After a week of going away events, we hit the road Saturday, driving along the Gulf Coast to Destin, then hitting Savannah, and now reaching Williamsburg, where we're staying with my friend Lisa. A good trip so far, us in our packed cars, harassing each other by walkie-talkie.
The cats are already home. We put them on a plane Friday. As you can imagine, they were not happy to find themselves shoved into their cages and tossed into the backset of the car for yet another plane ride. (Thus, the title.) Simon, the veteran traveller, was silent, accepting of his fate. Bourre? Not so much with the silent or accepting. A lot of whining. A lot. At the cargo place, there were at least six other animals in cages and they were silent. Bourre? Screaming. I felt like the mother of the bad kid at the park.
It's not cheap to ship them this way. Plus they have to go to the vet and get shots before you can send them. And I had to express mail their medicine and ship a supply of their special food to Philly ahead of me. But it's worth it. One, because I would have killed them after hours together in the car. And two? People like me, we are suckers for our pets.
(Sidebar: Pet suckerage is big in my family. This Thanksgiving, the big conversation around the dinner table was, "If your loved one killed someone, would you help them hide the body?" ((Side sidebar: This is after dinner with Jordan's family, where the main conversation was national politics in light of the recent Democratic sweep into Congress. I'm willing to bet some Pompilios didn't even know there had been an election.)) Pretty much universally, we agreed to help each other hide evidence. Except for my sister. She was adamant that she would rat us out to police because killing was wrong, a stance that actually infuriated my mother. To torture my sister, I kept coming up with options where maybe killing was OK, like someone attacking you with a knife. She said, "Well, if someone was attacking Max (her cat) with a knife, I would kill them." I said, "And then that would be OK?" She said, "Yes." She will do anything for those cats. I can't wait to see that case in court. )
A lot of people will tell you they didn't evacuate before Katrina because of their pets. Shelters weren't accepting animals. (And, in one case, I had journalist friends who evacuated BECAUSE of their pet. Because they didn't want to leave her home alone. She repaid their love a few days after the storm, when they were trying to get back into the city, by eating the only food they had when they were out of the car. Go, Stella!) I witnessed some heart-breaking scenes as National Guardsmen separated people from their pets, leaving the animals on the streets and herding the people into trucks. (There was one photo that ran in the Inky of a man named Tom Cruise, his face in pure anguish, clutching his dog as the Guardsman waited. I always wondered what happened to him but I lost his email address after the storm.) One day, a week after the storm, I was downtown when a man wearing a fire department shirt came up to me with a brown ball of puppy fluff. He'd found the dog wandering around New Orleans Centre, a mall next to the Superdome. He asked if I could take the dog and I said no. I've always regretted that.
Also during the second week, I was working on the porch of my friend Steve's house when I was assaulted by a hungry black cat. She literally jumped on my lap, on the computer, and began purring and nipping my hands. I had to call my story in when she was there and the receptionist at Knight Ridder Washington quickly dubbed her "Knight Ridder Kitty." "You have to bring her home," the woman told me from the luxury of her desk in her air conditioned office where they probably had fancy things like "boxes" that could transport an animal. I left the cat, but not before generously sharing my photographer's packet of tuna with her. (He wasn't pleased.) (Whatever.)
Even now, when you drive around NO, you notice the markings on homes that refer to pets. Almost all of the houses are marked with the familiar X which details when and how the house was searched, by which unit of the military or policing agency, and if any human bodies were found. Others have additions like, "ASPCA 10/1, one dog inside" or, on one house in the Upper 9th Ward, "Two dead dogs inside" or, like a house in the Lower 9th Ward, "Dog on roof," or on another house nearby, "One dog, one cat, one bird inside." There are "Cat outside, 10/12, left food" scrawlings and "No dog found" notices spraypainted on walls, turning some houses into noteboards. (My sister: "Don't tell me these things! They make me so upset." Meanwhile, i'm cruising by houses where the numbers indicate two human bodies were found inside.)
