz0e0488j6I1Rxk9SCptrD859CtSQb-zug0uDgcjH2TK7x2hL-aRYqgTTBZ6TEc7_Hq9yx9OYlyBC0LOMX2s68JYCr2jfr5Eva79gsgG4QYLOswU/s200/CafeDuMonde_Beignets1a.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Decatur Street</st1:address></st1:street> was high and dry as was most of the French Quarter. The amount of clutter and fallen trees increased as we approached Cafe' du Monde and <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Jackson Square</st1:address></st1:street>, both of which, except for the storm, would have been packed with tourists and locals seeking the pleasure of some beignets and take in the views of the old military square.</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.inetours.com/New_Orleans/images/Tours/Jackson_Square_0466.jpg" /></div>
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<a href="http://images.travelpod.com/tw_slides/ta01/011/d2e/the-french-market-new-orleans-new-orleans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://images.travelpod.com/tw_slides/ta01/011/d2e/the-french-market-new-orleans-new-orleans.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Just past the square and just before the historic French Market, a large ornamental tree blocked 2/3rds of the roadway. Slowing and creeping to the side, against the high concrete curb, we squeezed our train past it, to be greeted by the twisted and tattered cloth awnings of the old market.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.tnemec.com/resources/project/492/usmint1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.tnemec.com/resources/project/492/usmint1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Past the old open air market and at the outer boundary of the Quarter rests the beautiful old U.S. Mint building. Just before it, sat what appeared to be a huge, bronze aluminum foil ball, the size of a dump truck. On a closer look, it appeared that the entire copper roof of the historic building had been stripped off, rolled into a ball and placed curbside for pickup.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6r_M0ctBkz986nSmpASfVWJKfogOJ3IzMPI1WyFceIZ3dW986FNxwC1O4sj4hb3ELs_sOI3MOREdBwGUXvCczXB-qwyGvZMbtoyIBAcb_nRuoGg9tp-tH7FXB8sfKWMjq8iplgdbh8znH/s1600/marigny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6r_M0ctBkz986nSmpASfVWJKfogOJ3IzMPI1WyFceIZ3dW986FNxwC1O4sj4hb3ELs_sOI3MOREdBwGUXvCczXB-qwyGvZMbtoyIBAcb_nRuoGg9tp-tH7FXB8sfKWMjq8iplgdbh8znH/s200/marigny.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Across Esplanade Avenue, passing through the Fauborg-Marigny District, the travel became more treacherous with more downed lines, trees and debris. Our forward travel was blocked at the T-intersection of Royal Street with Poland Avenue by the imposing F. Edward Hebert Naval Compound, named for the only person I can recall who served the area in the U.S. Congress while I was growing up.</span><br />
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<a href="http://students.cis.uab.edu/nate1357/poland1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="http://students.cis.uab.edu/nate1357/poland1.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"></span><br />
<a href="http://thewe.cc/thewei/&/&/images5/katrina/flooded_street.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://thewe.cc/thewei/&/&/images5/katrina/flooded_street.jpe" width="146" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">We turned to the left, away from the river, heading up Poland Avenue. Like many other streets in town it is divided by a neutral ground (median) on which grow stately old live oaks. A few blocks up, we approached a location manned by four or five Wildlife & Fisheries agents. A block or more beyond their location, an accumulation of 50-100 locals could be seen at the edge of the flood waters.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Wildlife Agent Eddie Skinner had the unfortunate responsibility of throwing cold water on our mission. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">“I don’t know who sent you, but we’re shutting down this location. We can’t send y’all out there without supervision or security.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Ultimately, after towing the department line of bureaucratic talk speaking generally to safety and security, he reluctantly got to the point. He described the situation as being one fueled by some of the locals escaping the flood waters with their salvaged possessions consisting more of “their liquor instead of their clothes”. It had been a long day and these folks were apparently, young enough, healthy enough and close enough to waters edge to wade out with some essentials. Agent Skinner as the official representative of the Department of Wildlife & Fisheries , and hence the great State of Louisiana, had been determined that a definite security risk was presented. We could not blame him, despite our desire to get started.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.bdoutdoors.com/resources_tiny/News_8_12/La_save.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.bdoutdoors.com/resources_tiny/News_8_12/La_save.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Clearly it had been a long day for the agents and the residents whose lives had been upended by the storm and the aftermath of the broken levees. The agent, with little sleep since passage of the storm, were not in a position to competently provide security or supervise continued rescue efforts into the evening. He politely, but firmly put the quietus on our enthusiasm, wisely noting that our intentions would be of little value if our operations could not be carried out safely. Having heard stories from older generations of the historically rough nature of the Lower Ninth Ward well back into the 19th century, my argument with Agent Skinner ended. Our parade dragon weaved its way through the high, dry streets nestled against the riverfront, retracing its path back to our starting point at the foot of <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Canal Street.</st1:address></st1:street></span></div>
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<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-GSayQ6M9qtc/T0uKenxTpSI/AAAAAAAAE0g/lZ-BgPV6Vgo/DSCF59674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-GSayQ6M9qtc/T0uKenxTpSI/AAAAAAAAE0g/lZ-BgPV6Vgo/DSCF59674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Lt. Dean, still at work, offered to direct us to another area to begin our work during the evening, but good sense prevailed. Some of the group who had previously conducted nighttime search operations in areas with which they were familiar, encouraged us to start out fresh at daybreak rather than encounter the risks of an evening search in an unfamiliar area distorted by streets that had been transformed into canals. Having no home base, we were directed by officers to park on the street car (trolley) tracks in the median of <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Canal Street</st1:address></st1:street>.</span><br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRN1RKPGLJthayPNpBuS10CDHqFyhcZrT87dJAhtTXXrH0XlvPH" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRN1RKPGLJthayPNpBuS10CDHqFyhcZrT87dJAhtTXXrH0XlvPH" width="200" /></a><a href="http://neworleanscondotrends.com/files/2009/03/st-charles-ave-streetcar-st-charles-condos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="102" src="http://neworleanscondotrends.com/files/2009/03/st-charles-ave-streetcar-st-charles-condos.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">These tracks had recently been built on this “neutral ground”, as it is known by Orleanians, to be used by new, modern trolleys to cover expanded routes in the city. It was a bold and aggressive attempt by the city administration to use the world-renowned allure of the </span><st1:street style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">St. Charles Avenue</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> streetcars to capture a larger share of the tourism market while providing expanded mass transit for the city. The tracks, now vacant, would be our home for the night.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home Sweet Home</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Our enthusiasm temporarily bridled, we were still animated after parking our vehicles in the heart of one of the most historic cities in the world. At least within a 3 or 4 block area, we could establish some semblance of normalcy. The towering hotels and office buildings, usually brightly lit and teeming with activity throughout the night, were dark against the starlit night sky. The only light came from the covered overhang of the casino and an area a few blocks up <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Canal Street</st1:address></st1:street>, at the water’s edge, near <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Bourbon Street</st1:address></st1:street>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Under the Harrah’s Casino overhang that usually protected busloads of visitors willing to drop cash into the coffers of the state and Harrah's in hopes of taking home a jackpot, was located the new headquarters of law enforcement operations of the New Orleans Police Department. With most of their station houses and vehicles underwater, this would be the NOPD command center for the next week or more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Up <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Canal Street</st1:address></st1:street>, a giant, blinking warning arrow could be seen, placed there to direct, away from the new canals of the city, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">whatever vehicles that might wander there.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"> Our adventure took on the air of a camp out among close friends filled with stories and laughter. With trucks and boats resting under the clear starlit sky, in the balmy humidity of the Big Easy, we tried to claim our spots on the concrete and talk about the day, the beginning of which seemed like weeks ago. There was no trepidation or concern with what might lie ahead of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">The wheel of one of the boat trailers had lost a bearing. Mechanical as I am (or am not) my only clue that this was really not a good thing was the sight of the boat, on its trailer, in the right lane of the six lane street. Against the backdrop of the huge casino building, it was disconnected from its land transportation and appeared to be abandoned without an owner. Without new bearings, the trailer would become a part of the abandoned property dotting the landscape.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Four members of our group decided that a one and a half hour drive back up Interstate 10 to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Baton Rouge</st1:city></st1:place> was the only hope to get the parts to make the needed repairs. There were no stores functioning in the metropolitan <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans area</st1:city></st1:place>, and looting an auto parts store did not seem to be an acceptable option. We knew that security at the edges of the City was tight, and were fearful that anyone leaving the confines of the disaster would not be allowed to return. As they left, we had no idea if we'd see them again before returning home. </span><br />
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<a href="http://www.taquitos.net/im/sn/Zapps-SCC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.taquitos.net/im/sn/Zapps-SCC.jpg" width="125" /></a><a href="http://thinklings.org/images/gatoradelemonlime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://thinklings.org/images/gatoradelemonlime.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Those of us who remained behind shared the chips, crackers, cookies and Gatorade we had. Speculating on what the morning would hold and whether the four who ventured out would return, each of us began to trail off to try to find a place to perch for the evening to try to get some rest. We chose our spots on the curbs, in the beds of pickup trucks, on boat decks or in truck cabs, to rest or to try to sleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">By <st1:time hour="1" minute="0" w:st="on">1:00 a.m.</st1:time>, the bearing hunters had returned with extra bearings and Waffle House sandwiches to supplement our snacks. They had come upon an open restaurant south of Baton Rouge and had claimed the last of its food supply that had been depleted by the mass of evacuees. They proudly described their negotiation of a $70 discount off of the $240 bill after detailing the nature of our mission. This was the first of an endless series of unsolicited acts of generosity and kindness we would witness over the course of the next few days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><b><i><u>TO BE CONTINUED</u></i></b></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-3011957900409249672012-10-10T14:10:00.004-07:002012-10-25T06:00:45.217-07:00Katrina and the Cajun Navy - 7 Years Later (Pt. 3)<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is the fourth installment on this topic.</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; font-size: xx-small;"><i><b>To read from the beginning please go to posts beginning 9/20/12.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The Causeway Boulevard exit of I-10 is just a few miles west of the 17th Street Canal which serves as the western boundary of Orleans Parish and the City of New Orleans. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">The canal is typical of the numerous drainage canals that furnish paths for water away from the low-lying areas of the city into Lake Pontchartrain, via intermediate pumping stations which move the water upwards to the level of its release into the lake.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">As one of the primary canals, this one is enclosed on its east and west sides by earthen and concrete levees to contain the excess water being pumped toward the lake and to prevent flooding during major rain events.</span></div>
