Tuesday, September 27, 2005
contra flow and other observations
The morning blurred with heavy clouds and it seemed there would be no sunrise at all. I poured coffee and stepped out to the patio, empty of all its chaises and umbrella tables, looking bleak without its party clothes strewn about. The green cast to the pool, usually blue and sparkling, was more witness to the heat and days without filtration than the storm, though the leaves and twigs lying on the bottom didn't help. I glanced up to the eaves and was not surprised to see the mud houses of the wasps intact and thriving. Before the furniture returns, the power washer will come out and they too will succumb to the force of water. Odd that nature teaches us the best ways to destroy.
And as I sip the hot coffee, the steamy day begins with a lifting of the dark clouds, and I see far to the east and south, for it is autumn now, pale pink light. One songbird lifts his chortles to the wind, and I remember that a symphony begins with one note.
Observations.
I'm going to go ahead and post these, because this is a journal and I've given a full week now to preparation, evacuation and aftermath. Some of my notes were time markers, from email and test messages I sent en route, some rambling from notes I kept of images I didn't want to forget. It really is okay if you skim by, or turn the page. There are two entries, one, chronological, the other, images. There is some repetition, and I could edit it all to one nicely flowing story, but I am eager to get back to the business of living and want to put this behind me for now.
My list of things to remember:
Contra Flow: doesn't "contra" mean "against?" If so, this works. There couldn't have been more against "flow" of this traffic unless it moved in reverse.
Parking lots: not just the freeways themselves, but the nightmare of cleanup that owners of those lots easily accessible to the masses. I used to think it was the storm that caused the mess. But it was there… long before the storm made landfall.
Caravans: We traveled next to many caravans. It occurred to us that if every family had taken only one car, filled with people and essentials, the traffic would have been cut in half and there would have been no fuel shortage. Instead, there were caravans of cars, many occupied with only one person. Car insurance is required by law in Texas…. So these people thought their cars were their most precious possession? Add to that the group behavior… these were the folks pulling out on the shoulders and driving past the traffic for several miles, then slowing the flow even more when exits, construction or stalled cars forced them back into the main lanes. Amazingly, no one laid on horns.
Semi towing: A cab of an eighteen wheeler, driven by one person, chained to a pickup truck, at least two occupants of that one, tied to an old ford with a nylon rope. No signal lights, no electrical hooked up between them at all. In the third car? Children. Occasionally passed with baby formula back and forth to the pick up. No seat belts.
In the back of other pick ups: Children tucked in to sleep under blankets in the hot sun, and into the night. Dogs in crates, some of them shaded with blankets or tarps, but all of them miserable. Much barking. At one point, when traffic was stopped, a man got out of a car following one of them and offered a water bottle to the dog in the cage of the truck. The dog knew what to do, and drank the water. The driver of the pickup flashed a thumbs-up to the Samaritan. I don't think they knew each other. My own dog drank from my palms. Her tongue on my skin was completely dry, and she had a/c most of the way, and no sun.
Camry, beige: We followed this car for hours. There were five people inside and they were in the "fast lane"…we were still hopeful when we got into that lane that an entrance to the contra lanes would sometime open up. The people drove, as did many, with the doors to the car opened. Occasionally, one of them would lean out of the car and pick up baling wire that had been used to create the road. It was odd, like a bird pecking worms from the spring ground. Just as often, someone would lean out of the car and vomit.
Flushing. We stopped at four different gas stations hoping to find facilities along the way. The first one, on the west side of Houston, where there was no threat, told us there was no water to flush. The next one was closed entirely. The third one was in the town that was supposed to have gas, per the police, but didn't. They did let us use the restroom. The men and women were using both sides, one line, for a change. I got the women's room. When I got there, it was filthy. Paper towels strewn on the floor, the baskets overflowing, the sink splattered and soiled. I took two paper towels and smushed the trash down into the basket and picked up the litter on the floor. I wiped down the sink. I washed my hands thoroughly with soap. I remember my eighth grade science teacher telling us there is no excuse for filth so long as there is running water. I would have done more, but people were banging on the door.
The next one (these were in those last few hours) had long lines, but had reverted to male/female lines. Not sure why, but one woman went to the men's room and opened the door when there were no men waiting and the women's line snaked out to the gas pumps. She simply went "eww" and backed off. The rest of us took her word for it. I didn't try to clean that one. But I did promise myself I would not be a helpless refugee. I'd seen enough of that with Katrina victims, especially in the last weeks. (Incidentally, do you know that the remaining 1700 katrina evacuees in the shelters were flown to Arkansas to avoid the storm? I know that part of it was to take care of the people. Part of it was to get them off the city roles. And part of it was no doubt a publicity stunt. But I'm very cynical now so don't mind me.)
Cats and dog: Animals have so much more intuition than we do. The cats hate to ride, and usually hide from us. They came right out to the car and got in without fuss. They were calm the whole way. Their litter box was available in the back, but they didn't use it. We were in this together. Scout slept with her head on my son's lap most of the way. Sometimes he slept with his head on hers. None of them let me out of their sight the whole time we were in Austin. We are a team.
Things heard on talk radio in the middle of the night: The coast guard had been called to help with the freeway crisis. Huh?
This one made my twelve-year-old cackle. He heard the president's speech…when was that? I don't have a sense of the time anymore… it was sometime after dark. C quotes it as follows. "It's a BIG storm. But don't go getting your guns and start rioting just because you can't get off the highway. " That was about it. When the interview/speech (what was it?) turned to Iraq, even news radio cut him off. A big storm? When we finally arrived in Austin and saw our Leader on TV, the thing that struck me was that apparently he didn't have speech 101. He sat in an open collared blue shirt … how many of those does he have? At North Com and addressed the nation. He smirked. He swiveled in his chair. He smirked when asked if his trip to the storm zone would be getting in the way and said no. But then his plans changed. I don't care what his politics are. There was no call for smirking. There was a need for reassurance and leadership. I didn't get it from his casual attitude. Did you? I'm not a snob, but it was time for him to look like a leader, dress like a leader and speak like a leader. I do note that on Sunday (Monday?) he wore a suit… green with a red tie. I do note as well that he stumbled over his words and lost his train of thought several times. I heard the interview first on the radio and wondered if he were having a stroke. When I saw it broadcast later, and heard him tell us that he was suspending EPA regs, that he was opening up the oil reserves and that we needed to cut through the red tape to let the refineries expand, I had the sensation of thirty years of hard fought battles for the environment whooshing by. I wondered what Jimmy Carter must have been thinking. At least he added a windfall profits tax. Why don't we just hand over the reins publicly to the oil companies? I worry about how well my son and I will be able to breathe now. We are both sensitive to the pollution here.
Honesty: Rather than alarming everyone with 24-hour coverage and flashbacks to Katrina, why not say we don't know?