Some people left their pets in their homes because they'd gone through hurricanes before and they figured they'd leave with a few days belongings, hit the beach or a friend's house elsewhere, then head home. As a former New Orleanian, I can't count the number of times I was told -- by the media and meterologists -- that the city was doomed. And every time, that storm didn't hit or it wasn't bad and the experts were wrong. I was on the plane, going to NO before Katrina, reassuring people that things would be fine, fine. To be on that plane, I had to cancel what might have been my first date with Jordo, a movie outing he probably saw as innocuous and I saw as the start of a great romance. I told him, "No big. I'll be back in a few days." And I wasn't home for two weeks.
I wrote a story about an elderly woman who was displaced by the storm. A story I didn't tell was about her beloved cat, Poupon. She went to stay at a hotel during the storm, something a lot of people do because they're high and seemingly stronger. She left her baby behind, convinced he'd be fine. Then the levees broke. Poupon survived in the house for weeks, apparently floating around on her piano when the water filled their Gentilly home. When a friend finally got into the house weeks later, Poupon was alive, but weak and ailing. The friend called Poupon's mom, who was in a Texas hospital, on the phone and she sung him a Brahms lullaby as she'd done every night they were together. Poupon died soon after. As she says, he heard her voice and knew she was OK so he could let go.
One of the last houses I helped gut before I left was in the Lower 9th Ward. My friend Vikki was with me and we were working for Rhino (Rebuilding Hope In New Orleans) again. (Hey, Vik! Great work!) Before we went to the house, Katie, our leader, was telling us a little about the homeowner. And, she added, the family had had a dog named Katie, which she thought was cute. It was a random, side comment but foreshadowing like no other.
So we're emptying in the house of its contents, Vikki and I in one of the front rooms, when Vikki stops and tells me to look. And there's a dog skull. And dog's collars, one I think was red and the other was one of those white flea fighters, were still there. And there was the rest of the dog, including the skeleton and a stretch of skin with short brown fur. We just kinda looked at each other and the dog and were like, "Oh God, what do we do?"And what we did was pick up the dog's remains and throw them out, adding them to the pile of debris with all the furniture and the clothing and knick knacks. The collars jingled when I picked them up, a familiar sound to anyone who has pets. (Later that day, Vikki dangled my car keys near my ear and I turned with a jump, thinking she was dangling Katie's collars. I think finding that dog upset me more than I realized.)
Did we do the right thing, just throwing the dog away? Should we have saved the collars for the homeowner? I don't know. We weren't sure if the homeowner was going to come by as we worked, but I practiced scenarios in my head if she did. If she asked something like, "Did you find any of my dog's things?" I planned to say, "A lot of dogs ran away once the water went down," allowing her to think her dog had fled and not died a probably horrible death. It was a lie but I was ready with it.
From what I understand, my cats -- safely home in Philadelphia, awaiting our return -- are two pissed off balls of fur. I can't wait to see them.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Odds and Ends
A few things I'd written down but hadn't posted:
I love paper. Of course, there are newspapers. I save them, not just the ones I have stories in, but historic ones, too: the Rangers 1994 Stanley Cup victory, the Yankee 3-peat, beastly Pedro Martinez manhandling Don Zimmer, 9/11, Katrina, etc. I love writing paper and can spend hours in stationery stores. I love finding old calendars and notebooks that tell you stories from someone's life -- including my own.
While gutting, I've had such fun with the puzzles of paper, like half-written grocery lists and, one random afternoon, boxes of checks from 1965. (Yes, '65!) There were payments, like $10 to the energy company and $5 for monthly insurance. On eweekend, we were doing a street clean-up and I kept finding documents from a local funeral home, like a pricing guide and a cancelled check. I also found other types of paper on that median -- straw wrappers and sugar packets and napkins, the archeologist's clue that a McDonald's was nearby.
One day, I went to a gutting assignment in New Orleans East with a group from the Episcopal Church. We didn't know what to expect as we'd been told the house was "mostly empty" of contents. Lies! It was filled, and it was deceptively large. The occupants had been musicians and we found an organ -- and old fashioned one with tons of pipes, made somewhere in the Mid-West, leading someone to joke that today, such a thing would be made in China -- that we had to take out in huge hunking pieces; two upright pianos; a box filled with triangles and cymbols and wood blocks and Glockenspiels. (Remember those from elementary school chorus and how exciting it was if you were chosen to be the one to play the Glockenspiel?)