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/20/New_Orleans_17th_Street_Canal_filling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/20/New_Orleans_17th_Street_Canal_filling.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The first levee break of which I became aware occurred a few miles north of the I-10 bridge crossing of the canal just a few block south of the canal's connection with the lake. The levee blew out, or simply gave out, on the east side only, sparing the Jefferson Parish suburbs to the west and releasing elevated waters into northern Orleans Parish and New Orleans. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">8' to 12' waters accumulated from the point of release and for miles along the lakefront to the east toward the London Avenue Canal and the Industrial Canal. The levees of these parallel, north-south canals were failing simultaneously and began dumping their own torrential flows into the city.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Waters from the Gulf of Mexico and Lake Borgne that had surged in with Katrina from the east, along with flood water that had found its way way from the city into the canals, all pushed backwards uncontrollably through the canal breaks, away from the lake and into the city bowl. During this process of water accumulating from the lake on the north, into uptown on the south, and into downtown, the French Quarter, the 9th Ward, Central City, New Orleans East and St. Bernard Parish, all to the east, access into the city via I-10, and most other entrances had become impassable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><b><i>Virtually the entire city was accessible only by boat.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">From the hub-bub of emergency vehicles and helicopters at the Causeway exit, in order to reach the next “staging area”, we
moved south on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Causeway Blvd</st1:address></st1:street>, rather than east toward the city. Causeway Boulevard is a major north-south artery in suburban Jefferson Parish and is an extension of the 24-mile <st1:place w:st="on">Lake Pontchartrain</st1:place> Causeway
Bridge connecting the city and its older suburbs to the new, burgeoning developments north of the lake in St. Tammany and Tangipahoa Parishes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">On this day though, the normally bustling roadway was deserted, like the
Interstate had been. However, travel was significantly more treacherous with downed power
lines, power poles, pieces of buildings and other unrecognizable debris requiring heightened senses and extra caution. Occasionally alternating between the main road and the adjacent frontage road, we were able to weave through the mess and
found our way to Airline Drive. There we turned to the west, fully 180 degrees off of the path that would have taken us into New Orleans when roads are passable.</span><br />
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<img height="153" src="https://www.google.com/maps/vt/data=Ay5GWBeob_WIPLDYoIWcfVXxvZu9XwJ55OX7Ag,OBh6qCgDcg8Pmthzd0R_iEUCu4be4LEw4YpB_K6DSvW24GBnySXPixRyXUxS-s65_LT8diD49VSJdmFDReWTu43NkaKOg0pxMtfrto02dpMPw66_YbFDNwjdbYBTwX78IJWY97OS5NM6AogeqN9PxXYTI0Ezics-6AR3RIpr4mFcESB--6A0IsUQaxug2A" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">During this 15 minute trek, none of us was aware of the extent of the flooding and the blocked roads into the city. Following the instructions from those who appeared to be in authority at the Causeway exit, we continued, but began to question where we would ultimately end up. We continued west for only a mile or so and came upon a large accumulation of parked vehicles with trailered boats in the roadway in front of </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Sam’s Club warehouse store.</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">No one appeared to be in charge
and no plan of action was evident, so we followed the pattern of those who had arrived before us</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> and</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> made a U-turn on Airline Drive. It was of minor sub-conscious comfort that we were at least pointing back in the direction of the flooded downtown area.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">The vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, and their boats lined up in formation, three abreast and 10 or 12 deep on Airline Drive, apparently waiting on instructions, authorization or something.</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Then we waited some more.</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> Some of us wandered around the "staging area" hoping to find some guidance.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<a href="http://img.tootoo.com/mytootoo/upload/88/88325_c279bdceb5cf3916095ffdf6ce632930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://img.tootoo.com/mytootoo/upload/88/88325_c279bdceb5cf3916095ffdf6ce632930.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="http://0.tqn.com/d/worldnews/1/0/8/G/-/-/55377800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="http://0.tqn.com/d/worldnews/1/0/8/G/-/-/55377800.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Ronny and Sara had roamed over into the Sam's Club parking area.Finding no clear authority or evidence of a specific plan, they returned with </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">two cans of spray paint and no clear instructions on what to do with it.</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> We would discover later, like much of America, that flooded and damaged homes were marked with a pattern of numbers identifying buildings that had been searched, marking the locations of victims and quantifying the number of those whose remains would have to be gathered. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">(</span><span style="color: #1e1e1e; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.southernspaces.org/2010/katrina-5-x-code-exhibition">X-code, an iconic graphic </a>applied by search-and-rescue teams in 2005 post-Katrina New Orleans.)</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Our</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> cans were placed on the seat of one of our trucks to be rolled and tumbled around the cab
for the next few days, never to be opened.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After an hour or so, the movement of other vehicles in groups out of the formation had resulted in our group being at or near the front. We saw no one giving instructions and received no information, but when the other vehicles moved, we followed. The sub-conscious relief provided earlier by our change of direction to the east, reversed itself when the beginnings of our new caravan made an immediate U-turn back to the west. We moved for a mile or two into the late afternoon sun, a group of about 45 boats, destination unknown. Directed by an unknown and unseen leader, we turned left onto Clearview Parkway, another major north south thoroughfare. Curious, but uninformed about the plan of action, I began to realize that we were coming upon the Huey P. Long Bridge that crosses the Mississippi River.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTKFO6kTupv5DCHWLbJbihUQLesH2kwDGIl7zNjm5h5rzRIqfwApw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTKFO6kTupv5DCHWLbJbihUQLesH2kwDGIl7zNjm5h5rzRIqfwApw" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The bridge was built in the 30's under the auspices of its namesake, a wildly popular governor and United States Senator. Appealing to the Depression era masses, he had become a serious contender for the U. S. Presidency proclaiming the Populist standard of "Every Man A King". Known as The Kingfish, he was killed in his prime by multiple gunshot wounds received in the lobby of the 24-story state capitol building that he had built as a monument to himself. The bridge was opened 3 months later.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://www.louisiana-destinations.com/images/photos-cities/state-capitol/state-capitol-with-huey-1973.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.louisiana-destinations.com/images/photos-cities/state-capitol/state-capitol-with-huey-1973.jpg" width="132" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">As a college student in the 1970's, I could visit the capitol building where the errant bullets from the event remained for public viewing, imbedded in the marble walls surrounding the first floor elevators. One problem is that it is still the subject of debate over coffee or cocktails, whether the bullet or bullets that caused the <a href="http://www.hueylong.com/life-times/assassination.php">death of The Kingfish</a> a day or two after the shooting, came from the gun of Dr. Carl Weiss Jr., the alleged assassin, or from the guns of law enforcement wildly firing to subdue him.</span><br />
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</div>
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a0/Huey_P_Long_Bridge_Baton_Rouge_northwest_1.jpg/800px-Huey_P_Long_Bridge_Baton_Rouge_northwest_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="File:Huey P Long Bridge Baton Rouge northwest 1.jpg" border="0" height="150" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a0/Huey_P_Long_Bridge_Baton_Rouge_northwest_1.jpg/800px-Huey_P_Long_Bridge_Baton_Rouge_northwest_1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">To this day, the state remains dotted with engineering accomplishments like the capitol building, constructed for the benefit of, and as a constant reminder to the citizens (and voters) of the state of the love that Huey P. Long bore for them. The bridge over the Mighty Mississippi, which we were now approaching was an
engineering marvel in its day, as the first crossing of the </span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Mississippi
River</st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> in this area where the river is its widest. </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.johnweeks.com/river_mississippi/pics/us190x07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://www.johnweeks.com/river_mississippi/pics/us190x07.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">Upon the long line of trucks and boats squeezing into the narrow entrance ramp of the bridge, it became evident that it was intended to accommodate smaller vehicles during a slower time. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Crossing the bridge, without the usual congestion of high-speed traffic, it was hard to imagine
how two lanes of speeding traffic could be squeezed onto the shoulder-less roadway between the railings separating traffic from the river on the outside and the train tressel on the bridge's interior, when
the city was fully operational. We each
held our breath as an emergency vehicle screamed us out of our quiet focus and anticipation and flew by us, forcing our steady line to hug the
right railing as we cautiously descended the narrow bridge.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Our route did not indicate that we
were going into <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans,</st1:city></st1:place>
so I began to speculate that our services might be needed more in the outlying
parishes toward the mouth of the river. At the base of the bridge on the west bank (actually south of the river), the state highways could lead us west and south into the lowland swamps and marshes, or to the east into the commercial and suburban sprawl of what is known simply as the West Bank. Various small suburban towns of Marrero, Gretna, Algiers, Westwego and others had grown together and now carry no readily recognizable boundaries, but comprise as a single unit, the West Bank suburbs of New Orleans.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCV0Fupud7O7kxVylyzpgvy-Z1uP4AmYjKLA34oSyGPKIqwCX9ntYsfYelmPtnqTyYZCmsXjk0HGS8yVyDPpPy1O1litHfGRHBLfbbWcKtVGS-7dgxrEuxQCSr1NPQCcOon0VL4IPCUA/s640/Slide1.JPG" width="640" /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">It was this route, via the West Bank Expressway, that we could find our way into downtown New Orleans. Unbeknownst to us at that time, we were meandering to and along the only land access route into the city. The expressway, a great deal of it elevated, carried less debris and no traffic.</span><br />
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<div>
<a href="http://images.artnet.com/artwork_images/424236030/380101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://images.artnet.com/artwork_images/424236030/380101.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">We traversed the 8 - 10 mile route and found ourselves at the vacant toll booths at the base of the twin span to be used to re-cross the Mississippi River, the Crescent City connection. The second span, constructed 20 or 30 years after the original downtown bridge, was originally know simply as The Greater new Orleans Bridge. After completion of the second span, its moniker was updated and it was permanently christened The Crescent City connection.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="211" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/af/FEMA_-_44077_-_MERS_Mobile_Emergency_Operations_Vehicle_at_Disaster_Site.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Using the west-bound span of the CCC we moved onto the East Bank of the river (yes, I said that correctly-see map above) descending upon the elevated expressway that curves around the southern and western sides of the downtown and central business district of New Orleans. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">At the first exit on the city side,
parked on the shoulder of the elevated expressway exit, sat a clean, new, white
cargo truck with a white-tented extension.