And as I sip the hot coffee, the steamy day begins with a lifting of the dark clouds, and I see far to the east and south, for it is autumn now, pale pink light. One songbird lifts his chortles to the wind, and I remember that a symphony begins with one note.
Observations.
I'm going to go ahead and post these, because this is a journal and I've given a full week now to preparation, evacuation and aftermath. Some of my notes were time markers, from email and test messages I sent en route, some rambling from notes I kept of images I didn't want to forget. It really is okay if you skim by, or turn the page. There are two entries, one, chronological, the other, images. There is some repetition, and I could edit it all to one nicely flowing story, but I am eager to get back to the business of living and want to put this behind me for now.
My list of things to remember:
Contra Flow: doesn't "contra" mean "against?" If so, this works. There couldn't have been more against "flow" of this traffic unless it moved in reverse.
Parking lots: not just the freeways themselves, but the nightmare of cleanup that owners of those lots easily accessible to the masses. I used to think it was the storm that caused the mess. But it was there… long before the storm made landfall.
Caravans: We traveled next to many caravans. It occurred to us that if every family had taken only one car, filled with people and essentials, the traffic would have been cut in half and there would have been no fuel shortage. Instead, there were caravans of cars, many occupied with only one person. Car insurance is required by law in Texas…. So these people thought their cars were their most precious possession? Add to that the group behavior… these were the folks pulling out on the shoulders and driving past the traffic for several miles, then slowing the flow even more when exits, construction or stalled cars forced them back into the main lanes. Amazingly, no one laid on horns.
Semi towing: A cab of an eighteen wheeler, driven by one person, chained to a pickup truck, at least two occupants of that one, tied to an old ford with a nylon rope. No signal lights, no electrical hooked up between them at all. In the third car? Children. Occasionally passed with baby formula back and forth to the pick up. No seat belts.
In the back of other pick ups: Children tucked in to sleep under blankets in the hot sun, and into the night. Dogs in crates, some of them shaded with blankets or tarps, but all of them miserable. Much barking. At one point, when traffic was stopped, a man got out of a car following one of them and offered a water bottle to the dog in the cage of the truck. The dog knew what to do, and drank the water. The driver of the pickup flashed a thumbs-up to the Samaritan. I don't think they knew each other. My own dog drank from my palms. Her tongue on my skin was completely dry, and she had a/c most of the way, and no sun.
Camry, beige: We followed this car for hours. There were five people inside and they were in the "fast lane"…we were still hopeful when we got into that lane that an entrance to the contra lanes would sometime open up. The people drove, as did many, with the doors to the car opened. Occasionally, one of them would lean out of the car and pick up baling wire that had been used to create the road. It was odd, like a bird pecking worms from the spring ground. Just as often, someone would lean out of the car and vomit.
Flushing. We stopped at four different gas stations hoping to find facilities along the way. The first one, on the west side of Houston, where there was no threat, told us there was no water to flush. The next one was closed entirely. The third one was in the town that was supposed to have gas, per the police, but didn't. They did let us use the restroom. The men and women were using both sides, one line, for a change. I got the women's room. When I got there, it was filthy. Paper towels strewn on the floor, the baskets overflowing, the sink splattered and soiled. I took two paper towels and smushed the trash down into the basket and picked up the litter on the floor. I wiped down the sink. I washed my hands thoroughly with soap. I remember my eighth grade science teacher telling us there is no excuse for filth so long as there is running water. I would have done more, but people were banging on the door.
The next one (these were in those last few hours) had long lines, but had reverted to male/female lines. Not sure why, but one woman went to the men's room and opened the door when there were no men waiting and the women's line snaked out to the gas pumps. She simply went "eww" and backed off. The rest of us took her word for it. I didn't try to clean that one. But I did promise myself I would not be a helpless refugee. I'd seen enough of that with Katrina victims, especially in the last weeks. (Incidentally, do you know that the remaining 1700 katrina evacuees in the shelters were flown to Arkansas to avoid the storm? I know that part of it was to take care of the people. Part of it was to get them off the city roles. And part of it was no doubt a publicity stunt. But I'm very cynical now so don't mind me.)
Cats and dog: Animals have so much more intuition than we do. The cats hate to ride, and usually hide from us. They came right out to the car and got in without fuss. They were calm the whole way. Their litter box was available in the back, but they didn't use it. We were in this together. Scout slept with her head on my son's lap most of the way. Sometimes he slept with his head on hers. None of them let me out of their sight the whole time we were in Austin. We are a team.
Things heard on talk radio in the middle of the night: The coast guard had been called to help with the freeway crisis. Huh?
This one made my twelve-year-old cackle. He heard the president's speech…when was that? I don't have a sense of the time anymore… it was sometime after dark. C quotes it as follows. "It's a BIG storm. But don't go getting your guns and start rioting just because you can't get off the highway. " That was about it. When the interview/speech (what was it?) turned to Iraq, even news radio cut him off. A big storm? When we finally arrived in Austin and saw our Leader on TV, the thing that struck me was that apparently he didn't have speech 101. He sat in an open collared blue shirt … how many of those does he have? At North Com and addressed the nation. He smirked. He swiveled in his chair. He smirked when asked if his trip to the storm zone would be getting in the way and said no. But then his plans changed. I don't care what his politics are. There was no call for smirking. There was a need for reassurance and leadership. I didn't get it from his casual attitude. Did you? I'm not a snob, but it was time for him to look like a leader, dress like a leader and speak like a leader. I do note that on Sunday (Monday?) he wore a suit… green with a red tie. I do note as well that he stumbled over his words and lost his train of thought several times. I heard the interview first on the radio and wondered if he were having a stroke. When I saw it broadcast later, and heard him tell us that he was suspending EPA regs, that he was opening up the oil reserves and that we needed to cut through the red tape to let the refineries expand, I had the sensation of thirty years of hard fought battles for the environment whooshing by. I wondered what Jimmy Carter must have been thinking. At least he added a windfall profits tax. Why don't we just hand over the reins publicly to the oil companies? I worry about how well my son and I will be able to breathe now. We are both sensitive to the pollution here.
Honesty: Rather than alarming everyone with 24-hour coverage and flashbacks to Katrina, why not say we don't know?
evacuation
A soft light pours into the kitchen window, filtered only by trees, the air so much cleaner that it is at home. I take the snapshot, "sunrise from my daughters porch" I name it in my mind, in an effort to combine the seen with the thought. I remember that my favorite poet has determined to simply not seek publication anymore, because it robs the joy of the words from her, and I understand that.
My back aches, the mattress that we sleep on is new and unbroken, it doesn't yield to the curve of my spine or my hip and I find my sleep restless. I want to go home, not because I am not happy here or because I am concerned. I can't decide, really, where home even is.
