I found this image in my files. I was driving through Mobile, Alabama, and saw the railroad had been repaired with fresh gravel lining the fixed rails. Hurricane Katrina had done its damage along much of the railroad system that followed the gulf coast, washing out and twisting the rails like licorice sticks.
I liked the perspective of the rails heading towards downtown, and decided to wait until the train had passed when I noticed what the open cargo cars were carrying. They were hauling tons of cement slabs, broken up remains of the many foundations destroyed by the hurricane. I skipped waiting and grabbed as many shots as possible as the train passed, and I love the results of the cement in the trains echoing the light colored fresh gravel between the rails.
Nothing remained of the bright red Wendy’s sign on metal posts high above the building, but the Wendy’s brand marketing of uniform architecture was a tell tale sign that this was indeed a Wendy’s. With all the hard work Wendy’s owner, Dave Thomas, did on behave of adoption, himself being an adopted child, and his work with children, I’m sure that he would be proud of his Wendy’s employees who jumped to work to get the restaurants back up and running fast, even in spite of the devastation to their community. Having met him briefly many years ago, I also know that he would have been right there leading the pack with support, donations, and help for Katrina victims. So I felt I honored his life somewhat by having lunch with him, at least in spirit.
As I near the highway, I see a mountain of white through the trees. Thinking it was a water park with big white painted slides, I wondered what kind of damage would such a recreational site suffer. After all, the higher the slide, the more fun and terriffying the path down through the water. Water parks dot the Gulf Coast all the way to Florida, offering children and adults a day of fun in the sun and water with a bit of the circus thrown in.
Leaving Mobile, Alabama, a town still struggling to pick up the pieces, I drove on Highway 90 towards New Orleans. I’d been told by several of the insurance agents, roofers, and construction workers that the highway was open all the way along the Gulf Coast from Alabama, through Mississippi, to Louisiana and New Orleans.
Whole subdivision neighborhoods were dressed in blue tarp covered roofs. The blue tarp manufacturing business is making a killing this year. Some roofs were only partially covered, a patch or two of blue. Others were fully draped, long 1×2 boards nailed down like vertical railings along the roof to hold down the plastic tarp.
As I moved on towards the beach between Pascagoula and Gautier to find more signs of destruction, I spotted vacant gas stations and grocery stores covered with cardboard boxes and clothing scattered across the parking lots. At first I thought this was left over debris from the storm, but then I saw huge handwritten signs requesting “No Dumping of Clothing” and “No More Clothes! Stop!” I could only assume that these were from boxes of donated clothes brought in by rescue services for those with nothing left and after two months of being picked through, this is what remains. A big mess. It looked worse than the annual sell everything sale at Nordstrom’s Outlets. 
Years ago, a co-worker of Brent’s awoke in the night to a terrible cackling sound. He got up to find the lights turning on and off and on and off. The cackling happened between the lights going on and off. Puzzled, but suspiciously aware of the source of the sound, he stepped outside of his bedroom into the stairway landing which was built around the huge cage in which his giant parrot normally slept through the night. They’d finished remodeling the house not long before.
He held up the mold test petri dish and sure enough, two patches of white mold and a big spread of black yuck had formed in the clear plastic dish. 
And we got up early the next morning and spent all day cleaning out the cupboards.”
Like millions of people all over the Gulf Coast of the United States, depression is bounding on the walls of our lives.
Blue, brown, black, and silver tarps cover homes on every block. You can’t turn in a circle without seeing quilted roofs everywhere. Signs are blown out, over, or down. Cars and trucks that met with trees coming at them instead of them coming at trees, sit by the road or in people’s yards, their fragile skulls crushed and eyes cracked or shattered.
The pile of tree debris that was once as high as a motor home along the road, obstacles to clear traffic views to the right and the left, has dried out with the overwhelming heat and drought that hit the area after Hurricane Katrina. As the single story high debris piles dried, they sank down, so at least the view up and down the street from my tall truck is a little easier. But each of these dried out piles of trees, branches, scrubs, roof materials, mattresses, furniture, toys, and appliances is a tinder pile waiting for a carelessly tossed cigarette to ignite it and go up into flames.