Standing around it, in creased blue jeans and golf shirts next to dark
Suburbans and Tahoes were representatives of the Federal Emergency Management
Agency (FEMA). One appeared to be
operating a video camera overlooking the skyline of the City.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRlzrkq-pLJuh_rtCV2DETp_b-cCpNaq4eOFBFou7gDcGfKcGVTYQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRlzrkq-pLJuh_rtCV2DETp_b-cCpNaq4eOFBFou7gDcGfKcGVTYQ" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">This location, and another similar scene we would encounter the following day on the elevated portion of I-10 above </span><st1:street style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Claiborne Avenue</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">, were the only signs </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">of that agency</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> that we saw during the first six days after the storm.</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a2/MorialConventionCenter3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a2/MorialConventionCenter3.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">At the bottom of the exit ramp, we found ourselves peering directly into the face of the Ernest <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Morial</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Convention
Center, and then turning left toward downtown, parading somberly along the street separated from the 6 block long convention center only by a wide concrete sidewalk. I</st1:placetype></st1:place></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">n
the long blocks spanned by the convention center only 200 or 300
people meandered about. On any other day they could have been waiting for cabs, catching some quick sunshine or smoking cigarettes </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">on the banquette, as many sidewalks were traditionally called. Today they could have been gathering for transportation out of the City, or as a part of relief
efforts. The few small groups were hardly noticeable in this usually crowded city.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">At the foot of Poydras Street, at the end of Convention Center Boulevard , we converged upon a usually vibrant intersection and Harrah's Casino. The casino, a billion-dollar
mammoth, is the only land-based casino in the state.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://photos.igougo.com/images/p66637-New_Orleans-Harrahs_from_the_22nd_Floor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="348" src="http://photos.igougo.com/images/p66637-New_Orleans-Harrahs_from_the_22nd_Floor.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px;">Harrah's Casino-New Orleans</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">It was then, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">among the 15 gaming licenses available in the state, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">the only exception to the legislative wisdom decreeing that citizens and voters are safe from casinos only if they
are contained in floating riverboats. In
this rich cultural melting pot, d</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">ecadence and religion have historically flourished side by side.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://media.nola.com/business_impact/photo/10544577-large.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isle of Capri Casino - Lake Charles</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">In traditions embracing </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Voodoo, </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">historic red light districts,</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> Bourbon Street strip clubs, European architecture, religious monuments and cathedrals, the contradiction was invisible and the exception seemed justified.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Our caravan came to an abrupt halt behind a line of similar truck-vehicle combinations that squirmed and disappeared into the concrete and glass canyon between The W and Windsor Court Hotels on one side and Harrah's on the other. By walking around the casino and through the canyon, we
confirmed that the snaking line of boats wrapped entirely around Harrah's, from Poydras, down
South Peters, then on Canal toward the River and then back toward the intersection where our folks rested.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6126/5932219053_e1598d30ce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="137" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6126/5932219053_e1598d30ce.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">World Trade Center & Harrah's</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="line-height: 150%;">We found fellow rescuers from other groups perched at the front of the line, primed and ready to go. Occasionally glancing skyward toward the dangling high voltage lines ripped from their standards, they anxiously awaited their instructions and information while milling around the area between the casino and the New Orleans International
Trade Mart, now known as the </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;">.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://neworleanscitybusiness.com/files/2010/04/plaza-tower.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://neworleanscitybusiness.com/files/2010/04/plaza-tower.gif" width="134" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plaza Tower</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I began to feel completely my 50 year old age, realizing that the </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">gleaming</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> local icons of my youth, that I remembered as vibrant new symbols of progress, were mostly re-named.
This old “Trade Mart”, along with the 33 level Plaza Tower on the edge of downtown, were the first two legitimate skyscrapers
built in </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;">
in the late 60’s after an extended period during which the 24-story Hibernia
Bank building held the position as tallest in the city. It occurred to me that the names of these
once gleaming, state of the art towers were being changed, or updated, partly
to give the impression that they were still cutting edge. Lacking new buildings, new names would have
to do.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Hurry up and wait” was again the
theme. Although we had only hit the road from Sulphur 4 - 5 hours earlier, it seemed like days. Now past <st1:time hour="17" minute="0" w:st="on">5:00 o’clock p.m.</st1:time>, on Tuesday, the day after
Katrina hit, we began anticipating that we would begin at dusk and continue conducting searches throughout during
the night. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://msnbcmedia2.msn.com/j/msnbc/Components/Photos/051006/051006_flood_hazmat_hmed.grid-6x2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="123" src="http://msnbcmedia2.msn.com/j/msnbc/Components/Photos/051006/051006_flood_hazmat_hmed.grid-6x2.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://www.eham.net/data/articles/17220/KC8VWM_Coffeville2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://www.eham.net/data/articles/17220/KC8VWM_Coffeville2.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Confined to their wood-frame, island fortresses in this sea of familiar lake water mixed with gasoline, sewerage, garbage, animal feces and anything else previously located below the flood waters, we did not expect that those as yet unclaimed would want to cancel rescue efforts at dark and wait until morning to begin again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Around <st1:time hour="18" minute="0" w:st="on">6:00 o’clock p.m.</st1:time>, we had worked our way around
the casino to the point that we were ready to be deployed as a group to whatever assigned location awaited us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">During our wait, we exchanged stories and personal histories with our fellow rescuers and heard from locals and other boaters next to whom we had been thrown randomly by fate, timing and circumstance. The most vivid of these real life short stories was the one told by a Harrah’s
employee who crossed our path while operating a forklift on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Poydras
Street</st1:address></st1:street>. Apparently engaged in wanting to bring us up to speed, h</span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">e was very matter-of-fact when he said, “A lot of people who went out
last night came back really <i>messed up</i>”. However, obviously from colorful New Orleans, the story teller used a more vivid phrase
ingrained in the </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;"> vernacular of even the youngest of city natives and synonymous with “<i>messed up</i>”.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">Before I could mentally process what bizarre and grotesque kind of physical harm could have
befallen our fellow volunteers, he detailed stories of boats running over dead
bodies in the water and similar grisly events.
The realization at that moment, that his reference had been to psychological and not
physical injuries provided no comfort, but rather heightened our growing
anxiousness.</span></div>
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<a href="http://tv.popcrunch.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/spongebob-sandy-married.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="http://tv.popcrunch.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/spongebob-sandy-married.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">During the drive into the city, Sara
and I had navigated our group from the lead vehicle. We pondered the unknown severity of the situation and speculated about what we might see in the still uncharted devastation
left in Katrina’s wake. We were as
uncertain of what we were getting into as we were determined to do it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b><i>Ignorance is bliss.</i></b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; line-height: 150%;">We have encouraged each other to always be, together, mildly adventurous
and open-minded. We are fortunate to have shared a variety of experiences
together that we might not have otherwise ventured into alone. </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 150%;">We did not speak of it, but on this day, we were both becoming increasingly aware that we had never done
before, anything like that which we were about to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> <b><i><u>TO BE CONTINUED</u></i></b></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-6049296775574730652012-10-10T08:34:00.001-07:002012-11-29T19:49:25.928-08:00Katrina and the Cajun Navy - 7 Years Later (Pt. 2)<br />
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<i style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>This is the third installment on this topic.</b></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; font-size: xx-small;"><i><b>To read from the beginning please go to posts beginning 9/20/12.</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">Just after noon</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> on Tuesday August 30, 2005,</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> the mobilization of equipment and people was
complete. Each Cajun bateau was equipped with an </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">ax,</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> a sledgehammer, a chain saw, rope and ample fuel.</span>T<span style="line-height: 150%;">he modest group of five or six vehicles
from Sulphur, Louisiana, a few miles west of </span><st1:city style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Lake Charles,</st1:city><span style="line-height: 150%;"> headed east on Interstate 10 and converged upon reinforcements 40 miles later in the </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Wal-Mart parking lot in Jennings, LA.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSXOOeF5WJ7EAMho3ecqpXPswL1Zawt5M58vWJVZAVmfKI5yAEXgg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSXOOeF5WJ7EAMho3ecqpXPswL1Zawt5M58vWJVZAVmfKI5yAEXgg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After the Interstate highway system had re-located and re-centered the growth of communities from downtown Main Streets to exits along interstates and freeway loops, Wal-Mart built on those exits and mushroomed retail spending away from Mom & Pop to the benefit of its multi-national corporate behemoth. They did so by drawing on the local communities, as well as dragging high volumes of interstate travelers into small towns they would have otherwise passed through without noticing. On this day, instead of meeting downtown at the local hardware store or diner, it was logical and most convenient to meet in the parking lot at the interstate exit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Over the previous 20 or 30 years Wal-Mart Corporation had lured small towns, like unsuspecting tax revenue addicts and shopaholics, sometimes kicking and screaming, out of the era of Mom & Pop downtown businesses into the era of all-inclusive box stores.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">There was ample room for all the vehicles,boats and the convocation of their occupants, along with the availability of whatever supplies might be needed (at Wal-Mart prices that drove Mom & Pop mad) all with easy on and off access.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSKQAh8N6tGDK5jRhBj0j8k8ETY1IktaMiGollw-LuGgCROxCgp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://www.mahaduck.com/duck/mallard2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://www.mahaduck.com/duck/mallard2.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The
gathering of men (and Sara), pickup trucks and boats looked like the beginning of a southwest Louisiana weekend duck hunt or fishing trip
among a band of brothers. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Contrary to routine or tradition for such a trip</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> though, the beer, whiskey and guns were (for the most part) left behind. Primarily, we expected that such items could thwart our entire mission if discovered by those in charge at our point of entry. Otherwise, it is likely that alcohol and firearms, both very personal to many of our group, would have been packed as staple items for an overnight trip. None of these guys expected that the guns would have been unusual or that any liquor would have impaired their performance. </span></span><br />
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</span><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSKQAh8N6tGDK5jRhBj0j8k8ETY1IktaMiGollw-LuGgCROxCgp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSKQAh8N6tGDK5jRhBj0j8k8ETY1IktaMiGollw-LuGgCROxCgp" width="200" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">It turns out later that some of the small amounts of "contraband" that made it into the personal belongings of some of our crew, in fact made it past security and served to appropriately reassure us at times when confidence might otherwise have been tested. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">I will not attempt to detail here when it was the liquor or when it was the guns that provided needed "reinforcement" of confidence. Suffice it to say that, circumstances dictated that.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">While our troops mingled with their reinforcements, a local Jennings Daily News reporter captured the group on film, adding to the air of camaraderie
and adventure of this burgeoning quest with an unknown future. Anxious to arrive and get to the task, more than 20 vehicles, 18
boats, 34 men and Sara moved along the interstate at 65 mph, then 68, then 70,
72, 75, 78 and 80.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b><i>We had us a convoy!!</i></b> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">H</span>aving been spellbound and frustrated by the stories of people dying in the hot air trapped between rising waters and sturdy roofs of attics in homes they had slept in peacefully the night before, w<span style="line-height: 150%;">e were all anxious to wet the hulls of our craft and hear whirring of their outboard motors.</span><span style="text-align: center;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">No time to waste! Only an hour and a half from Baton Rouge, the state capital and purported center of governmental influence in the state of Louisiana, we began coordinating our
