Apocalyptic Aftermath

I haven't provided Katrina updates, simply because you don't need me for that. All you have to do is turn on the TV or open a newspaper to see that New Orleans dodged her first bullet, only to get shot from behind by a sniper, so to speak. The storm made a last minute jolt, but the levees still weren't strong enough to hold.

As more and more images come out of the area, it gets more and more unbelievable. This is the American tsunami. This is the Andrew of the aughts (or however you choose to refer to the '00 decade)

Yesterday, I was selfish. I watched the CNN and Fox News Channel coverage, looking for aerials of places I had been and neighborhoods I knew. Yes, I shed a wistful tear for the cityt I once knew and that will live on in so many people's memories. The good, the bad, and the ugly. The time a street punk ripped us off with a shoe shine. The time we got blasted at the Funky Pirate and listened to blues in clubs up and down Bourbon Street for the rest of Happy hour. My never ending quest to find a drink I liked and a place to drink it in. My orders of cafe and beignets, trolley rides on St. Charles and daily strolls through the Garden district, the warehouse district, the arts district, and the CBD.

Today, I spent the day watching local news coverage from WWL and WDSU. Both stations are streaming their coverage over the internet for people who were fortunate enough to get out and for the rest of us who, voyeurs that we are, must watch.

At one point this afternoon, a photographer was on set at WWL talking to the anchors about going out among the people who are left in town and how each one had a story to tell. So he turned his camera on and one at a time let them have their say. I can't tell you how many of them brought me to tears. Most gave their name, their neighborhood, and a vivid account of how they survived the flood, then where they were headed or a message for a specific friend or family member in case they saw the tape. It was the hope that they or a loved one could find this needle in a drenched haystack that kept them going.

I can't tell you how much those stories made me cry. Each one more heart wrenching than the one before, not necessarily by design but by sheer volume. People who sought refuge in the Superdome, now being moved to another state without so much as a chance to see if their homes are still standing. Helicopters plucking people off rooftops who survived on water and M&Ms.

I've survived my share of storms, for someone who has never lived in Florida, and their wrath has been devestating. Katrina, m'dear, you take the cake. Your name will be retired, to hang in the rafters with Ivan and Frances, Andrew, Hugo and Camille. The dubious distinction of setting a nation back on its collective heels and making us reconsider how lucky we are and what we can do to help those who were not. Now if only it didn't take a disaster, natural or otherwise, to draw us together like this.