Katrina and the Cajun Navy (7 yrs later) - Pt. 8

This is the ninth installment on this topic.

To read from the beginning please go to entries beginning 9/20/12.

1010 Lake Forest Blvd
(7 years post-Katrina)

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.

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".  In this makeshift rescue by untrained organizers, for a moment, it kinda pissed me off.

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.

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 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.  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.

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.

                  

We heard of a group of headstrong male residents who had moved to the roof and were bonded in the brotherhood of a permanent encampment.  As the stories went, they were staying, come hell or .... well they were staying.  We did not immediately investigate stories of them lighting campfires and refusing to leave as there was adequate need within the confines of the enclosed floors.  There were 10 or so others who declared their decision to stay, but all others were ready to do what was needed to get into a boat.  They needed no knowledge of their destination.

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!  As the day progressed, it became painfully obvious that the “seamless” coordination of rescue and relief operations promised by FEMA had not yet materialized.

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.

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.
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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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, we had no options.

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 5:00 p.m., 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.

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.

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.

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 I returned to inform each of them that we could not take them that day.

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.

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.

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”.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My 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. 

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.

To be continued

Katrina and the Cajun Navy - 7 Years Later (Pt. 2)

This is the third installment on this topic.

To read from the beginning please go to posts beginning 9/20/12.

          

Just after noon on Tuesday August 30, 2005, the mobilization of equipment and people was complete.  Each Cajun bateau was equipped with an ax, a sledgehammer, a chain saw, rope and ample fuel.The modest group of five or six vehicles from Sulphur, Louisiana, a few miles west of Lake Charles, headed east on Interstate 10 and converged upon reinforcements 40 miles later in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Jennings, LA.




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.

  

           
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. 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.

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.  Contrary to routine or tradition for such a trip 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. 



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.  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.

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.

We had us a convoy!!  

Having 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, we were all anxious to wet the hulls of our craft and hear whirring of their outboard motors. 

         


















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.

As we approached Baton Rouge, one plan we considered was to gather with our connected governmental-bureaucrat friends in the center of the city, about an hour west of New Orleans.  There we would await instructions from the Department of Wildlife & Fisheries on how to proceed to any designated areas of need.  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.

Besides being lowland and below sea level, the entire city of New Orleans is surrounded by water, even without a hurricane.  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. 

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.

          

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.

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.

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.

         

“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 Baton Rouge and toward New Orleans, 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 New Orleans metropolitan area.

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  State Trooper, 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.
          “Where are you trying to go, sir?”

          The response:

          “We have 18 boats and 35 people to assist in New Orleans”.  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, 

“By all means, sir.  Good luck.”

As the convoy entered the elevated roadway across the spillway and along the edge of Lake Pontchartrain from LaPlace to Kenner, 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 New Orleans, a city of parties and fun and excitement...the City that Care Forgot.

OK.  It wasn't this bad...not here anyway

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.





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.

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 with bad accents (Dennis Quaid and Ellen Barkin), had branded in 1987 as the "Big Easy".    

          

Descending off of the elevated  spillway bridge and into the western suburb of Kenner, 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.

To the south we saw the flooded runway of the Louis Armstrong International Airport, 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.

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 awakened my senses and caused me to pull back on the caravan's accelerator to an aware and more cautious rate of speed.



The only bureaucratic, governmental guidance we had received via cell phone was to proceed to the Causeway Boulevard 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 Metairie, just a couple of miles west of the city.  

Arrival at the Causeway Boulevard 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.

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 another location, a few miles to the south and back to the west, to a checkpoint on Airline Drive.  The anticipated grand and productive entrance was rapidly morphing into inauspiciousness as dusk appeared to be only a few hours away.

Katrina and The Cajun Navy - 7 Years Later (Pt. 1)

This is the second installment on this topic.

To read from the beginning please go to posts beginning 9/20/12.

      
New Orleans, Louisiana, USA 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 Lake Charles in the heel of the boot that is Louisiana, she has grown to love New Orleans in the toe of that boot, as passionately as I do. 

credit Wikipedia

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.  Joie de vivre to excess, with endless variety of culture, architecture, tolerance and food.

Oh, the food! 

         

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 New Orleans 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 New Orleans, would ever return.

NOAA Katrina

          “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, et al).

In 1965, Betsy cut a wide, wet destructive swath through Southeast Louisiana.  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!!  

Yeah, really!
(my older siblings had drivers' licenses)

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).

In Betsy's aftermath, low to moderate income families, in our wood-frame subdivision that had sprouted out of the suburban woods of New Orleans 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.  




Toddlers and teens danced in the streets to Beatles’ and British Invasion era songs playing on battery-powered transistor radios.  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.

These happy memories of a unique childhood experience established, in my mind, the benchmark of hurricanes, that is until August 29, 2005 and a witch named Katrina.

          

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 New Orleans.






The ultimate damage she caused surpassed the combined damage done by her predecessors Betsy, Camille, and Andrew.  Surely the swath cut in Sherman’s fiery march to the sea paled in comparison to the physical damage inflicted upon Southeast Louisiana, the City of New Orleans and the Gulf coast of Mississippi and Alabama.  

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 New York City on September 11, 2001.  The death toll of both was in the thousands.



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.

 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.

          On Tuesday morning, Sara and I were disturbed 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.

 
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 New Orleans was uncontrollable.  Sara's brain and heart had taken her down a similar path to the same point.

          Step in Ronny Lovett, a country boy originally from Georgia.

(not Ronny)

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.


  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 Lake Charles, Louisiana, he is unceasingly, but quietly generous to simple folks and children in need.

         
 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.


 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.

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 10:00 a.m., 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 New Orleans.  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 Crescent City before.