entry into New Orleans using cell phones to call or text anyone we thought might be in
charge or have influence. Just over 2 hours from New Orleans we still had no idea whether we were even going to be able to enter the city.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As we approached Baton Rouge, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">o</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">ne plan we considered was to gather with our connected governmental-bureaucrat friends in the center of the city</span><st1:place style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">, about an hour west of New Orleans. There we would a</st1:place><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">wait instructions from the Department of Wildlife & Fisheries on how to proceed to any designated areas of need.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">This would take us miles off the beaten path of I-10 and would surely delay our trip a few hours, if not in fact overnight. Pragmatic (impatient) as we were, we concluded that red tape would be a waste of time and we opted to forge ahead on the interstate until somebody tried to stop us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">Besides being lowland and below sea level, the entire city of New Orleans is surrounded by water, even without a hurricane. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">Relatively speaking, cutting off access to the metropolitan area is not a monumental task because access is achievable by only 10-15 routes, most of them bridges. With a few of these routes under hurricane storm surge and remnant flooding, law enforcement can secure the city fairly readily.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://www.google.com/maps/vt/data=Ay5GWBeob_WIPLDYoIWcfVXxvZu9XwJ55OX7Ag,djnSdWeanDLEmgk-Fe6XlFYU886tDYxlNRbqe1kX5J_UOnrCV8WvkFkTsiseGgFJ8JL6-kSiiUCa8c5NMqhxnXBcZYQdE3bkJoV30S0VTXZQzh_vIfQdJo9AM2tDw85MVz2SvPidWjjQH7IdOCx0hF_gDNqqo1GMBibiPlnHTiYEWDtPpY1riWOAaA6FpA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img alt="New Orleans, LA" border="0" height="220" src="https://www.google.com/maps/vt/data=Ay5GWBeob_WIPLDYoIWcfVXxvZu9XwJ55OX7Ag,djnSdWeanDLEmgk-Fe6XlFYU886tDYxlNRbqe1kX5J_UOnrCV8WvkFkTsiseGgFJ8JL6-kSiiUCa8c5NMqhxnXBcZYQdE3bkJoV30S0VTXZQzh_vIfQdJo9AM2tDw85MVz2SvPidWjjQH7IdOCx0hF_gDNqqo1GMBibiPlnHTiYEWDtPpY1riWOAaA6FpA" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">To the north lies Lake Pontchartrain across which runs the 24 mile Causeway Bridge, once touted as longest bridge in the world. To the east is Lake Borgne and the Gulf of Mexico. Depending on where you are in town, the Mississippi River is to the east, south or west. In fact, what is known as the west bank of the river is, in fact, located east and southeast of downtown New Orleans and the French Quarter. From the west, the twin concrete strips that are the elevated 11 mile spans of Interstate 10 comprise the primary access from the town of LaPlace to the city over the Bonnet Carre' spillway and the southwestern edge of Lake Pontchartrain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><img height="426" src="http://msnbcmedia1.msn.com/j/ap/louisiana%20land%20loss--538620339_v2.grid-6x2.jpg" style="line-height: 150%;" width="640" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">The spillway is probably 100 square miles and is a combination of natural swamp and man-made flood relief for the occasional diversion of the spring-swollen Mississippi River into the Pontchartrain, then allowing its excess to flow into Lake Borgne and then the Gulf.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img height="384" src="http://www.paintsquare.com/news/images/Bonnet-Carre-Spillway.gif" style="text-align: justify;" width="400" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">The fresh water brown shrimp, crawfish, bass and bream (perch) as well as brackish/salt-water speckled trout, redfish, flounder and crabs become confused with their changing habitat when the waters of the river are unleashed like a torrent into the calm waters of the shallow brackish lake. Fortunately, the fisheries cohabitate briefly then acclimate to maintain the lakes (which are technically bays and extensions of the Gulf) as wonderfully productive and readily-replenished sources of some of the best seafood in the world.</span><br />
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<img height="480" src="http://www.robertfreshmarket.com/image/Seafood%20Fresh%204-C.jpg" width="640" /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">This elevated freeway from LaPlace across the Bonnet Carre' would be our access into the city and we were expecting that it would be fully secured.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/3f/Day_the_Earth_Stood_Still_1951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/3f/Day_the_Earth_Stood_Still_1951.jpg" width="220" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Surreal” became the word of the day,
and ultimately of the trip. Actually it became more of an overwhelming impression than a word, as not much was spoken during the last hour of our trek. As the
convoy moved away from <st1:city w:st="on">Baton Rouge</st1:city> and toward <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place>, other
interstate traffic dropped off and then completely disappeared. Like the characters in the old black and white movie, “The Day the Earth Stood Still” or other 60’s sci-fi flicks, our group appeared and authentically felt as if they could be the only
remaining survivors on the face of the earth.
With only sketchy instructions from what political contacts we could
muster, and no written documentation authorizing our entrance, we approached
the law enforcement roadblock at the LaPlace exit of I-10, just a few miles
from the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place>
metropolitan area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In the lead vehicle, I brought the convoy of boats and fired bellies of the crew to a halt. The deadpan request of the uniformed </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> S</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">tate Trooper</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">, backed up by the incessant spray of blue flashing lights emanating from the roof of his parked vehicle and the somber stares of his backup personnel, were discouraging.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"> “Where are you trying to go, sir?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> The response:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “We have 18 boats and 35 people to
assist in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place>”. Schooled, licensed and trained as an attorney at law, a Louisiana avocat, I anxiously and hopelessly waited and mentally prepared possible
responses to any objection the officer might present. Instead of obstructions, the officer waived
us through and said, </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><b><i>“By all means, sir. Good luck.”</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img height="269" src="http://cache.boston.com/resize/bonzai-fba/Globe_Photo/2008/09/02/1220411734_7757/539w.jpg" width="400" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">As the convoy entered the elevated roadway across the spillway and along the edge of Lake Pontchartrain from LaPlace to </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Kenner</st1:city></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">, the emptiness and
the calm of the scene hit me like the first viewing of corpse in a funeral home
would. Everything looked the same as it
did when it was alive, but it lacked the indescribable vitality that defined
what it really was. The entry was
missing the excitement and vigor one would expect during the approach to the City of </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">, a city of
parties and fun and excitement...the City that Care Forgot.</span></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img height="200" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSx9plhzcWMCdqA9n8M5S2C2HTm5nlga3dqrs7RlgoiERS76XnGkw" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="150" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">OK. It wasn't this bad...not here anyway</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Instead of contemplating fun and
excitement, everyone quietly sat, gawking out the windows in anticipation as if
we were passengers in an old, rickety airplane on landing approach on an unfamiliar, deserted and damaged runway in a third world country under siege.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSV1wFPQsTd8n7SUPz4B9zW6MdPYWbMCuZxZxc9FPaxbcCurl5BElJ6XotL4WMnWFN6r1khDPe4i8Ic1frluYgza2mxWeDXXydJRMHI_9d2vb3xj2Am-JbVHvHN-5motpwiUL5LsRTd0/s1600/Katrina+Evacuation+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSV1wFPQsTd8n7SUPz4B9zW6MdPYWbMCuZxZxc9FPaxbcCurl5BElJ6XotL4WMnWFN6r1khDPe4i8Ic1frluYgza2mxWeDXXydJRMHI_9d2vb3xj2Am-JbVHvHN-5motpwiUL5LsRTd0/s200/Katrina+Evacuation+1.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 150%;">The road
was devoid of other vehicles except those on the shoulders of the road, facing us and pointing in the wrong direction, apparently stalled during the four-lane contraflow evacuation of the City two days before.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Our convoy flew rapidly, unimpeded across the empty viaduct, into the edge of the western suburbs of the city that Hollywood, using both talented and attractive stars </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">with bad accents</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> (Dennis Quaid and Ellen Barkin), </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">had branded in 1987 </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">as the "Big Easy". </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTe5N07wON70Rbt4QU5uwUCvKuT4Gybuqcbljs-4C-Trt0U4ijLdg" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Descending off of the elevated spillway bridge and into the western suburb of </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Kenner</st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;">, the interstate highway became like a dry, fragile ribbon floating on the surface of a rough-shod, newly-created lake. Water to the left, and water to the right.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 150%;">To the south we saw the flooded
runway of the </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Louis</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Armstrong</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">International</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;">, known to me in
my youth as Moisant Field. It was a metropolitan international airport built in the woods four decades earlier, and it was now being pressed by surrounding urban/suburban sprawl blocked in on three sides by water, and on the fourth by city.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Our interstate route was
unobstructed by traffic, but a near collision in the left-hand lane with a
downed metal light pole, hidden in plain view across the left of three lanes of interstate </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">awakened my senses and </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">caused me to pull back on the caravan's accelerator to an aware and more cautious rate of speed.</span></span><br />
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</span><a href="http://media.nola.com/politics/photo/aerials-48a22fa34bef73bc_medium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://media.nola.com/politics/photo/aerials-48a22fa34bef73bc_medium.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The only bureaucratic, governmental guidance we had received via cell phone was to proceed to the </span><st1:street style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Causeway Boulevard</st1:street><span style="line-height: 150%;"> exit of I-10, a location on high ground west of the city which was being used as a staging area in the suburb of </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Metairie, just a couple of miles west of the city.</st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Arrival at the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Causeway Boulevard</st1:address></st1:street> checkpoint initially provided
encouragement, if not excitement akin to the proverbial convergence of the cavalry upon a hopeless situation. The empty interstate met the the full cloverleaf exit that blossomed with activity. Law enforcement, emergency and rescue vehicles and personnel moved about the area, on and off of the highway. Helicopters appeared to be coming and going from every direction. At first glance, it presented an impressive, exciting and encouraging indication of an organized and finely tuned rescue operation assisting those in
need.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img height="133" src="http://www.bnvn.com/sites/default/files/thumbnails/Katrina_Raw_Master_32.jpg" width="200" /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">We soon discovered that this initial impression was not a reality. We struggled to discern which line of vehicles had priority before realizing that here were no lines or priorities. It was not clear who, if anyone, was in charge. After finding a line or flow of vehicles, and negotiating for an audience with someone.....whomever, we were shuffled off and told to move to</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> another location, a few miles to the south and back to the west, to a checkpoint on </span><st1:street style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Airline Drive</st1:address></st1:street><span style="line-height: 150%;">. The anticipated grand and productive entrance was rapidly morphing into inauspiciousness as dusk appeared to be only a few hours away.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-31960072499565053102012-09-21T19:22:00.001-07:002012-10-11T08:59:48.650-07:00Katrina and The Cajun Navy - 7 Years Later (Pt. 1)<b><br /></b>
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<i style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is the second installment on this topic.</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; font-size: xx-small;"><b><i>To
read from the beginning please go to posts beginning 9/20/12.</i><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNf8kZcGUio_ChlDB9qdW7MmarmUqAaBl9TplUjEv2RfJusq_ihKAGz5Tv9pM6uL1PG33biTg6AvpO6nz4_uRBIoX8OqhK_evhIEPbrjZhEd4BzDKTntzM0F9KQvBTDjngGdm0cVMbng/s1600/Louisiana.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNf8kZcGUio_ChlDB9qdW7MmarmUqAaBl9TplUjEv2RfJusq_ihKAGz5Tv9pM6uL1PG33biTg6AvpO6nz4_uRBIoX8OqhK_evhIEPbrjZhEd4BzDKTntzM0F9KQvBTDjngGdm0cVMbng/s200/Louisiana.png" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; line-height: 150%;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New
Orleans</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Louisiana</st1:state>, <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">USA</st1:country></st1:place> is a shining jewel among only a
handful of the truly unique cities of the world. It is my birthplace. Though not my residence since 1973, it is
still home. It will forever be
home. It has also become the adopted
second home of my wife, Sara. A native
of <st1:city w:st="on">Lake Charles</st1:city> in the heel of the boot that is <st1:state w:st="on">Louisiana</st1:state>, she has grown to love <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:place></st1:city> in the toe of that boot, as passionately
as I do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">New Orleans has always been our favorite
place to visit with each other, with friends and with the kids. For any reason, we will go. Whatever is the intended purpose, it becomes
secondary to the underlying "spiritual" exploration...the tiring
rejuvenation that a trip to NOLA always becomes. Very simply, it is our established, never-disappointing place to walk, to eat, to relax … to be. It is the classic melting pot of cultures and
traditions, with diversity like nowhere else.
