Five Years and Counting
By
Debbie Lindsey
When once asked if I would ever parachute from a plane or climb a mountain I replied with a “Hell no! Hurricane season provides me with more than enough thrills and chills”. I sounded sensible and cautious. But what I meant was that I looked forward to our annual convergence of storms. I too was a thrill seeker—but one that passively waited to be sweep into adrenaline overload. That was until August of 2005 when all my previous experiences with hurricanes amounted to no more than a kid’s bumper car ride – Katrina was a plane ride that dumped me out without a parachute. The thrill was gone.
I thought we would die that day. Yet her roar was worse than the bite she gave us. And after she passed we thought all any of us had were a few scratches and nips. But she had enlisted an engineering sham and an indifferent government and rode roughshod over depleted and fragile wetlands. The disaster just continued to grow even after she was long gone. For six days, despite being on high ground, I thought we were screwed. But we made it out just fine, frightened and only a little worse for wear. Many, too many were not so lucky.
I have often written in this column about ‘The Event’. I talk about it constantly, stare transfixed at the many remaining water lines, view documentaries again and again. I am a veteran of this ‘Thing’. Yet, I have come to discover more and more the gifts that I have received from it. I can NOT put gratitude into the heart of someone who lost loved ones in those waters or on a bridge trying to find safety only to be shot by men who dishonored their vow to serve and protect. My water line was two inches high from the sidewalk; my friend’s was two inches from her ceiling. Try and tell her that there is a silver lining. Ask the folks from Buras, Lakeview, the Lower Nine, or Bay St. Louis if the glass is half full or half empty—they’ll tell ya it doesn’t matter, the crap is toxic anyway. And sometimes lemons just don’t make lemon-aid.
But if you are one of the just slightly dampened ones, if you didn’t have to bury someone or gut your home and your heart, then…you and I have the luxury of finding some good among the ruins. Make no mistake, dry or wet, rich or poor we all suffered deep and lasting wounds, never again a stranger to depression and the resulting prescription bottles. We all live among the ghosts. Yet, if you listen, the ghosts tell stories of a world nearly lost and in need of respect. I found that I was given a second chance to pay those respects to my city and her people.
A couple of months ago when asked by my editor to write about the positive encountered since Katrina I was full of feel-good things to say. Jazz Fest was approaching; the after glow of the Saints victory was still evident; Treme, our city’s new ambassador, had just premiered on HBO; and our new and potentially good mayor was here--everything was smelling like Jasmine. It was spring 2010 and it was looking like that light at the end of the tunnel was getting brighter. That glass half full was starting to look kinda tasty and it seemed time to fill her up again. But then the glass cracked.
It is early summer as I write and submit to a June 10th deadline for this issue. An oil storm is upon us and hurricane season has officially begun with some serious implications. I do not know how this will read in August. So with ‘not knowing’ as my guide I will precede with the positives I gained from Katrina as I may need them again and again as I continue to enjoy the privilege of living in this uncertain place.
The storm brought to bear the sheer ugliness of some folks and the callousness of governments. A disaster will damn sure excavate the evil as well as the good in people. Yet I came to appreciate that there are more decent people than not, ironically it took so much human failure, ineptness and greed to come to this conclusion.
I was a bit jaded because for the most part, I had only tourists to inform my worldview of human nature until Katrina. I allowed the Bourbon Street driven Spring Breakers to represent all students and twenty-somethings. And my only exposure to card carrying “Christians” were those who spewed hate and bigotry during Mardi Gras and Gay events. I often allowed the extremes, the caricature of tourists to delineate all our visitors.
But the sheer magnitude of volunteers that began immediately to come (and keep on coming to this day) and to help us is something to behold. I’ve seen thousands and met hundreds of those folks who consistently respond to my thank you with “It was our pleasure”. I witnessed faith-based groups putting their Christianity into practice givin’ hell to mold-infested houses. Met a couple on their honeymoon who came to help rebuild; but, it’s the young people and students swapping beach vacations for menial labor assignments in some truly godforsaken places that got to me. These guys had our back. They taught me that the hope and idealism I feared was long gone is alive and well. And let’s not forget the post storm visitors who came to spend and support our butchered economy.
And now it all begins again. A different storm. This one even more insidious, one that we ourselves contributed to—there is blood, oil on all our hands. Will we learn from this? One can only hope.
To those who championed our city I hope that you have the reserves to continue because god knows we will need more heroes in the coming months, months that will stretch into years, perhaps decades, as we deal with this latest assault. All I can say is that it took me twenty years and the near decimation of a city, an entire region, rich in culture, quirks and verve to know what’s worth fighting for. Let us ready ourselves—it’s gonna be a long haul.