They continue to come back with stories that are worse than the pictures you see on television. Homes totally destroyed, wiped right off their foundation, not a stick in sight. Others find homes crushed into pickup sticks. Still more find homes and businesses that either fell off their stilts or were pushed right off their foundation to sit atop their neighbor’s home or the nearby street. Huge trucks wrapped around trees, shoved against them with the storm surge and floods. Dead animals, deer, boars, dogs, cats, sheep, cattle, and even the occasional alligator, are found lying alongside the roads and in backyards and places where you don’t expect to see such animals.
I have been spending early hours at the campground office, helping people get their bill paid, fix their RV, figure out how to dump their sewer tanks, hook up cable, adjust their satellite dishes, figure out their laundry, get their computers connected via modem or WIFI, and listen to their stories. During the day, I’d check in with various residents in the campground, especially Lester and his father, 
We’ve been back in Mobile, Alabama, for less than three days and I’m still struggling to find words. The stupid thing is that the damage here is totally insignificant. Yet, it isn’t the damage to the surrounding area and homes and lives that ties my fingers up in knots. It’s the look on the face and body language of the campers here who leave predawn every morning and head out into Mississippi that strangles my creative expression.
Campers, motor homes, trailers, and pop-ups are crammed in back to back in what are normally huge pull through spots. RVs are tucked in between and around mobile homes, wherever they can comfortably fit, and some uncomfortably. They have had to turn away many because there just is no more room left. So they work overtime to get these broken lots fixed up to accommodate all who need a place to call home for a while.
In my family, when we drive by a cemetery, it’s traditional for someone to ask “How many dead people are buried there?” The appropriate answer is “All of them.” I have started doing the night shift for Charlie and Diane, allowing them to finally get some dinner and decent sleep. Talking to a group of bankers, they asked me how many insurance adjusters and FEMA representatives were here. I said, “All of them.”
The newbies arrive with energy to spare, eager to get out there, their eyes clear and bright and their backs straight. Most of them have never lived in a trailer or RV and they are totally clueless about these FEMA or company supplied RVs. They grin and say they are fast learners and we help figure out all the details and differences. Living in an RV might be like taking your home on the road, but it is a totally different way of life and the smallest things you take for granted are different. Still, they laugh at their clumsiness and eagerly await their first assignments, which may happen immediately or within the next few days – as they wait, watch TV, wonder, and anticipate.
Other old timers know what to expect, and they expect to be in the thick of things. They are traveling in the battered and old trailers and campers. Generators, blocks of red plastic gas cans, propane tanks, and huge water cans are strapped and locked onto their RVs with chains, bike cables, and huge locks. They know that their arrival in a disaster area will be an invitation to anyone who thinks you have something worth taking. Many don’t wait for the giving to arrive.
“I’ve been watching it on television for over a week. Not even close. Not even close.”
Every night the men and women come back with stories. All day long, people are talking to them, telling them of their woes and suffering, asking for help, demanding money, pleading for things to be fixed immediately, and even threatening them. They hold hands and give hugs or just stand there when people break down, crying and sobbing, relieved to tell their story. When they come back to the campground, they want to do the talking. They want someone to listen to THEM for a change. Or they just don’t want to hear any voices. No talking. No chatting. No story telling. Just quiet and the numbness of whatever is on television.
As sad as it is, the reality on the ground is that the most accessible areas get the help first. As Mississippi is healed from the outer edges of its wound towards the middle, the campers here will slowly move closer in. The campground won’t be empty, though. Contractors will begin to use this as a staging areas, helping to direct the flow of repair crews, construction, and rebuilders towards the area. Over time, they will thin out and be replaced by people who have decided that they want to be “close” to home, even if they can’t get to home. 