</span><i style="line-height: 150%;">Joie de vivre</i><span style="line-height: 150%;"> to excess, with
endless variety of culture, architecture, tolerance and food.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><b>Oh, the food!</b> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOj2-TeRzsmjAf0IaC3JEKOVxNU0b0_DO97eHxEVR44uH-DS-cTg893Gjt4C1AKygnj3qupoyQCJE_1b1N4P3xok-o2Wbg1orCxKR4T_x8SEg0aNHFcpBK4dFaqh1cV_Jq7o6Qm8uuCM/s1600/foodstuf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOj2-TeRzsmjAf0IaC3JEKOVxNU0b0_DO97eHxEVR44uH-DS-cTg893Gjt4C1AKygnj3qupoyQCJE_1b1N4P3xok-o2Wbg1orCxKR4T_x8SEg0aNHFcpBK4dFaqh1cV_Jq7o6Qm8uuCM/s400/foodstuf.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW28N1BScsUeRNjldEnOTs8BulumedEnmuxhdqVuv48echqOZ0BbtOZluv7DI61hw1o1eAs8whyphenhyphen6-bjVVuX5R6-PMIWOS7YXxrhZxZocWr_Lk9kliHPSEa9ma7PXfNNI2Vy9DVW0fB9Qs/s1600/Lucky+Dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="435" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW28N1BScsUeRNjldEnOTs8BulumedEnmuxhdqVuv48echqOZ0BbtOZluv7DI61hw1o1eAs8whyphenhyphen6-bjVVuX5R6-PMIWOS7YXxrhZxZocWr_Lk9kliHPSEa9ma7PXfNNI2Vy9DVW0fB9Qs/s640/Lucky+Dog.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 150%;">August 29, 2005 and a vicious lady
named Katrina changed the city forever. The
physical structure, the vessel containing and holding the people and spirit of </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;"> was dealt a
blow that will impact it for generations to come. In just a few days I would question
first-hand whether the heart and soul of what had always been </span><st1:city style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:place></st1:city><span style="line-height: 150%;">, would ever return.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">NOAA Katrina</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Katrina” is now a name to replace
“Betsy”, in my mind, as the Queen Killer Bee of hurricanes. (To folks in the area, use of the term "Hurricane" is unnecessary and redundant for those storms with whom we are on a first name basis. Audrey, Betsy, Camille, <i>et al).</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhegET-VloI_tVZMtSaP4Gf5cd0bghWlUTET34chxrU5M1iaINH4RIbKVSyAbkBc22cSQ5h7LnYi2Wv9sF5w735bDtbh_zrdwPQ53yob9s9zr9vS1_9LRQpR2b6gNo7ZBbQgz11XJh-0Mo/s1600/palm+tree+huggers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhegET-VloI_tVZMtSaP4Gf5cd0bghWlUTET34chxrU5M1iaINH4RIbKVSyAbkBc22cSQ5h7LnYi2Wv9sF5w735bDtbh_zrdwPQ53yob9s9zr9vS1_9LRQpR2b6gNo7ZBbQgz11XJh-0Mo/s320/palm+tree+huggers.jpg" width="214" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">In 1965, Betsy cut a wide, wet destructive swath through </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Southeast Louisiana</st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;">.
As a 10 year old, I experienced that massive storm as something fun, as
an adventure. The roof of the neighbors garage, flipped off of its structure and resting on our back fence, and the twisted steel I-beam of the K&B Drug store sign on Veterans Highway are two memories dug into my brain. Driving between debris and downed wires...Priceless!! </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">Yeah, really!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">(my older siblings had drivers' licenses)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxooP4fdvXdnGwv6yaU6Wxo1IlUcsHN4rsWBWXG1kVHUxc107TuKPg8smrdWmx9My8YJ4V8OnAVIZh3DxuvkGO1o6UXrcEExnqbwrrf4kztHN3OUrUYSWHyc_b6C0gDhQWP-4Z41LmksI/s1600/priest+in+boat.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxooP4fdvXdnGwv6yaU6Wxo1IlUcsHN4rsWBWXG1kVHUxc107TuKPg8smrdWmx9My8YJ4V8OnAVIZh3DxuvkGO1o6UXrcEExnqbwrrf4kztHN3OUrUYSWHyc_b6C0gDhQWP-4Z41LmksI/s320/priest+in+boat.gif" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">As a ten year old, these were exciting and almost happy memories because it was all exciting and new and everyone we knew was OK. (Of course it carries a different perspective when you "grow up" and become a property owner).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">In Betsy's aftermath, low to moderate income
families, in our wood-frame subdivision that had sprouted out of the suburban woods
of </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;">
in the late 50's, were without electricity for two weeks following the storm. With no lights or luxuries inside,
seemingly hundreds of kids played day and night in the yards and streets of the neighborhood,
sometimes dodging debris and mild street flooding. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Toddlers and teens danced in the streets to
Beatles’ and British Invasion era songs playing on battery-powered transistor radios. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Families who all knew each other, carried on endless conversations, sitting on the hoods
of cars like they were on swings on their front porches.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">These happy memories of a unique childhood experience established, in my
mind, the benchmark of hurricanes, that is until </span><st1:date day="29" month="8" style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on" year="2005">August 29, 2005 and a witch named Katrina.</st1:date></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She was a 250-mile wide monster, and she gouged a path of devastation from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the marshes and over strips of high ground along a course that ran just east of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:place></st1:city>.</span></span><br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgil42yP2J75U-oQEP-U-DUcmej4MxH13hMLZDf9BiQ2yv2cGEh6fK1OAIUQm4Vy_1LBIlxazN8hx0AxlO1m13FFxMD3CTYm3jDVguyy0hiLnW_CSi-fv2VqozrQX9o3qnI91jcCE4D5ck/s1600/KatrinaNOLA+flooding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgil42yP2J75U-oQEP-U-DUcmej4MxH13hMLZDf9BiQ2yv2cGEh6fK1OAIUQm4Vy_1LBIlxazN8hx0AxlO1m13FFxMD3CTYm3jDVguyy0hiLnW_CSi-fv2VqozrQX9o3qnI91jcCE4D5ck/s200/KatrinaNOLA+flooding.jpg" width="151" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The ultimate damage she caused surpassed the
combined damage done by her predecessors Betsy, Camille, and Andrew. Surely the swath cut in </span><st1:city style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Sherman</st1:city><span style="line-height: 150%;">’s
fiery march to the sea paled in comparison to the physical damage inflicted
upon Southeast Louisiana, the City of </span><st1:city style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city><span style="line-height: 150%;">
and the Gulf coast of </span><st1:state style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Mississippi</st1:state><span style="line-height: 150%;"> and </span><st1:state style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alabama</st1:place></st1:state><span style="line-height: 150%;">. </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3bbUmXcl3ynoC3F9Tlbpxmq4jpixRV6UL_Ubz7-WFklbG9CuxhqmXm56BNI9MZ_-uezCDA850htPfB6VNrH7wSKLa9KH_7EdFKsaAE-xGo8N-QB7UwH49matHcAli7htGRIMq4TgNGc/s1600/Structural_Bridge_Damage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3bbUmXcl3ynoC3F9Tlbpxmq4jpixRV6UL_Ubz7-WFklbG9CuxhqmXm56BNI9MZ_-uezCDA850htPfB6VNrH7wSKLa9KH_7EdFKsaAE-xGo8N-QB7UwH49matHcAli7htGRIMq4TgNGc/s320/Structural_Bridge_Damage.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWFxmKQzOKQQZM5u3XXAWzbu79jan_YH5tMdJNxesf1an3RCmTw8lwhyphenhyphenPNRGZfcjYsOsdx3ej0IQvhqRtiHPcSjxDsvP2B2O6QFzXoyeg9UFud2Kox72Z1orM06t_heEOnCj7BFdZ3UQ/s1600/katrina+gulfport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWFxmKQzOKQQZM5u3XXAWzbu79jan_YH5tMdJNxesf1an3RCmTw8lwhyphenhyphenPNRGZfcjYsOsdx3ej0IQvhqRtiHPcSjxDsvP2B2O6QFzXoyeg9UFud2Kox72Z1orM06t_heEOnCj7BFdZ3UQ/s200/katrina+gulfport.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In many respects, for those directly affected
and others touched in some way by Katrina, it is likely that the emotional and
psychological trauma caused will be as devastating and impactful as that