The trip: It will help you to understand that I am in Clear Lake, zone C of the mandatory evacuation area…which means that a category 4 or 5 direct hit could send coastal waters to flood this far into the city. We are about half way between Johnson Space Center and Ellington field, if you know the city. Tuesday night, the news announced the mandatory evacuation of all the zones, and gave times for when they were effective. Noon Thursday was the time we were given.
Houston is a freeway city. There are two loops around the downtown core. The outer loop is a toll road; ordinarily it costs $3.75 to get from my house on the southeast side to interstate10 on the west side, which is the fastest road to Austin, where my daughters have a condo and enough space for my husband and I, my son and the pets. (Two cats, and Scout, none of them welcome in hotels.) We considered going north to the cottage in Michigan, but my spouse needed to stay close to his office.
8:15 Wednesday night.
The alternate route out of town, (state road 90) which my husband wanted to take, has a 9 car pile-up on it. They've announced that there are no resources… i.e. police or ambulances, to service roads that are not designated evacuation routes. State road 90 is not an evacuation route. I 45 between Galveston and Houston was taking 5 hours for motorists to complete the normally 35 minute drive. We acknowledge that if it were just the two of us, we'd stay here. Instead, we decide to open a bottle of wine and relax tonight, get up early and go in the morning. The neighborhood is empty already, except for Matt across the street who is putting painters tape across the lead glass of his front door. We didn't board windows or tape them up or move the furniture to the second floor, as our neighbors have done. Nothing we own is that special. Instead, we move the lawn furniture to the empty garage, wrap the boxes and boxes of photographs in plastic and put them high on shelves in our closet, the most hurricane proof room in the house. The house was only built in 2000, and is built to withstand 135 mph winds. The storm at this point is gusting to the 180's. We are glad that we shared pictures with our parents in the Midwest all those years, so all will not be lost even if our makeshift efforts don't work. We are hanging out tonight, will go in the morning. Car is packed, all but computers and toothbrushes... and we have nothing else to do but sit in the car tomorrow.
Some people are just getting rooms in Houston. I could see us doing that. The girls are excited to have us come. They are a little more afraid of the storm than we are, so we will go.
12:51pm, Thursday
Have been on the road 7 hrs. Not to 59 (southwest freeway) yet. Decided to try J's shortcut anyway, all freeways are nearly stopped, and we figure we have a better chance on the state roads. 103 degrees. Many cars already on the side of the road, out of gas. There is none to buy. I'm glad we chose to only bring one car.
1:38 p.m. The radio keeps announcing that there are refuel trucks on the roads to help motorists. We've seen nothing. We are down to half a tank, still plenty to get to Austin.
3pm We'd be fine if we could just drive! We are all the way to Sugarland. (Suburb on the southwest corner of Houston. Normally a 40 minute drive from home.)
4:18 pm. They just turned all I10 lanes westbound headed to Austin. The radio says the entrance is at highway 6, and that traffic is moving. We are just east of highway 6, decide to give it a try. Besides, we have to pee and need to get out of gridlock to find a place to go. The car thermometer says 115 degrees.
Highway 6 is moving well (northbound from 90 to 10.) There was a convenience store opened, but no gas. No problem, we will just use the restrooms. They tell us they have no water so they won't let people use the facilities. A lady in the parking lot says they do, they are just closed to evacuees. At this point, I don't get it. The boys pee in the grass behind the car wash. I wait. I'm a woman, no big deal.
7:04 The mayor has just announced that if you are in zone C and haven't evacuated yet, that it is too late, given the freeway situation. He says that storm appears to have changed its target and zone C should be okay. We consider turning back as we are still not out of metro Houston and it's been over 12 hours. We call the girls, who are adamant that we keep going. We figure they know more than we do, so agree.
8:17 the real problem is that nothing is open-no food or bathrooms. I wonder for the first time why there aren't Red Cross stations set up along the evac route. 10mph and we are finally at Katy… west suburb of Houston. I know of a truck stop here, surely they will be open.
We stop at the truck stop. It is …frightening. Evacuees are parked everywhere: the parking lot, the gas pumps (empty) the lawn, all along the road. Trash strewn all over as well… as though there are no receptacles or people don't know better. Of course the place is closed. Mob mentality is taking over, and we don't even want to let the dog out of the car here. We've already been warned to take a gun with us, but we wouldn't even if we owned one. I've never been actually afraid of a crowd before. This one scares me.
A note about the contra flow. The radio keeps announcing that I 10 contra flow lanes are opened and that traffic is breezing along. No doubt those announcements add to the mess. Reality is that they are open, but the only place to get ON to the contra flow lanes (the eastbound interstate lanes turned to accommodate westbound traffic) is in Downtown Houston. There are concrete barriers… movable barriers, between the east and westbound lanes. No one has moved any of them. Hundreds of thousands of vehicles are trapped in the westbound lanes, people who joined the line sometime after the entrance to the fast lanes. Our frustration grows as we see an occasional car zipping by in the eastbound lanes at 80 mph. I'm guessing the ratio to be 1:1000 or so. Some drivers have exited and are driving across medians in construction zones for access. We can't believe they won't open another legal entrance… there are at least two places it could be easily done.
Neither one is open.
11:46 Friday. My friend emailed that the cams show the highways are clear on TV. The cams must be from another day. The roads have not changed. Cars all over the place are out of gas... everything gridlocked. At least where we are.
At 3 am, we gave up on I 10 and decided we should have stuck to our original instincts and take the farm to market roads. We aren't city people; we know how to use them. And we know that sooner or later we will find an empty one and I will be able to pee. Only I'm still such a girl, I feel like the bugs are watching and can't even relieve myself in the darkness. The boys are fine, the animals too, and I'll just deal with it.
Only there were a number of others with the same idea and for the first time, we are at dead stop. People have set up camp in lawns along the way, it is like a mass tailgate party in the country. The traffic moves so desperately slow that I can walk the dog alongside the car faster than it moves. We judge how low our gas tank is getting and know we have to go to an "approved" route, if there is any hope of refueling at all. A policeman stationed to block off a road off the state highway that would let cars into town, says there is gas at the next city, on 290. Another 15 miles. Our computer says we have 40 miles of gas left. Austin is still about 70 away.
We ran out of gas and I ran out of phone battery to at 4:30 am, in not the next town, but the one after that, Giddings, and so we stopped at a restaurant parking lot. J passed out; he would never give up the wheel. I tried to sleep, the windows down to the night air but also to the noise and mosquitoes. I realized that now I was an evacuee, and understood a bit of what kept police and National Guard holding "them" at bay in New Orleans. The mindset was not so much of survival, but of lawlessness… there was no camaraderie, but I suppose that I felt that partly because I was a minority for really the first time in my life. I didn't see another white face for hours. I am bothered by the fact that I know that, I am not usually a person that does.