There were boxes of sheet music, too, lots of old time stuff. And interspersed we found newspapers, old ones: Ones detailing the struggle for "negro rights" and the Kennedy assassination. They'd been so carefully saved and now they were moldy. I wanted to save them, thinking maybe the family could put them in frames or do something to preserve them. (This is unusual for me, as I'm usually the one who wants to throw everything out if there's a hint of mold on it.) My gutting companions told me no.
But I did take down a framed, oversized proclamation, still hanging on a wall, that was signed by former NO Mayor Dutch Morial. It was in honor of a Baptist Church. It was moldy, true, but we all agreed there was something special about it. A few hours later, we met Yvonne, 78, and her nephew Luis. This had been her family home. The proclamation had been given to her father. How happy she was to see it! She thanked us over and over again and said, like so many other homeowners have, that God was good and she knew it because we were there helping her. She couldn't stop smiling. She insisted we take a photo of her and Luis with the frame.
It's nice to know other people appreciate the power of paper.
Some more tidbits/advice from our favorite storyteller (See below and "It's All in the Way You Tell the Story"):
1) Keep extra copies of your "skinny" photos. Because if there's a flood and they're all in one place, you'll never have proof of those glory days.
2) Some people have questioned the idea of private companies offering "disaster tours" of the city. Not everyone. "I would have charged $5 a head if people wanted to tour my destroyed home. Hell, I would have let them take a piece of sheetrock as a souvenir. Busses, stop here! I could have quit my job."
3) In the days after the storm, there were tears, of course, but many other emotions. What really made her cry, however, was when someone from The Salvation Army gave her a $25 gift card. "I could buy underwear!" she said. "I could handle anger. I could handle frustration. I couldn't handle compassion."
Another story from another fine storyteller:
Two of her friends, brothers, decided to stay in their NO home for Katrina because it would be too difficult to move their elderly mother. (Either they didn't have transportation or it was a pick up but there was some reason they just couldn't drive out of the city.) Confined to a wheelchair and suffering from Alzheimer's, she was fragile, often unresponsive, although sometimes they'd see a light in her eyes when they spoke to her. She liked watching "Golden Girls" and, although she didn't speak, she did laugh. Sometimes, her sons would see her rocking slightly and laughing, "Hee hee hee hee" during the show.
Their house didn't flood during the storm. They didn't have electricity and it was hella hot, but they couldn't leave. Worried about their mother, they moved her outside to the front porch where they took turns fanning her. They were out there when a National Guard truck came by. It saw them, stopped, and dropped off some water. They were thrilled.
The next day, the brothers were on the porch. Their mother was inside. One Guard truck rolled down the street and the brothers waved, expecting it to stop and leave food or some supplies. It rolled on. A second truck passed later. Again, they waved but the truck kept on going.
They knew what they were missing.
"Ma," they said, "We've got to bring you outside again. Because people will stop for you. Nobody stops for us. We're sorry."
And she just laughed, they said, her little "Hee, hee, hee, hee," head shaking. She loved being useful and needed. She went outside and -- sure enough -- someone stopped by with MRE's later that day.
She died a year after the storm, her sons by her hospital bed.
I love paper. Of course, there are newspapers. I save them, not just the ones I have stories in, but historic ones, too: the Rangers 1994 Stanley Cup victory, the Yankee 3-peat, beastly Pedro Martinez manhandling Don Zimmer, 9/11, Katrina, etc. I love writing paper and can spend hours in stationery stores. I love finding old calendars and notebooks that tell you stories from someone's life -- including my own.
While gutting, I've had such fun with the puzzles of paper, like half-written grocery lists and, one random afternoon, boxes of checks from 1965. (Yes, '65!) There were payments, like $10 to the energy company and $5 for monthly insurance. On eweekend, we were doing a street clean-up and I kept finding documents from a local funeral home, like a pricing guide and a cancelled check. I also found other types of paper on that median -- straw wrappers and sugar packets and napkins, the archeologist's clue that a McDonald's was nearby.