suffered by the victims of the cowardly terrorist attack on <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> on September 11, 2001. The death toll of both was in the thousands.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPa-v-mOjF9vOWIIPqeTzUr2QkhgZ_hwEmPp-1NzWAeEzDDWhYSXPESJfAPUBeZ94N_mOwHV4RmcpDhUa-jA4EMaoY5MV5dJ41CMzNEKDEnTmskYqCB60Ib_3xEPb_DjEEYfMp2faX0N8/s1600/large_levee+breach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPa-v-mOjF9vOWIIPqeTzUr2QkhgZ_hwEmPp-1NzWAeEzDDWhYSXPESJfAPUBeZ94N_mOwHV4RmcpDhUa-jA4EMaoY5MV5dJ41CMzNEKDEnTmskYqCB60Ib_3xEPb_DjEEYfMp2faX0N8/s320/large_levee+breach.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Shortly after Katrina’s hurricane force fury turned to clearing skies and mild breezes in the city, residents and officials breathed a premature sigh of relief. Briefly, it appeared as if NOLA had again escaped the “Big One”. Then a levee broke, and then another. Instead of waters subsiding, it subtly appeared to be rising in areas far away from the breaks. Then the rise became not so subtle but obvious. Water flowed into the below sea level bowl in which the homes and businesses of the city rested peacefully.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfw2VDIQrHpNeHaORtkAFdU23U3lZBjpkzOYOnpHm2EM2I4Z4J6J4qjNB_JgUproCTXK7JlXLPeCbCHWv6iL9Vb86V6McAWmDeJlN78EG17JGTXTGIWCTHbvcZoJYhO_yq3W5q_Zzsskg/s1600/Katrina_Inner_Harbor_Levee_Break.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfw2VDIQrHpNeHaORtkAFdU23U3lZBjpkzOYOnpHm2EM2I4Z4J6J4qjNB_JgUproCTXK7JlXLPeCbCHWv6iL9Vb86V6McAWmDeJlN78EG17JGTXTGIWCTHbvcZoJYhO_yq3W5q_Zzsskg/s640/Katrina_Inner_Harbor_Levee_Break.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-dAEplcRpkQVhFtziN4jVQ-aq31c0tU6lLYsmqcn8aWFlz77VqI6IGYAokeYc2tqv1G8KfYC8l0HfHiby2ahwSTJah6jFhogf53A4SQMOYFxYcStbLnhSTUK0dEwYXBOBwOvP2xLyAo/s1600/LeveeBreak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="123" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-dAEplcRpkQVhFtziN4jVQ-aq31c0tU6lLYsmqcn8aWFlz77VqI6IGYAokeYc2tqv1G8KfYC8l0HfHiby2ahwSTJah6jFhogf53A4SQMOYFxYcStbLnhSTUK0dEwYXBOBwOvP2xLyAo/s200/LeveeBreak.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">On the morning following the storm, a
seasoned CNN reporter could not hold back tears and her emotions as she
detailed her boat trip into various parts of the City the evening before. She recounted tales of people trapped in
attics, crying for help and thousands of others stranded on rooftop islands
dotting the new Venetian-esque landscape.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqj8QwcyiJQuoyIGvrTv-XYApP887vI3hgaCkQPdj187qqg-lVohGBvS72OP8wYa3BDM5mN-CAi5YbP0z_iKj3i4fTgt3SXnC7P6H-iBuLPbx-XX-fS37shRGXDQrKmg8RJwPSYKGGFM/s1600/Venetian+esque.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqj8QwcyiJQuoyIGvrTv-XYApP887vI3hgaCkQPdj187qqg-lVohGBvS72OP8wYa3BDM5mN-CAi5YbP0z_iKj3i4fTgt3SXnC7P6H-iBuLPbx-XX-fS37shRGXDQrKmg8RJwPSYKGGFM/s400/Venetian+esque.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL2wCESG9iipjpcnym_nIEGqj5s-w9_JXuUJZQzU-1EyYSFl-u0JH60Xt3t2uxLZkFpMHQDl6BmtA1ao7hHp3R1iMq3kMwsBjHz1j95ePgPc86WxW01l-HanoTFmA2AmzNE_31F3CYOtI/s1600/homer-and-marge-simpson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL2wCESG9iipjpcnym_nIEGqj5s-w9_JXuUJZQzU-1EyYSFl-u0JH60Xt3t2uxLZkFpMHQDl6BmtA1ao7hHp3R1iMq3kMwsBjHz1j95ePgPc86WxW01l-HanoTFmA2AmzNE_31F3CYOtI/s200/homer-and-marge-simpson.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> On Tuesday morning, Sara and I were
disturbed </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">over the early images being received from the city, but following
routine we appeared at our respective accounting and law offices and continued
to listen to ongoing reports.</span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I found
myself unsettled, distracted and restless, un-focused and unable to
concentrate. It turns out Sara was as disrupted
as I was. On too many occasions previously,
I had been touched by circumstances in which I considered contributing time,
work, experience and spirit to a worthy project, but lost motivation because
the compulsion was not strong enough.
This time was different. This was
my home, a place and a people I love.
By 9:15 that morning, the magnetic draw yanking my spirit and brain to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:place></st1:city> was
uncontrollable. Sara's brain and heart
had taken her down a similar path to the same point.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2zL9CRWcfa4sgZBMmBdWQrk75809_InTUwg7hATrQViBgJtHZIT3QVUh2Cg6_d7PYL_wWUuZ9IJQjNaUV_2YnAdWYrW9p0NNDnSD0XaWSS5CuJMVOkUdK_nBcAdEKdn5qjj0xJbjVZc/s1600/georgia+bulldog.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2zL9CRWcfa4sgZBMmBdWQrk75809_InTUwg7hATrQViBgJtHZIT3QVUh2Cg6_d7PYL_wWUuZ9IJQjNaUV_2YnAdWYrW9p0NNDnSD0XaWSS5CuJMVOkUdK_nBcAdEKdn5qjj0xJbjVZc/s200/georgia+bulldog.bmp" width="158" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Step in Ronny Lovett, a country boy
originally from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">Georgia</st1:country></st1:place>.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_gRNw7UBPoNtBKN6-FM78ddql3YjmvmHuFJlzcZ9xLSpupF_wp3LpFTXX8MGz3zyk1oTMy8NWRZj2Q1rEggm_jS5u__u4Kar4MVix3QS6TopW3fIb9KpgO2MAn36xzHK2GJYLcFj6zw/s1600/construction+worker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_gRNw7UBPoNtBKN6-FM78ddql3YjmvmHuFJlzcZ9xLSpupF_wp3LpFTXX8MGz3zyk1oTMy8NWRZj2Q1rEggm_jS5u__u4Kar4MVix3QS6TopW3fIb9KpgO2MAn36xzHK2GJYLcFj6zw/s1600/construction+worker.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">(not Ronny)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Two years my junior, he had come to Louisiana
as a construction worker 20 years before and had turned a small startup company
in 1995 into a 400-600 employee operation competing with the national big boys
in industrial construction.</span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> His innate
business sense and savvy were often surpassed by his consuming and limitless
generosity. Openly generous to his
employees at R & R Construction in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Lake
Charles</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Louisiana, h</st1:state></st1:place>e is unceasingly, but quietly generous to
simple folks and children in need.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqfS2F-6mDAE5abp9m_8GQfRxGuLK6qjGNDWCybUsv5bqBgs1Znbobjnqt8ZeSp4n1tx8x14ux19NQd0aowKApg2aKgUNM_CKYTItjq4wMdMHgBafaYBACkdMccysQNp78a3d7KFzIjyo/s1600/jelly-worms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqfS2F-6mDAE5abp9m_8GQfRxGuLK6qjGNDWCybUsv5bqBgs1Znbobjnqt8ZeSp4n1tx8x14ux19NQd0aowKApg2aKgUNM_CKYTItjq4wMdMHgBafaYBACkdMccysQNp78a3d7KFzIjyo/s200/jelly-worms.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Ronny is an unassuming champion of
basic principles, who knows the power of being direct. He is not without blemish, but he understands
and lives with a crystal clear, black and white sense of right and wrong like
an Andy of Mayberry. His single
experience with the juvenile system as an 11 year old over the attempted theft
of a 7¢ jelly worm still defines his clear sense of justice.</span><br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgx3MxUEwUJJXD0Ay6Q7kb4R5V_881dxz2dah0tUaapTM5-RMHqx3Fm6w7LIJ0HntWDDgiWYIMgtKhrI33ZWBH45lfOQop1eQPgrqWgi22vqvPPcg9Px1VABSozZEwa29kBbWMTdTKvTA/s1600/lady-justice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgx3MxUEwUJJXD0Ay6Q7kb4R5V_881dxz2dah0tUaapTM5-RMHqx3Fm6w7LIJ0HntWDDgiWYIMgtKhrI33ZWBH45lfOQop1eQPgrqWgi22vqvPPcg9Px1VABSozZEwa29kBbWMTdTKvTA/s200/lady-justice.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">To this day he describes that memory as the
reason he would not, “steal a shell from a parking lot”. Better still that he found out as a grown man
that his afternoon in jail, his court appearance and probation were all
orchestrated by the judge and his daddy who were close friends.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6ScC5o2rVLE13RdPKJ8M-RXMrpyVmwuOr9Z88KthvwWRDNDhucm7ELFfVfdMrkrogIJdEZ1eJ39i-dNHshat5ubsGdDoAgUxIJE0V2_KBjJrDqz7ZNq9_w8RqlGhAJ5Cr9V1AOlSMKA/s1600/crescent+city.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6ScC5o2rVLE13RdPKJ8M-RXMrpyVmwuOr9Z88KthvwWRDNDhucm7ELFfVfdMrkrogIJdEZ1eJ39i-dNHshat5ubsGdDoAgUxIJE0V2_KBjJrDqz7ZNq9_w8RqlGhAJ5Cr9V1AOlSMKA/s400/crescent+city.jpg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">With Sara and Ronny conspiring to
create this project, it soon took on the momentum of a honey-soaked marshmallow
rolling down a hillside of granola.
Pulled by natural forces, the project grew gently but
uncontrollably. By </span><st1:time hour="10" minute="0" style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">10:00 a.m.</st1:time><span style="line-height: 150%;">, the troops of R & R began
mobilizing. Drawn from a force of over
500, these black-hatted, petro-chemical refinery construction workers quickly
mobilized an armada of their personal bayou boats (bateaus). This determined assembly of strong-willed
Cajuns were intent to immediately descend upon the City of </span><st1:city style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:place></st1:city><span style="line-height: 150%;">.