The restaurant opened at 5:30 and at last we were able to use real bathrooms and have breakfast. The people there could not have been nicer. The waitress called around town and said that she'd not been able to find gas yet, but her friend Bucky was going to call her as soon as his station got some. We ate from a Texas buffet: grits and biscuits and milk gravy. Behind us, a couple who'd left from Santa Fe, a suburb in zone b, at 9:30 pm the night before we left. We had arrived at the same place. Their trek took them ten more hours… so perhaps the shortcuts were in fact shorter. A co worker of my husbands, known for his fussiness and conservatism, left town on Tuesday, with two cars for he and his wife. Their trip took 40 hours.
None of us saw fuel trucks. None of us saw National Guard. None of us saw the Red Cross. I'm not saying they weren't there. But that on three different routes out of town, I saw none. TV news shows them on the broadcasts, some people interviewed apparently were helped. I am learning to be skeptical of what I see now.
By the time we'd had coffee, there a few stations were opening and actually had gas in Giddings. We put in half a tank… we only had 57 miles to go and knew what was behind us. It only took five hours to travel the last 57 miles.
By then it was mid afternoon on Friday. Austin was Austin… open and friendly and good. The announcers on the local radio listed things for evacuees to do while there, and asked that we please be more careful with our litter. A caller reported that he'd seen someone throw a whole bag of garbage into the river.
Then the vigil of watching the storm, until my daughters boyfriend came over with DVD's and insisted we pull ourselves away from TV. We watched two seasons of Northern Exposure, and slept off and on. I woke up at 4 am, Saturday, and watched the newsmen blown by the wind and rain. I wonder what makes them think their reports are more credible outside?
The next two days were spent being good refugees. We refinished the wood floor at my daughter's condo, and took them shopping for things they needed and hadn't gotten to yet. They are both very busy, almost never home. School, work, internships, boyfriends, and even a social life. I'm jealous.
We came home to trees down in the neighborhood, one on top of a house. Our home was spared damage, just junk in the pool. The security alarms were blaring, but I assume that was because we turned off the power before we left. They announced an orderly return to the city, but they partitioned it off so that people who were never in harms way returned first. Those of us who were evacuated from the southeast side still show as "pending" on the map of when to come back. Pending? We left Austin a little before ten, and were home in 4 hours. Seems most people followed Judge Willy's advice, from the county just south of us, instead of the wishy-washy ineffectiveness of the Mayor who had the audacity to announce early last week that Houston was the most prepared city in the country, and that we would handle this. I'm sorry to those who want to believe they did the best they could, but if less time had been spent on photo ops telling us that the "plan was almost ready" and simply doing the work, there would be less anger and resentment in the city today.
I don't mind being told "I don't know." I do mind being told, we are ready, when clearly, we were not. We are too smart for this. All of us.
My back aches, the mattress that we sleep on is new and unbroken, it doesn't yield to the curve of my spine or my hip and I find my sleep restless. I want to go home, not because I am not happy here or because I am concerned. I can't decide, really, where home even is.
The trip: It will help you to understand that I am in Clear Lake, zone C of the mandatory evacuation area…which means that a category 4 or 5 direct hit could send coastal waters to flood this far into the city. We are about half way between Johnson Space Center and Ellington field, if you know the city. Tuesday night, the news announced the mandatory evacuation of all the zones, and gave times for when they were effective. Noon Thursday was the time we were given.
Houston is a freeway city. There are two loops around the downtown core. The outer loop is a toll road; ordinarily it costs $3.75 to get from my house on the southeast side to interstate10 on the west side, which is the fastest road to Austin, where my daughters have a condo and enough space for my husband and I, my son and the pets. (Two cats, and Scout, none of them welcome in hotels.) We considered going north to the cottage in Michigan, but my spouse needed to stay close to his office.
8:15 Wednesday night.
The alternate route out of town, (state road 90) which my husband wanted to take, has a 9 car pile-up on it. They've announced that there are no resources… i.e. police or ambulances, to service roads that are not designated evacuation routes. State road 90 is not an evacuation route. I 45 between Galveston and Houston was taking 5 hours for motorists to complete the normally 35 minute drive. We acknowledge that if it were just the two of us, we'd stay here. Instead, we decide to open a bottle of wine and relax tonight, get up early and go in the morning. The neighborhood is empty already, except for Matt across the street who is putting painters tape across the lead glass of his front door. We didn't board windows or tape them up or move the furniture to the second floor, as our neighbors have done. Nothing we own is that special. Instead, we move the lawn furniture to the empty garage, wrap the boxes and boxes of photographs in plastic and put them high on shelves in our closet, the most hurricane proof room in the house. The house was only built in 2000, and is built to withstand 135 mph winds. The storm at this point is gusting to the 180's. We are glad that we shared pictures with our parents in the Midwest all those years, so all will not be lost even if our makeshift efforts don't work. We are hanging out tonight, will go in the morning. Car is packed, all but computers and toothbrushes... and we have nothing else to do but sit in the car tomorrow.
Some people are just getting rooms in Houston. I could see us doing that. The girls are excited to have us come. They are a little more afraid of the storm than we are, so we will go.
12:51pm, Thursday
Have been on the road 7 hrs. Not to 59 (southwest freeway) yet. Decided to try J's shortcut anyway, all freeways are nearly stopped, and we figure we have a better chance on the state roads. 103 degrees. Many cars already on the side of the road, out of gas. There is none to buy. I'm glad we chose to only bring one car.
1:38 p.m. The radio keeps announcing that there are refuel trucks on the roads to help motorists. We've seen nothing. We are down to half a tank, still plenty to get to Austin.
3pm We'd be fine if we could just drive! We are all the way to Sugarland. (Suburb on the southwest corner of Houston. Normally a 40 minute drive from home.)
4:18 pm. They just turned all I10 lanes westbound headed to Austin. The radio says the entrance is at highway 6, and that traffic is moving. We are just east of highway 6, decide to give it a try. Besides, we have to pee and need to get out of gridlock to find a place to go. The car thermometer says 115 degrees.
Highway 6 is moving well (northbound from 90 to 10.) There was a convenience store opened, but no gas. No problem, we will just use the restrooms. They tell us they have no water so they won't let people use the facilities. A lady in the parking lot says they do, they are just closed to evacuees. At this point, I don't get it. The boys pee in the grass behind the car wash. I wait. I'm a woman, no big deal.
7:04 The mayor has just announced that if you are in zone C and haven't evacuated yet, that it is too late, given the freeway situation. He says that storm appears to have changed its target and zone C should be okay. We consider turning back as we are still not out of metro Houston and it's been over 12 hours. We call the girls, who are adamant that we keep going. We figure they know more than we do, so agree.
8:17 the real problem is that nothing is open-no food or bathrooms. I wonder for the first time why there aren't Red Cross stations set up along the evac route. 10mph and we are finally at Katy… west suburb of Houston. I know of a truck stop here, surely they will be open.