One day, I went to a gutting assignment in New Orleans East with a group from the Episcopal Church. We didn't know what to expect as we'd been told the house was "mostly empty" of contents. Lies! It was filled, and it was deceptively large. The occupants had been musicians and we found an organ -- and old fashioned one with tons of pipes, made somewhere in the Mid-West, leading someone to joke that today, such a thing would be made in China -- that we had to take out in huge hunking pieces; two upright pianos; a box filled with triangles and cymbols and wood blocks and Glockenspiels. (Remember those from elementary school chorus and how exciting it was if you were chosen to be the one to play the Glockenspiel?)
There were boxes of sheet music, too, lots of old time stuff. And interspersed we found newspapers, old ones: Ones detailing the struggle for "negro rights" and the Kennedy assassination. They'd been so carefully saved and now they were moldy. I wanted to save them, thinking maybe the family could put them in frames or do something to preserve them. (This is unusual for me, as I'm usually the one who wants to throw everything out if there's a hint of mold on it.) My gutting companions told me no.
But I did take down a framed, oversized proclamation, still hanging on a wall, that was signed by former NO Mayor Dutch Morial. It was in honor of a Baptist Church. It was moldy, true, but we all agreed there was something special about it. A few hours later, we met Yvonne, 78, and her nephew Luis. This had been her family home. The proclamation had been given to her father. How happy she was to see it! She thanked us over and over again and said, like so many other homeowners have, that God was good and she knew it because we were there helping her. She couldn't stop smiling. She insisted we take a photo of her and Luis with the frame.
It's nice to know other people appreciate the power of paper.
Some more tidbits/advice from our favorite storyteller (See below and "It's All in the Way You Tell the Story"):
1) Keep extra copies of your "skinny" photos. Because if there's a flood and they're all in one place, you'll never have proof of those glory days.
2) Some people have questioned the idea of private companies offering "disaster tours" of the city. Not everyone. "I would have charged $5 a head if people wanted to tour my destroyed home. Hell, I would have let them take a piece of sheetrock as a souvenir. Busses, stop here! I could have quit my job."
3) In the days after the storm, there were tears, of course, but many other emotions. What really made her cry, however, was when someone from The Salvation Army gave her a $25 gift card. "I could buy underwear!" she said. "I could handle anger. I could handle frustration. I couldn't handle compassion."
Another story from another fine storyteller:
Two of her friends, brothers, decided to stay in their NO home for Katrina because it would be too difficult to move their elderly mother. (Either they didn't have transportation or it was a pick up but there was some reason they just couldn't drive out of the city.) Confined to a wheelchair and suffering from Alzheimer's, she was fragile, often unresponsive, although sometimes they'd see a light in her eyes when they spoke to her. She liked watching "Golden Girls" and, although she didn't speak, she did laugh. Sometimes, her sons would see her rocking slightly and laughing, "Hee hee hee hee" during the show.
Their house didn't flood during the storm. They didn't have electricity and it was hella hot, but they couldn't leave. Worried about their mother, they moved her outside to the front porch where they took turns fanning her. They were out there when a National Guard truck came by. It saw them, stopped, and dropped off some water. They were thrilled.
The next day, the brothers were on the porch. Their mother was inside. One Guard truck rolled down the street and the brothers waved, expecting it to stop and leave food or some supplies. It rolled on. A second truck passed later. Again, they waved but the truck kept on going.
They knew what they were missing.
"Ma," they said, "We've got to bring you outside again. Because people will stop for you. Nobody stops for us. We're sorry."
And she just laughed, they said, her little "Hee, hee, hee, hee," head shaking. She loved being useful and needed. She went outside and -- sure enough -- someone stopped by with MRE's later that day.
She died a year after the storm, her sons by her hospital bed.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Our Final Weeks
I'm so bummed, in advance, about leaving that I haven't felt like blogging.