Although only about 200 miles from the city, many of these guys were hard-working, blue collar, home-bodies who had never been to the </span><st1:place style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Crescent</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="line-height: 150%;">
before.</span></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-3805180688800434302012-09-20T14:29:00.001-07:002012-10-11T09:26:20.250-07:00Katrina and The Cajun Navy - 7 Years Gone By (Prologue)<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The main character in the movie
<u>Close Encounters of the Third Kind</u> was uncontrollably driven by a compelling, unknown force to construct what turned out to be a model of the alien Mother Ship's landing site at the climax of the story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I hav</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">e mentally analogized that unidentified and relentless compulsion
to the irresistible internal forces that drove me to do two things after the
passage of Hurricane Katrina through southeastern </span><st1:state style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Louisiana</st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> in late August of 2005.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">First: Something indescribably
powerful dragged my heart to my hometown of </span><st1:city style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> after this killer storm. It was comparable to any internal force I have ever experienced. <b><u>YES, ANY!</u></b> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 36px; text-align: left; text-indent: 48px;">Many felt the same, but I was fortunate to have resources to actually get my body into the city through the compassion and generosity of my client and friend, Ronny Lovett, owner of <a href="http://www.randrconst.com/">R&R Construction, Inc.</a></span>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Second: I was also overcome after returning home, with the
urge to document what I had seen, heard and experienced. <span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">In the days immediately following Katrina, inside the ravaged confines of the City of New Orleans, the only information
available to us and to residents was live, local radio.</span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Stations had converted exclusively to talk radio format and callers shared stories and circumstances similar
to those we were encountering from the foot of Canal Street to the flood waters of New Orleans East, Mid-City and St. Bernard Parish.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Head-quartered at the foot of Canal Street, we were trying to function inside of an isolated, distinct and totally self-reliant universe with limited resources under outrageous conditions. For a few days, everyone inside was mostly ignorant of the depiction of events
being seen nationally in the media.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What I saw and heard in national media in the weeks and months following Katrina painted a different picture
than what we experienced while we were there.
I cannot say the reporting was exaggerated, because what was there
cannot be exaggerated. My perception is
that what was passed off as “information” during the days immediately following
Katrina, was often conjecture, if not fabrication in media's quest to get the
story first and present it dramatically to gain market share. That is unfortunate and was unnecessary as what
was there was dramatic enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hope that anyone reading this
brief journal of experiences will gain an accurate idea of what was reality in
those first few days after the storm, and that they will appreciate the magnitude
of the impact on the millions of individual lives significantly changed by
Katrina.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_ikcjPgurlCxCl7GQPtXbIgO_DGQ0gTKjVMjB4diXMrv0qKICWelKmGxKtYH-djGitZLNyd-2B8ahA55BVhxbBA43eNiHmX7PZRE5ci0dh-URHISPVUF3UTmOCZ7iSH5T3MDlISFCas/s1600/Great+Deluge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_ikcjPgurlCxCl7GQPtXbIgO_DGQ0gTKjVMjB4diXMrv0qKICWelKmGxKtYH-djGitZLNyd-2B8ahA55BVhxbBA43eNiHmX7PZRE5ci0dh-URHISPVUF3UTmOCZ7iSH5T3MDlISFCas/s200/Great+Deluge.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I kept this journal to preserve what I saw and to dedicate it to the people, the culture and the attitude of my hometown of </span><st1:city style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;" w:st="on">New Orleans</st1:city><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">. I never published it as many more talented writers produced thousands of pages in the aftermath of the storm to the point that people actually got tired of reading about it. (Doug Brinkley's Great Deluge is shown above, not as advertising, but because he mentions our efforts in the book, and he's a pretty nice guy).</span> <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, seven years later, with the perspective of time and recovery, I will present this in the context of this blog for those of you who want to know and want to remember.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The spirit of the City of New Orleans and its people lives on!</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08871672381398195770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9101634517901680985.post-16861197332225642712012-09-20T11:58:00.000-07:002013-06-27T07:08:14.371-07:00From NOLA and Back with the Cajun Navy<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This will be my second attempt at
blogging. The first and only installment
of my first blogspot was a scratch-the-surface analysis of the profound truth
that true <a href="http://www.thefreshloaf.com/node/2189/new-orleans-french-bread-poboy-bread">New Orleans French Bread</a> cannot be duplicated outside of New
Orleans.</span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRc0gUfyBakrVRttDfqEGz0wZNp-eAmkhfbMepBMnW7Gwk58krr9HZmNBXBoASQf2cPrVm3MlIS37X58GZpFbWAaMSXNMbcMBJKf5Px0GighWPiy1VbomyFJOTDZPC5mpFaHAriv0jRww/s1600/french+bread.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRc0gUfyBakrVRttDfqEGz0wZNp-eAmkhfbMepBMnW7Gwk58krr9HZmNBXBoASQf2cPrVm3MlIS37X58GZpFbWAaMSXNMbcMBJKf5Px0GighWPiy1VbomyFJOTDZPC5mpFaHAriv0jRww/s320/french+bread.png" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
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Some analogy was drawn to the
return of <a href="http://www.thefreedictionary.com/bellbottom+pants">bell bottom pants</a> to the fashion scene.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6kg7oUfQPSJxMrsIJP7p2pJmAcce0vDehmEg7l2rJDlAVSurVwPigCnTPTE1F-gjuaTYON4fOcOIsI25JqAfVnoSh8nml9dWcWgZeFEwqD19MwUGH24_Zs6efnbYPrrLyuf84JPur0j8/s1600/bell+bottoms.php.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6kg7oUfQPSJxMrsIJP7p2pJmAcce0vDehmEg7l2rJDlAVSurVwPigCnTPTE1F-gjuaTYON4fOcOIsI25JqAfVnoSh8nml9dWcWgZeFEwqD19MwUGH24_Zs6efnbYPrrLyuf84JPur0j8/s200/bell+bottoms.php.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><br />
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I think the connection was that the French
bread recipes of New Orleans are protected (as opposed to forgotten) and that
maintains their value and prolongs and preserves them for future
generations. Fashion horrors like bell
bottoms are forgotten (as opposed to protected) by intervening generations and
faded memories of the horror are replaced by fond reminiscences of the past resulting
in youngsters of the newer generations adopting them as their own (absence
makes the heart grow fonder), thus preserving them. Huh???
Oh well. I was astonished that
fellow deep-thinking bloggers did not immediately inundate my enlightened blog
with insight into this phenomenon that I had discovered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yeah, like I said: Huh??</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I also recall that I attempted to
set ground rules in that seminal blog to prohibit personal attacks on
participants, thus encouraging discussion to be directed at ideas and not
personalities. Then, and now, it amazes
me that online interactive discussions routinely denigrate into personal
attacks, whether in blogs, comments to news or sports stories, and virtually
everywhere on the internet that interaction is allowed. This occurs whether the discussion is about
rival sports teams or someone expressing sympathy at the loss of a loved
one. Perhaps it’s the anonymity that is
allowed (or encouraged). Perhaps it’s
what I will call (once and only once <i><u>with no links provided intentionally</u></i>) the Hilton/Kardashian Age, in which talent and fame need not be
connected and everyone is trying to scoop up their 15 seconds of fame.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjO-lp-yqyofBZgj_HUgvPWErcm9hJiqllJ_MbW3zcJNwNKp2gi2kFg2VtwQCLocPzwqZvct0vRPMFTpWGgQRbjZEwpqVe6zCMS988QdLAORu_3tsJGgAz0ird83rQj3Fii1xxAckcSQ/s1600/soup+can.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjO-lp-yqyofBZgj_HUgvPWErcm9hJiqllJ_MbW3zcJNwNKp2gi2kFg2VtwQCLocPzwqZvct0vRPMFTpWGgQRbjZEwpqVe6zCMS988QdLAORu_3tsJGgAz0ird83rQj3Fii1xxAckcSQ/s200/soup+can.jpg" width="133" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Warhol">Andy Warhol</a> allowed for each of us having 15
minutes of fame but the internet age has dramatically compressed that. The interweb blogging machine thingy gives everyone
the perception that they can say exactly what they are thinking without any
social filters that might consider civility.
Anyway, this is still a hope that I can encourage participants (if there
are any), to avoid personal attacks on those presenting other ideas and to
actually address ideas, even if they leave the original point of the
discussion. Just a thought.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqhKedAg1-luyckN3I2OTdvKfM7xb3E3rMfroo6gCgGP8lG_DQ6pjq1luUkxY8R8Z_JZ1E8vhGYtQ2C_Pe0UQwEJ2oJlgvbNRD0W2vit7CqOL2cBk1YZUdi2Qxj3RJ5lc8VDnv0BGOxc/s1600/041312+FQF+(10).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqhKedAg1-luyckN3I2OTdvKfM7xb3E3rMfroo6gCgGP8lG_DQ6pjq1luUkxY8R8Z_JZ1E8vhGYtQ2C_Pe0UQwEJ2oJlgvbNRD0W2vit7CqOL2cBk1YZUdi2Qxj3RJ5lc8VDnv0BGOxc/s400/041312+FQF+(10).JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Although I have not lived there for nearly 40 years (and for 15 before that I technically lived in the suburbs), I consider <a href="http://www.neworleansonline.com/">New Orleans, LA (USA)</a> my home. It’s in my blood and always will be. Second in the DNA composition of my blood and connected to that first fact is I am an insufferable <a href="http://www.neworleanssaints.com/">New Orleans Saints</a> fan and permanent member of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_Dat%3F">The Who Dat Nation</a>.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOwKLkY12C6YCeHbyekxD8RxnskSwL-enZOEaEM3Ygx1bi5DG6YcNkiFLIa4167AcYBb5okTncvAm81SLemx7IWw2Yy0Z3llMMmiyGhwUCSzeRAsCcg9T8fUZB0HND1mfAAkKt3FyFq8/s1600/041312+FQF+(13).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOwKLkY12C6YCeHbyekxD8RxnskSwL-enZOEaEM3Ygx1bi5DG6YcNkiFLIa4167AcYBb5okTncvAm81SLemx7IWw2Yy0Z3llMMmiyGhwUCSzeRAsCcg9T8fUZB0HND1mfAAkKt3FyFq8/s320/041312+FQF+(13).JPG" width="320" /></a>I can’t help my love for either the city or the team. It’s like the color of my eyes (blue)…Can’t
change it. I remember as a 10 year old
hearing on the radio that the new franchise destined for New Orleans would be
named the Saints, and I was appalled. In
the then-significantly smaller NFL of the Colts, Cardinals, Bears, Giants, Rams
etc. why the heck the “Saints”. Of
course I know now why it is the perfect name for the team, and no child within
100 miles of the city reaches the age of 2 without knowing how to sing and to dance to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGYZEj4_1M0">“When the Saints GoMarching In”</a>.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgik5_h7SKTzK6SWHmJxqqvkQs2jRK53ZbYw6xBsl5dOggWk_kdeA7lAPH3pdzeQF6snIoJlnsEUmC6lBYgmfctru6eGXhc2bDoQb1wmog6mt1VL6IW1_nBo-LrqHmsT-DOKrRKcY_FWDg/s1600/saints+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgik5_h7SKTzK6SWHmJxqqvkQs2jRK53ZbYw6xBsl5dOggWk_kdeA7lAPH3pdzeQF6snIoJlnsEUmC6lBYgmfctru6eGXhc2bDoQb1wmog6mt1VL6IW1_nBo-LrqHmsT-DOKrRKcY_FWDg/s200/saints+logo.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In old <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tulane_Stadium">Tulane Stadium</a>,
before the Superdome and before the soccer style kickers in the league, I
watched <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Dempsey">Tom Dempsey</a>, overweight and with half a foot, kick the first <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrxTjgFYoU8">63 yard field goal</a>, a record that stood for decades.