We stop at the truck stop. It is …frightening. Evacuees are parked everywhere: the parking lot, the gas pumps (empty) the lawn, all along the road. Trash strewn all over as well… as though there are no receptacles or people don't know better. Of course the place is closed. Mob mentality is taking over, and we don't even want to let the dog out of the car here. We've already been warned to take a gun with us, but we wouldn't even if we owned one. I've never been actually afraid of a crowd before. This one scares me.
A note about the contra flow. The radio keeps announcing that I 10 contra flow lanes are opened and that traffic is breezing along. No doubt those announcements add to the mess. Reality is that they are open, but the only place to get ON to the contra flow lanes (the eastbound interstate lanes turned to accommodate westbound traffic) is in Downtown Houston. There are concrete barriers… movable barriers, between the east and westbound lanes. No one has moved any of them. Hundreds of thousands of vehicles are trapped in the westbound lanes, people who joined the line sometime after the entrance to the fast lanes. Our frustration grows as we see an occasional car zipping by in the eastbound lanes at 80 mph. I'm guessing the ratio to be 1:1000 or so. Some drivers have exited and are driving across medians in construction zones for access. We can't believe they won't open another legal entrance… there are at least two places it could be easily done.
Neither one is open.
11:46 Friday. My friend emailed that the cams show the highways are clear on TV. The cams must be from another day. The roads have not changed. Cars all over the place are out of gas... everything gridlocked. At least where we are.
At 3 am, we gave up on I 10 and decided we should have stuck to our original instincts and take the farm to market roads. We aren't city people; we know how to use them. And we know that sooner or later we will find an empty one and I will be able to pee. Only I'm still such a girl, I feel like the bugs are watching and can't even relieve myself in the darkness. The boys are fine, the animals too, and I'll just deal with it.
Only there were a number of others with the same idea and for the first time, we are at dead stop. People have set up camp in lawns along the way, it is like a mass tailgate party in the country. The traffic moves so desperately slow that I can walk the dog alongside the car faster than it moves. We judge how low our gas tank is getting and know we have to go to an "approved" route, if there is any hope of refueling at all. A policeman stationed to block off a road off the state highway that would let cars into town, says there is gas at the next city, on 290. Another 15 miles. Our computer says we have 40 miles of gas left. Austin is still about 70 away.
We ran out of gas and I ran out of phone battery to at 4:30 am, in not the next town, but the one after that, Giddings, and so we stopped at a restaurant parking lot. J passed out; he would never give up the wheel. I tried to sleep, the windows down to the night air but also to the noise and mosquitoes. I realized that now I was an evacuee, and understood a bit of what kept police and National Guard holding "them" at bay in New Orleans. The mindset was not so much of survival, but of lawlessness… there was no camaraderie, but I suppose that I felt that partly because I was a minority for really the first time in my life. I didn't see another white face for hours. I am bothered by the fact that I know that, I am not usually a person that does.
The restaurant opened at 5:30 and at last we were able to use real bathrooms and have breakfast. The people there could not have been nicer. The waitress called around town and said that she'd not been able to find gas yet, but her friend Bucky was going to call her as soon as his station got some. We ate from a Texas buffet: grits and biscuits and milk gravy. Behind us, a couple who'd left from Santa Fe, a suburb in zone b, at 9:30 pm the night before we left. We had arrived at the same place. Their trek took them ten more hours… so perhaps the shortcuts were in fact shorter. A co worker of my husbands, known for his fussiness and conservatism, left town on Tuesday, with two cars for he and his wife. Their trip took 40 hours.
None of us saw fuel trucks. None of us saw National Guard. None of us saw the Red Cross. I'm not saying they weren't there. But that on three different routes out of town, I saw none. TV news shows them on the broadcasts, some people interviewed apparently were helped. I am learning to be skeptical of what I see now.
By the time we'd had coffee, there a few stations were opening and actually had gas in Giddings. We put in half a tank… we only had 57 miles to go and knew what was behind us. It only took five hours to travel the last 57 miles.
By then it was mid afternoon on Friday. Austin was Austin… open and friendly and good. The announcers on the local radio listed things for evacuees to do while there, and asked that we please be more careful with our litter. A caller reported that he'd seen someone throw a whole bag of garbage into the river.
Then the vigil of watching the storm, until my daughters boyfriend came over with DVD's and insisted we pull ourselves away from TV. We watched two seasons of Northern Exposure, and slept off and on. I woke up at 4 am, Saturday, and watched the newsmen blown by the wind and rain. I wonder what makes them think their reports are more credible outside?
The next two days were spent being good refugees. We refinished the wood floor at my daughter's condo, and took them shopping for things they needed and hadn't gotten to yet. They are both very busy, almost never home. School, work, internships, boyfriends, and even a social life. I'm jealous.
We came home to trees down in the neighborhood, one on top of a house. Our home was spared damage, just junk in the pool. The security alarms were blaring, but I assume that was because we turned off the power before we left. They announced an orderly return to the city, but they partitioned it off so that people who were never in harms way returned first. Those of us who were evacuated from the southeast side still show as "pending" on the map of when to come back. Pending? We left Austin a little before ten, and were home in 4 hours. Seems most people followed Judge Willy's advice, from the county just south of us, instead of the wishy-washy ineffectiveness of the Mayor who had the audacity to announce early last week that Houston was the most prepared city in the country, and that we would handle this. I'm sorry to those who want to believe they did the best they could, but if less time had been spent on photo ops telling us that the "plan was almost ready" and simply doing the work, there would be less anger and resentment in the city today.
I don't mind being told "I don't know." I do mind being told, we are ready, when clearly, we were not. We are too smart for this. All of us.
Friday, September 23, 2005
The other side of the mirror
The other side of the mirror
High thin clouds banded like the rings of calcium building up in whirls of a seashell against the pale pink of the sky. The sun itself sparkled lemon, a yellow diamond where the softness of a pearl should have been. The sweet pastels calmed the torment of the night; when I listened closely, I could even hear the sea.
Yes, I watched the sunrise out my rearview mirror this morning, and wondered if I would write it here for you. So many images, so much stress, overwhelming emotions from one extreme to another.
I will write it, perhaps later tonight. I owe you that.
But for now, I will just say thank you to all who have expressed concern. We were in zone C for evacuation, mandatory evacuation as of Wednesday. As you all now know, the storm has shifted to the north a bit, and now they say it is okay to "shelter in place" if you didn't get out. Better than the highway situation.
It took 26 hours to make a 3.25 hour trip. Sadly, most of that was within the city. But we are safe in Austin, at my daughter's house.
The wind has diminished, and the tides have changed. More soon.
High thin clouds banded like the rings of calcium building up in whirls of a seashell against the pale pink of the sky. The sun itself sparkled lemon, a yellow diamond where the softness of a pearl should have been. The sweet pastels calmed the torment of the night; when I listened closely, I could even hear the sea.