Comments: debbie@whereyat.com
Want more? talesofthequarter.blogspot.com
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Mobile Summers
June Bug
By
Debbie Lindsey
June, n. [L. Junius, perhaps from Junius Brutus; same root as junior, L.
juvenis, a youth; E. young.] The sixth month of the year, containing 30 days.
Perhaps I am able to romanticize June, and the summertime it heralds, because today as I sit here typing it is still spring and the warmth is perfect. I know I will curse and whine come July and worship before the alter of my air conditioner praying that the decades old window unit will continue to wheeze some semblance of cool air. I will threaten to check into a hotel just to sleep through one sweat-free night. Plants will require a staggering amount of water. Mosquitoes and fleas will proliferate. And my vacuum cleaner will cower as tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair shed throughout the house. But June, June has promise.
Spring, of course, is when it all begins—the rebirth, nature waking up from the doldrums of winter. And June gets caught up in that fresh growth spurt before the relentless heat starts to override some of the euphoria. But as a kid did we even notice the heat? Searching my summertime memories I don’t recall the heat being a deal breaker. All us kids just couldn’t get enough of being outdoors. The world was our oyster and we didn’t give a flip about how warm the waters were.
Not being anything close to studious, the only great thing about school was how appreciative it made me of summer vacation. I didn’t take summer lightly, I had priorities: three months of bare feet; dodging Mom and becoming one with my inner Tarzan (Mom didn’t take kindly to me climbing forty feet into treetops or swinging from rotting vines across ravines); and, of course, swimming.
My hero was Tarzan—the real one, Johnny Weissmuller. I could never differentiate between actor and character. Weissmuller was Tarzan. And all school year, while other kids focused upon the chalkboard, I watched the black and white clock above it. I would time myself against its second hand and practice holding my breath. My goal was two minutes, as that seemed to be about the time it took Tarzan to wrestle an alligator under water. My brain cells fought to survive this exercise and so one minute was all I could muster. This was all practice for my personal summer Olympics.
When I was eight my summers really picked up. That was when I began to realize my full potential as a tomboy. It was also the summer my family moved to the new frontier—the suburbs, and ours was the best kind, a not fully developed neighborhood where unspoiled land still outweighed manicured lawns and track homes. And like most kids I saw adventure in those woods rather than future real estate. I hated every “sold” sign that claimed a piece of our stomping ground. Yet we had to wonder what a new family might bring to the mix. We were a pragmatic lot, my new friends and I, we knew each new home would bring more kids, bikes, basket ball hoops and parents to mooch snacks from. And wonderful as nature might be, a swimming pool trumped a wooded acre everytime.
The Gales, our neighbors down the street, had a swimming pool. Of course I adopted them. It was high time that I learned to swim and I had a new swimsuit so the Gales became my extended family (I’m not sure if they viewed this arrangement as a win/win). From the moment school let out until well into September I swam. My addiction to swimming pools with their intoxicating scent of chlorine, the gentle humming of a filtration system, and the mesmerizing blue of their depths did not begin in the Gales backyard but it grew there.
The Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama, had the largest pool in the South. And our family was lucky enough to snag a pool membership there off and on through the years. Day trips to this hotel pool are among my most treasured memories. But nothing could beat a pool within striking distance of my front door, full of neighborhood kids splashing, laughing and playing endless games of Marco Polo. We stayed in that pool until our skin puckered, sneaking pees in the water so as not to waste a moment drying off to run inside (“You kids better not get my new shag carpet wet”). And there ya had it: you just weren’t allowed to pee in the Grand Hotel pool.
Like I said before, I have no recollection of oppressive heat marring my summers. Of course I had no idea what a “heat index” was and that I should be feeling much hotter than the thermostat outside the backdoor stated. And really, did I care? I had trees to climb, forts to build, chlorine to ingest and just a world of trouble to get into.
I never really stopped being a tomboy, but the summer of ’67 I promised myself would be my last summer to beat up boys. This was a sport I loved. I was approaching the eighth grade and I’d finally figured out how to snap my bra rather than having to fasten it beforehand and wiggle it over my head and shoulders. So I knew it was time to live up to the standards of womanhood and simmer down a notch.
Summers began to change after that. I don’t remember feeling sad when I began to switch from being lacquered in grimy sweat and skinned-up knees tattooed with those extra large Band-Aids into a deodorized, Coppertoned, and shaved legs teenager. My abandoned bicycle rusted away somewhere in back of the tool shed. And I guess Mom happily tossed out my baseball cap and red clay stained cut-offs. My swimsuits began to change to accommodate fashion (and some semblance of breasts). And the urge to beat up boys began to lessen.