We've begun to make leaving preparations: The cats have a flight back home. We're talking about what route we'll take. We're making arrangements to return out kick ass mattress. My copious amount of Mardi Gras beads have a place to stay until Mardi Gras '08.
We've also made a list of things we have to do/people we have to see before we go. This list includes eating at Todd English's restaurant because my mother requires it. Apparently, she is madly in love with Chef English and doesn't care if his restaurant has garnered mediocre reviews. (I don't know but she may expect me to slip him her phone number. I might, because it would be cool to have a cook in the family. Dad especially would enjoy that, despite the weirdness of it all.)
Otherwise, life is pretty much the same. We had Jazz Fest for the past two weekends, so that was awesome. I continue to be a gutting master. Today, we did a house Uptown that hadn't flooded but had suffered roof damage in the storm and it looked like it had had water up to the rafters, so gross and destroyed it was. It was dirty work, with plaster walls and so much dust you couldn't see at times, but a good gut. This is the second time I've worked for the owner, George. (The house is a double and last time, we only finished emptying and partially gutting one side.) Last time, George gave us drinks and snacks. This time, he did that -- and more. He fried a whole turkey and made a vat of jambalaya. It was the best turkey I've ever eaten. I mean, I've had fried turkey before, but this was so juicy and flavorful -- he fries it in peanut oil -- that I could have eaten it for all three meals.
George was modest about his food but told us that when he rebuilds, he's putting in a super big kitchen because he loves cooking. He was naturally a quiet man, the kind who looks down when he smiles, and so sweet. He introduced us to his girlfriend and one of his oldest friends and I really got a glimpse into his life. Of course, he invited us back when things were finished, even if it was years in the future. I wonder if I'll ever see him again.
And then I got to thinking that, at one point, I was spending a lot of time at a house about two blocks from George's. But if the storm hadn't hit, I never would have met him. And I never would have met Mr. L or Gloria or Heidi or Suzanne or all of these wonderful people that have filled our lives these past few months.
So Katrina, you bitch, thank you. I've had a lot of people tell me that good things always come from bad and I'm almost believing them.
We've begun to make leaving preparations: The cats have a flight back home. We're talking about what route we'll take. We're making arrangements to return out kick ass mattress. My copious amount of Mardi Gras beads have a place to stay until Mardi Gras '08.
We've also made a list of things we have to do/people we have to see before we go. This list includes eating at Todd English's restaurant because my mother requires it. Apparently, she is madly in love with Chef English and doesn't care if his restaurant has garnered mediocre reviews. (I don't know but she may expect me to slip him her phone number. I might, because it would be cool to have a cook in the family. Dad especially would enjoy that, despite the weirdness of it all.)
Otherwise, life is pretty much the same. We had Jazz Fest for the past two weekends, so that was awesome. I continue to be a gutting master. Today, we did a house Uptown that hadn't flooded but had suffered roof damage in the storm and it looked like it had had water up to the rafters, so gross and destroyed it was. It was dirty work, with plaster walls and so much dust you couldn't see at times, but a good gut. This is the second time I've worked for the owner, George. (The house is a double and last time, we only finished emptying and partially gutting one side.) Last time, George gave us drinks and snacks. This time, he did that -- and more. He fried a whole turkey and made a vat of jambalaya. It was the best turkey I've ever eaten. I mean, I've had fried turkey before, but this was so juicy and flavorful -- he fries it in peanut oil -- that I could have eaten it for all three meals.
George was modest about his food but told us that when he rebuilds, he's putting in a super big kitchen because he loves cooking. He was naturally a quiet man, the kind who looks down when he smiles, and so sweet. He introduced us to his girlfriend and one of his oldest friends and I really got a glimpse into his life. Of course, he invited us back when things were finished, even if it was years in the future. I wonder if I'll ever see him again.
And then I got to thinking that, at one point, I was spending a lot of time at a house about two blocks from George's. But if the storm hadn't hit, I never would have met him. And I never would have met Mr. L or Gloria or Heidi or Suzanne or all of these wonderful people that have filled our lives these past few months.
So Katrina, you bitch, thank you. I've had a lot of people tell me that good things always come from bad and I'm almost believing them.
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