Yes, I watched the sunrise out my rearview mirror this morning, and wondered if I would write it here for you. So many images, so much stress, overwhelming emotions from one extreme to another.
I will write it, perhaps later tonight. I owe you that.
But for now, I will just say thank you to all who have expressed concern. We were in zone C for evacuation, mandatory evacuation as of Wednesday. As you all now know, the storm has shifted to the north a bit, and now they say it is okay to "shelter in place" if you didn't get out. Better than the highway situation.
It took 26 hours to make a 3.25 hour trip. Sadly, most of that was within the city. But we are safe in Austin, at my daughter's house.
The wind has diminished, and the tides have changed. More soon.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
just thinking
My son was explaining the different saws he's learning to use in school when my mind traipsed down a path it hadn't been down in a long time. I could hear the ring of a skil saw echoing around the basement walls, feel the vibration of wood against sawhorses, and smell the unforgettable scent of sawdust.
I wish the memory went farther. I wish I could remember anything my father built in that basement. I can return to that place, even now, and see the work table he built for his shop, an identical one built for holding clean laundry across the room. I don't remember them in process. I remember the noise and the concentration, the time it required, the relief from yelling that his preoccupation with woodworking provided. But I don't know that I ever saw what it was we were working on.
Strange to me.
I should think that memory would operate on a LIFO system, so that we remember most the last thing someone said to us, or the last interaction. But it isn't really that way is it? Memory is more like popcorn, random spurts of perfect kernels, each crest of the inflated seed tied to another. And so many old maids left in the bottom that didn't get enough time, or enough heat to reach their full potential.
I guess it is best that we don't remember our last contact with those who are no longer part of our lives. I would not want to remember only the last painful argument, or the way a loved one looked at the funeral.
Still I'd like to know what it was my dad made all that time in the basement workshop, when I was indentured to hold the wood.
*********
There are a million stories from the shelters. Imagine how long we would be spellbound if someone could tell them all. But the telling is exponential. For every storyteller interacting with a "client" at the shelter, another story is born, and in the retelling yet another.
At one point, I wanted to record each day, my impression of the locale, the people, the attitudes of the officials, the volunteers. But what I've decided is that this was like any other shock situation. The reality lies somewhere between the heartbreaking losses and those who would try to beat the system. Most of the people have survived, and are getting on with their lives. It's time I did that, too.
I wish the memory went farther. I wish I could remember anything my father built in that basement. I can return to that place, even now, and see the work table he built for his shop, an identical one built for holding clean laundry across the room. I don't remember them in process. I remember the noise and the concentration, the time it required, the relief from yelling that his preoccupation with woodworking provided. But I don't know that I ever saw what it was we were working on.
Strange to me.
I should think that memory would operate on a LIFO system, so that we remember most the last thing someone said to us, or the last interaction. But it isn't really that way is it? Memory is more like popcorn, random spurts of perfect kernels, each crest of the inflated seed tied to another. And so many old maids left in the bottom that didn't get enough time, or enough heat to reach their full potential.
I guess it is best that we don't remember our last contact with those who are no longer part of our lives. I would not want to remember only the last painful argument, or the way a loved one looked at the funeral.
Still I'd like to know what it was my dad made all that time in the basement workshop, when I was indentured to hold the wood.
*********
There are a million stories from the shelters. Imagine how long we would be spellbound if someone could tell them all. But the telling is exponential. For every storyteller interacting with a "client" at the shelter, another story is born, and in the retelling yet another.
At one point, I wanted to record each day, my impression of the locale, the people, the attitudes of the officials, the volunteers. But what I've decided is that this was like any other shock situation. The reality lies somewhere between the heartbreaking losses and those who would try to beat the system. Most of the people have survived, and are getting on with their lives. It's time I did that, too.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
wake up
The sun sparked behind the palms this morning, dazzling rays breaking between the fronds and lifting lightly above the tree line. The morning settled like a soft quilt over the late summer morning, a little warmer than comfortable, but one I wasn't quite ready to kick off, hook my feet on the outside to cool down a bit, and awaken. The light was gentle and persistent, not an alarm clock, but the gentle voice of a mother shaking me awake. I had been dreaming, waiting for the call, and could only tell myself, it's about damn time.
Wake up.
I've become skeptical about public entries in times of great crisis. A friend has accused me (and all women, so don't worry. No one is picking on me.) Of latching onto national crises and making the issue our own, attempting to show how much we care and turn the focus on ourselves when it rightly belongs on the people directly affected. Nevertheless, I choose to write anyway.
I'll say this right up front though. It isn't about me. So if it appears that I am attempting to divert attention or to latch onto this crisis, please accept my apologies. Consider it a failure in my ability to communicate, and not a female thing, okay?
Let me start by saying, I'm really tired.
I'm tired because I spent the day on the phone, on the net and in the shelter, trying to find what I could do, and then doing it. I have done enough volunteer work in my life to know that the very worst thing is to have volunteers show up and not have work for them. So I spent days writing email, making calls, signing up on online databases to do everything from share the extra space in my house to assist in the preparation of FEMA claims. I watched the news; I sorted clothes from the children's rooms. I pulled out the stash of personal items we always bring home for shelters from hotels. I waited for the phone to ring, watching with anger and disgust as the images from my television showed the desperation in New Orleans, the devastation along the Gulf. I wondered about my brother, in Alabama, but knew he wouldn't call me in any case. But surely, surely in this place I have decided to call home, I could do something. There seemed to be so much.
Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I logged onto the site of the nearest shelter, and saw its call for donations. Flat sheets, hand towels, pillows, light blankets. At last, something tangible I could do.
I drove to Sam's club, determined to get the most for my money. Flashed my membership card and went right to linens. There were packs of six, white, hotel quality sheets, All the twin sheets were gone, all but one set of full size. I took them, and another case of queen sized. I know the cots are small, but reasoned that the people using them could fold them, or use one sheet for top and bottom. I found blankets as well, but the only pillows left in the store were king size, not reasonable for the intended use. No problem, there were several other stores between Sam's and the shelter. I headed on through the store, determined to fill the cart before I went to the shelter. I found hand towels in packs of twelve, soap, diapers. When I checked out I was surprised at the total. It had always been my way to write a check, but I'm glad I did the footwork this time. It gave me a better sense of how far the money I donate goes… or doesn't go, as the case may be.
I had to wait in line at the check out, and what was in the carts of those ahead of me was an epiphany. The carts held cases of water, juice, personal items. Food in large quantities… not just the general Sam's club value packs, but whole carts filled with hot dog buns, breakfast rolls. Fruits. Essentials of the most basic needs, hunger, thirst, shelter, hygiene. And the mood of the shoppers was neither jovial and friendly, nor desperate and frenzied. It was a mood of action. Of doing something for others, without need for recognition or back patting or being told what to do and how to do it. I was proud to be there.