It has now been matched 3 times, but never beaten. In 2010, my youngest son and I got to attend Super
Bowl XLIV (44) in Miami and saw the Saints whip <a href="http://www.nfl.com/player/archiemanning/2520076/profile">Archie’s</a> son (<a href="http://www.peytonmanning.com/">Peyton</a>) and the
Colts. (Luv ya Peyton - Go Broncos...just not against the Saints). Hopefully that’s not a once in a
lifetime experience. What I hope will be
is what has come to be known as <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIGgBhNtOP4">“The Homecoming”</a>. I was fortunate (at the risk of exaggerating
I’d say “blessed”) to be in the <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://mediaspin.com/blog/wp-images/superdome_before-after.jpg&imgrefurl=http://mediaspin.com/blog/?p%3D97&h=429&w=800&sz=179&tbnid=SvgveL7XSuGQtM:&tbnh=65&tbnw=122&zoo">Superdome</a> for the re-opening of the stadium one
year after Hurricane Katrina. It was waaaaay more
than a sporting event and represented the resurrection of the city. The City of New Orleans and our Saints are
imbedded deep within my inner core.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV7EE-aFOQ3XFZYOVqIhTMgWCTaFcE3VOq6OT5FvvCRYMrBts2jGSpJzwL3IFAUHUiDtHTjxC8WoCkhh9YBWYt4TpVGn-iHhqwslin3j1jXa5_m51unHSr-Tkq9k5cgqzXSqZaHRzmRh4/s1600/scan0038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV7EE-aFOQ3XFZYOVqIhTMgWCTaFcE3VOq6OT5FvvCRYMrBts2jGSpJzwL3IFAUHUiDtHTjxC8WoCkhh9YBWYt4TpVGn-iHhqwslin3j1jXa5_m51unHSr-Tkq9k5cgqzXSqZaHRzmRh4/s200/scan0038.jpg" width="135" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Bones</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQNC34EnbaH4ZoqhKbn6iJtZvi1nz2_U5G23aoQj3Fi5SZIU8hrQ4XSE6-Gh0Kf3K__434pGUcCd_ohjYs6kO7TZZcZSAE5K1blh3POLQr4twQCoof6-7rmNhQuYfcVcKPn85fZYtJto/s1600/scan0134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQNC34EnbaH4ZoqhKbn6iJtZvi1nz2_U5G23aoQj3Fi5SZIU8hrQ4XSE6-Gh0Kf3K__434pGUcCd_ohjYs6kO7TZZcZSAE5K1blh3POLQr4twQCoof6-7rmNhQuYfcVcKPn85fZYtJto/s200/scan0134.jpg" width="181" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Grunch & Bones McGregor</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the 9<sup>th</sup> of 10 kids
(yeah Catholic) I was skinny as a bean pole and bore all of the nick-names, “skinny
minny”, “boney-maroney”, “bone head”, “whiteroach”(?) etc., but the one that
stuck was Bones. I have adult friends
and relatives who still call me Bones and Uncle Bones. One that didn’t really stick, but it was
exclusively used by my Dad (aka The Grunch), was Bones McGregor. I don’t know where it came from, but I always
assumed it was connected to the sports equipment manufacturer “McGregor”. From that moniker come my occasionally used
screen names “Bones McGregor” and <a href="https://twitter.com/BoneyMac">@boneymac</a>.
No deeper meanings or double entendre…just a nick-name my dad called me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Being from NOLA, one area of my
brain stores un-erasable knowledge of hurricanes. Until Katrina and Rita in 2005, the most
prominent storms had been <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Betsy">Betsy</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Camille">Camille</a> in the late 60’s. The eye of Betsy passed over the roof of our
family’s small wood-frame track home while we listened to local storm reports on a battery powered
transistor radio while mopping water up from under doorways and waiting for the
“picture window” to implode.
Fortunately, it never did.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLS3C6rKfr6xnzkR4LZ1BI8_gOsO4Vwy23_M4GGAdDw05wUE2wuAW2mvz_sKZQuqqSWp6o_sOJxLc5zdrcUS0Lsxu-NQzXlCecaNNzEjBJ9nObhDVRQ2vof0RRh_K2T9eodxWIoNF5cY4/s1600/scan0127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLS3C6rKfr6xnzkR4LZ1BI8_gOsO4Vwy23_M4GGAdDw05wUE2wuAW2mvz_sKZQuqqSWp6o_sOJxLc5zdrcUS0Lsxu-NQzXlCecaNNzEjBJ9nObhDVRQ2vof0RRh_K2T9eodxWIoNF5cY4/s400/scan0127.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the heels of Betsy came Camille a year or two later. This time dad sprung for a room at the <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Jung_Hotel,_New_Orleans">Jung Hotel</a> on Canal Street, a huge, square, plain-brick (trans. "butt-ugly") downtown New Orleans hotel, then touted to be the largest in the city. Fortunately for us, but devastatingly for the Mississippi Gulf Coast, Camille turned north in the last hours before land-fall. Only <a href="http://www.ncdc.noaa.gov/special-reports/katrina.html">Katrina</a>, nearly 40 years later could wipe out the remnant destruction of Camille, by adding a layer of destruction over the top of it.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gIKqOZ0DzIl8xY0xnk54ZjILdcF5WyAo4XGuKcF68MHqxxbpOUbl5jCHCE5tKniMUn4EENiBrl-e-DhmXpZFFEdnMLk0IgoTM2CLNW84DAkfaD4qby_nrHERl29jsNmMdKokI_qtWto/s1600/katrina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gIKqOZ0DzIl8xY0xnk54ZjILdcF5WyAo4XGuKcF68MHqxxbpOUbl5jCHCE5tKniMUn4EENiBrl-e-DhmXpZFFEdnMLk0IgoTM2CLNW84DAkfaD4qby_nrHERl29jsNmMdKokI_qtWto/s200/katrina.jpg" width="154" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hurricane Katrina</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFbQqeajQUnRs98Ap309yRZv8E5E61nGglDVxNSMwOiKDXEiPEDPP8dwnYOi8ZwMZ2jc8FN-Dicg7Be-coEodAS18_agzgsooQe3MVp6e7EstZH9FH4R1AS-GLtXfHu5T74F5a0-nExM/s1600/rita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFbQqeajQUnRs98Ap309yRZv8E5E61nGglDVxNSMwOiKDXEiPEDPP8dwnYOi8ZwMZ2jc8FN-Dicg7Be-coEodAS18_agzgsooQe3MVp6e7EstZH9FH4R1AS-GLtXfHu5T74F5a0-nExM/s200/rita.jpg" width="155" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hurricane Rita</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Katrina will be the detailed
topic of my first set of blog posts.
Suffice it to say now, being in the streets of New Orleans within 48 hours
of Katrina’s visit, left memories and images I could never have anticipated and
will never forget. I had no time to come
down with post traumatic stress disorder because 3 weeks after returning home
to southwest Louisiana, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Rita">Hurricane Rita</a> devastated that area and put an oak tree
in our bedroom. It took a year and a
half to repair and move back in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am the father of 5 children
ages 13 – 30 and Pe'Pere to one grandson with another on the way. Only one of my children (to my knowledge) has spent
any time in jail. That was just a few hours and no one was hurt. I “married up” as they say. My wife of 19 years is a strong, charismatic
(in the traditional, not the evangelical sense) and special person, unique
among her gender. We were both political
junkies when we met at a campaign seminar during my unsuccessful run for the state
legislature 21 years ago. With age our
political feelings remain strong, but are now held in check by severe
cynicism resulting from the non-productive nature of the slash and burn
politics of the last 20 years.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Despite the early death of my
father and of other family members and friends, I have lived a moderately
charmed life…I mean I’m not Bill Gates, Bill Clinton or the governor of some
south Pacific island, but I feel very fortunate.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCb9uSXw3tRvt7Enk7MwP-JCATbQG02fjg26I5h4GAcblsvJef433mbOsWFDvp7MSiY08lGlc7xcF_uD524k4YroQPI4ENdT1NLK5fS5suvdZT9EZh5iwGzKcOzDFY7E_Irit49QqxTw/s1600/Pacific-Islands-thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCb9uSXw3tRvt7Enk7MwP-JCATbQG02fjg26I5h4GAcblsvJef433mbOsWFDvp7MSiY08lGlc7xcF_uD524k4YroQPI4ENdT1NLK5fS5suvdZT9EZh5iwGzKcOzDFY7E_Irit49QqxTw/s640/Pacific-Islands-thumb.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’ve always fancied myself a writer with a
combination of adequate brain power and perspective to have ideas worth
discussing. I blame my French <i>laissez faire</i> blood and upbringing for
my less than disciplined approach to writing.
I’m sure I am fooling myself into thinking that this blogging stuff will
be just what the doctor ordered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
I'll start with something I've already written. It was written seven years ago after being lucky enough to get into the City of New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. We were among the various groups of Louisianians who brought boats into the flooded city and later came to be know <i>en masse</i> as <a href="http://voices.yahoo.com/the-cajun-navy-heroic-louisiana-volunteers-saved-thousands-483259.html">The Cajun Navy.</a></span></div>
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