I stopped at the Linen store to complete the bed pallets I'd determined to deliver, and bought pillows and cases from the 'back to the dorm' specials. Finally I had enough the first trip … I could no longer see out the back window.
With the car filled with my "excuse" I drove to the shelter, a modern church building near the Space Center. Pulled up to the donation site, and helped some grandmothers unload the cargo. I wanted to hug them when they asked if the diapers stayed, too. Of course, all of it.
Then I noticed D. D was manning a card table next to the Youth Center of the church, a separate building, and Red Cross notices all around identified it as the shelter. I parked in a guest spot in the lot, and walked over. "I've signed up online, as soon as this was designated as a shelter…"
"Can you stay now?"
"Yes."
I filled out his forms, very basic, stuck a name tag on my shirt and was officially a Disaster Relief Volunteer. He sent me back to the building where I'd dropped off my donation. There dozens of people sorted donations, placing items in Sunday school rooms marked with makeshift signs on the doors: Water, linens, toys, baby items, clothing, school supplies. We brought donations from the curb to the rooms, divided them as noted and people inside the rooms sorted and divided further: new items, gently used, okay, last resort, and trash. As the day went on, more volunteers came to the rooms to pick out the current needs of the evacuees: towels and blankets were the most popular. Like that famous wine and bread, there was always more than was needed.
I asked the people in the distribution rooms about the organization, which was basically each volunteer for themselves. It wasn't hard to figure out what needed to be done, and do it, but I'm an ex junior leaguer, and wondered where the leadership was. A woman from NASA who was helping sort the towels explained that when the Astrodome filled up the night before, they'd sent us a bus at 1 A.M. The shelter that was barely half full at close of business Thursday was beyond capacity by dawn. All efforts had been focused on getting people places to sleep, fed, showered. No one had time to deal with phone banks and volunteer waivers and the nonsense we've created in the world. So today, the organization went by the wayside, and the caring took over.
At about 6 p.m., a fresh set of volunteers arrived and the donations slowed so that there wasn't much point in the people who'd been there most of the day staying. I went back to the registration table to sign out, and D was still there. He'd been there all day. I tried to get him to let me take over for a while, but he wasn’t' ready to go. I bet he's still there.
As I signed out, I got to interact with the people being sheltered, who were moving from the shelter building to the meal center. They were clean, peaceful, and polite. A group of boys played basketball, laughing and being kids. Another group had found a guitar, and the music that their city wins hearts and minds with was starting to come back. One beautiful woman came to me and asked if there was a list of survivors anywhere. She wanted to find her people. I took her to the registration desk for clients, and all they could do was hand her a paper with phone numbers and websites. She thanked me, and went in to dinner. As far as I know, cell phones in Louisiana are still not working. The only computers around were in use by the registration staff and medical personnel. Tomorrow, I will take more.
Dinner was huge quarters of chicken, and what Texans call "all the fixin's." Yet another cadre of volunteers served the meal, and the mood in the dining hall was not the somber tears or anguished moans we've been seeing on network TV. It was the mood of family… conversations, children, laughter, and the clatter of forks and plates.
It was just people.
Some of them no doubt are the poorest of the poor in the city that was their home. Some of them no doubt have better accommodations in our shelter than they had before the storm. Some of them were people who heard an order of evacuation, and left, finding when they arrived that they couldn't live a vacation lifestyle of restaurant dining and hotels for an extended period of time. They are people who wonder if their children will be okay, if the schools that we will shuffle them to will accommodate them, or if they will be further ravaged by the bias of other people like they were with this storm.
An old friend called me this morning, a friend who grew up in Louisiana. She and her family will stay with me off and on over the next few months, as our schools have opened their doors to the "homeless." I'm sorry to say that her attitude is not one I really want in my home: that this may be the best thing that ever happened to Louisiana. She is frustrated, as a resident, with the gangs that run the public schools, the dishonest politicians, the crime, the filth. She wants the country's attention to clean up the mess in more than just the physical consequences. Her house, incidentally, was not damaged. There are many that weren't, despite the dramatic pictures, particularly in the outskirts.
I'll let her stay, because our boys are great friends. I would let her stay even if they weren't.
You see, it isn't just the government. It isn't just the infrastructure.
It’s the people.
But for every one of the people whose minds are closed, whose anger erupts in violence or hate, for every one who wants to blame the president, the Iraqis, or God, there is at least one fellow like D, still there handing out name badges.
New Orleans will heal. The Gulf States will rebuild. The bureaucratic means that we have well into place will eventually work the way it is supposed to work, and life will go on.
Because, someplace, someone brought an old blanket, washed it, folded it and placed it over a shivering child, or held the hand of a weeping man, or gave a voucher for a quiet meal out to a mother who's seen more than anyone should ever have to see.
Yes, I'm really tired. But I've slept in a warm dry bed every night this week. I've eaten more meals than are healthy, and I've engaged in frivolous exercise on a silly machine. I've had wine, talked to friends, laughed at my daughter's who’ve painted their living room jungle green. I've lived the life I expected to live. Tonight, I am glad to only be tired.
The checks you send are being used directly for such things as vouchers for gas, food and hotels for refugees, school supplies, clothing and basic necessities. As you watch, and see the numbers of the dead and missing grow this weekend, please don't let your anger at the administration keep you from focusing on the people who are alive. Please be like the volunteers at the shelter today, and do what needs to be done, because we can all see what needs to be done, without anyone telling us. And don't do it because "next time it could be us." Do it for the people. The survivors. And maybe, just maybe, we might all find our way to a little more humanity.
Wake up.
I've become skeptical about public entries in times of great crisis. A friend has accused me (and all women, so don't worry. No one is picking on me.) Of latching onto national crises and making the issue our own, attempting to show how much we care and turn the focus on ourselves when it rightly belongs on the people directly affected. Nevertheless, I choose to write anyway.
I'll say this right up front though. It isn't about me. So if it appears that I am attempting to divert attention or to latch onto this crisis, please accept my apologies. Consider it a failure in my ability to communicate, and not a female thing, okay?
Let me start by saying, I'm really tired.
I'm tired because I spent the day on the phone, on the net and in the shelter, trying to find what I could do, and then doing it. I have done enough volunteer work in my life to know that the very worst thing is to have volunteers show up and not have work for them. So I spent days writing email, making calls, signing up on online databases to do everything from share the extra space in my house to assist in the preparation of FEMA claims. I watched the news; I sorted clothes from the children's rooms. I pulled out the stash of personal items we always bring home for shelters from hotels. I waited for the phone to ring, watching with anger and disgust as the images from my television showed the desperation in New Orleans, the devastation along the Gulf. I wondered about my brother, in Alabama, but knew he wouldn't call me in any case. But surely, surely in this place I have decided to call home, I could do something. There seemed to be so much.
Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I logged onto the site of the nearest shelter, and saw its call for donations. Flat sheets, hand towels, pillows, light blankets. At last, something tangible I could do.
I drove to Sam's club, determined to get the most for my money. Flashed my membership card and went right to linens. There were packs of six, white, hotel quality sheets, All the twin sheets were gone, all but one set of full size. I took them, and another case of queen sized. I know the cots are small, but reasoned that the people using them could fold them, or use one sheet for top and bottom. I found blankets as well, but the only pillows left in the store were king size, not reasonable for the intended use. No problem, there were several other stores between Sam's and the shelter. I headed on through the store, determined to fill the cart before I went to the shelter. I found hand towels in packs of twelve, soap, diapers. When I checked out I was surprised at the total. It had always been my way to write a check, but I'm glad I did the footwork this time. It gave me a better sense of how far the money I donate goes… or doesn't go, as the case may be.
I had to wait in line at the check out, and what was in the carts of those ahead of me was an epiphany. The carts held cases of water, juice, personal items. Food in large quantities… not just the general Sam's club value packs, but whole carts filled with hot dog buns, breakfast rolls. Fruits. Essentials of the most basic needs, hunger, thirst, shelter, hygiene. And the mood of the shoppers was neither jovial and friendly, nor desperate and frenzied. It was a mood of action. Of doing something for others, without need for recognition or back patting or being told what to do and how to do it. I was proud to be there.
I stopped at the Linen store to complete the bed pallets I'd determined to deliver, and bought pillows and cases from the 'back to the dorm' specials. Finally I had enough the first trip … I could no longer see out the back window.
With the car filled with my "excuse" I drove to the shelter, a modern church building near the Space Center. Pulled up to the donation site, and helped some grandmothers unload the cargo. I wanted to hug them when they asked if the diapers stayed, too. Of course, all of it.
Then I noticed D. D was manning a card table next to the Youth Center of the church, a separate building, and Red Cross notices all around identified it as the shelter. I parked in a guest spot in the lot, and walked over. "I've signed up online, as soon as this was designated as a shelter…"
"Can you stay now?"
"Yes."
I filled out his forms, very basic, stuck a name tag on my shirt and was officially a Disaster Relief Volunteer. He sent me back to the building where I'd dropped off my donation. There dozens of people sorted donations, placing items in Sunday school rooms marked with makeshift signs on the doors: Water, linens, toys, baby items, clothing, school supplies. We brought donations from the curb to the rooms, divided them as noted and people inside the rooms sorted and divided further: new items, gently used, okay, last resort, and trash. As the day went on, more volunteers came to the rooms to pick out the current needs of the evacuees: towels and blankets were the most popular. Like that famous wine and bread, there was always more than was needed.
I asked the people in the distribution rooms about the organization, which was basically each volunteer for themselves. It wasn't hard to figure out what needed to be done, and do it, but I'm an ex junior leaguer, and wondered where the leadership was. A woman from NASA who was helping sort the towels explained that when the Astrodome filled up the night before, they'd sent us a bus at 1 A.M. The shelter that was barely half full at close of business Thursday was beyond capacity by dawn. All efforts had been focused on getting people places to sleep, fed, showered. No one had time to deal with phone banks and volunteer waivers and the nonsense we've created in the world. So today, the organization went by the wayside, and the caring took over.
At about 6 p.m., a fresh set of volunteers arrived and the donations slowed so that there wasn't much point in the people who'd been there most of the day staying. I went back to the registration table to sign out, and D was still there. He'd been there all day. I tried to get him to let me take over for a while, but he wasn’t' ready to go. I bet he's still there.
As I signed out, I got to interact with the people being sheltered, who were moving from the shelter building to the meal center. They were clean, peaceful, and polite. A group of boys played basketball, laughing and being kids. Another group had found a guitar, and the music that their city wins hearts and minds with was starting to come back. One beautiful woman came to me and asked if there was a list of survivors anywhere. She wanted to find her people. I took her to the registration desk for clients, and all they could do was hand her a paper with phone numbers and websites. She thanked me, and went in to dinner. As far as I know, cell phones in Louisiana are still not working. The only computers around were in use by the registration staff and medical personnel. Tomorrow, I will take more.
Dinner was huge quarters of chicken, and what Texans call "all the fixin's." Yet another cadre of volunteers served the meal, and the mood in the dining hall was not the somber tears or anguished moans we've been seeing on network TV. It was the mood of family… conversations, children, laughter, and the clatter of forks and plates.
It was just people.
Some of them no doubt are the poorest of the poor in the city that was their home. Some of them no doubt have better accommodations in our shelter than they had before the storm. Some of them were people who heard an order of evacuation, and left, finding when they arrived that they couldn't live a vacation lifestyle of restaurant dining and hotels for an extended period of time. They are people who wonder if their children will be okay, if the schools that we will shuffle them to will accommodate them, or if they will be further ravaged by the bias of other people like they were with this storm.
An old friend called me this morning, a friend who grew up in Louisiana. She and her family will stay with me off and on over the next few months, as our schools have opened their doors to the "homeless." I'm sorry to say that her attitude is not one I really want in my home: that this may be the best thing that ever happened to Louisiana. She is frustrated, as a resident, with the gangs that run the public schools, the dishonest politicians, the crime, the filth. She wants the country's attention to clean up the mess in more than just the physical consequences. Her house, incidentally, was not damaged. There are many that weren't, despite the dramatic pictures, particularly in the outskirts.
I'll let her stay, because our boys are great friends. I would let her stay even if they weren't.
You see, it isn't just the government. It isn't just the infrastructure.
It’s the people.
But for every one of the people whose minds are closed, whose anger erupts in violence or hate, for every one who wants to blame the president, the Iraqis, or God, there is at least one fellow like D, still there handing out name badges.
New Orleans will heal. The Gulf States will rebuild. The bureaucratic means that we have well into place will eventually work the way it is supposed to work, and life will go on.
Because, someplace, someone brought an old blanket, washed it, folded it and placed it over a shivering child, or held the hand of a weeping man, or gave a voucher for a quiet meal out to a mother who's seen more than anyone should ever have to see.
Yes, I'm really tired. But I've slept in a warm dry bed every night this week. I've eaten more meals than are healthy, and I've engaged in frivolous exercise on a silly machine. I've had wine, talked to friends, laughed at my daughter's who’ve painted their living room jungle green. I've lived the life I expected to live. Tonight, I am glad to only be tired.
The checks you send are being used directly for such things as vouchers for gas, food and hotels for refugees, school supplies, clothing and basic necessities. As you watch, and see the numbers of the dead and missing grow this weekend, please don't let your anger at the administration keep you from focusing on the people who are alive. Please be like the volunteers at the shelter today, and do what needs to be done, because we can all see what needs to be done, without anyone telling us. And don't do it because "next time it could be us." Do it for the people. The survivors. And maybe, just maybe, we might all find our way to a little more humanity.
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