Yes my summers changed and if memory serves in any small way to reveal what was real and true then I must say I left the better part of myself behind as adulthood began to reach out to me. And only years later did I find my place upon a bicycle again laughing at how easy it still was to remove my hands and coast, steering only with sways. Swimming never left me and sometimes during my laps I stop and dive under and see how long I can hold my breath and wait for the alligator.
Comments: Debbie@whereyat.com and Talesofthequarter.blogspot.com
By
Debbie Lindsey
June, n. [L. Junius, perhaps from Junius Brutus; same root as junior, L.
juvenis, a youth; E. young.] The sixth month of the year, containing 30 days.
Perhaps I am able to romanticize June, and the summertime it heralds, because today as I sit here typing it is still spring and the warmth is perfect. I know I will curse and whine come July and worship before the alter of my air conditioner praying that the decades old window unit will continue to wheeze some semblance of cool air. I will threaten to check into a hotel just to sleep through one sweat-free night. Plants will require a staggering amount of water. Mosquitoes and fleas will proliferate. And my vacuum cleaner will cower as tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair shed throughout the house. But June, June has promise.
Spring, of course, is when it all begins—the rebirth, nature waking up from the doldrums of winter. And June gets caught up in that fresh growth spurt before the relentless heat starts to override some of the euphoria. But as a kid did we even notice the heat? Searching my summertime memories I don’t recall the heat being a deal breaker. All us kids just couldn’t get enough of being outdoors. The world was our oyster and we didn’t give a flip about how warm the waters were.
Not being anything close to studious, the only great thing about school was how appreciative it made me of summer vacation. I didn’t take summer lightly, I had priorities: three months of bare feet; dodging Mom and becoming one with my inner Tarzan (Mom didn’t take kindly to me climbing forty feet into treetops or swinging from rotting vines across ravines); and, of course, swimming.
My hero was Tarzan—the real one, Johnny Weissmuller. I could never differentiate between actor and character. Weissmuller was Tarzan. And all school year, while other kids focused upon the chalkboard, I watched the black and white clock above it. I would time myself against its second hand and practice holding my breath. My goal was two minutes, as that seemed to be about the time it took Tarzan to wrestle an alligator under water. My brain cells fought to survive this exercise and so one minute was all I could muster. This was all practice for my personal summer Olympics.
When I was eight my summers really picked up. That was when I began to realize my full potential as a tomboy. It was also the summer my family moved to the new frontier—the suburbs, and ours was the best kind, a not fully developed neighborhood where unspoiled land still outweighed manicured lawns and track homes. And like most kids I saw adventure in those woods rather than future real estate. I hated every “sold” sign that claimed a piece of our stomping ground. Yet we had to wonder what a new family might bring to the mix. We were a pragmatic lot, my new friends and I, we knew each new home would bring more kids, bikes, basket ball hoops and parents to mooch snacks from. And wonderful as nature might be, a swimming pool trumped a wooded acre everytime.
The Gales, our neighbors down the street, had a swimming pool. Of course I adopted them. It was high time that I learned to swim and I had a new swimsuit so the Gales became my extended family (I’m not sure if they viewed this arrangement as a win/win). From the moment school let out until well into September I swam. My addiction to swimming pools with their intoxicating scent of chlorine, the gentle humming of a filtration system, and the mesmerizing blue of their depths did not begin in the Gales backyard but it grew there.
The Grand Hotel at Point Clear, Alabama, had the largest pool in the South. And our family was lucky enough to snag a pool membership there off and on through the years. Day trips to this hotel pool are among my most treasured memories. But nothing could beat a pool within striking distance of my front door, full of neighborhood kids splashing, laughing and playing endless games of Marco Polo. We stayed in that pool until our skin puckered, sneaking pees in the water so as not to waste a moment drying off to run inside (“You kids better not get my new shag carpet wet”). And there ya had it: you just weren’t allowed to pee in the Grand Hotel pool.
Like I said before, I have no recollection of oppressive heat marring my summers. Of course I had no idea what a “heat index” was and that I should be feeling much hotter than the thermostat outside the backdoor stated. And really, did I care? I had trees to climb, forts to build, chlorine to ingest and just a world of trouble to get into.
I never really stopped being a tomboy, but the summer of ’67 I promised myself would be my last summer to beat up boys. This was a sport I loved. I was approaching the eighth grade and I’d finally figured out how to snap my bra rather than having to fasten it beforehand and wiggle it over my head and shoulders. So I knew it was time to live up to the standards of womanhood and simmer down a notch.
Summers began to change after that. I don’t remember feeling sad when I began to switch from being lacquered in grimy sweat and skinned-up knees tattooed with those extra large Band-Aids into a deodorized, Coppertoned, and shaved legs teenager. My abandoned bicycle rusted away somewhere in back of the tool shed. And I guess Mom happily tossed out my baseball cap and red clay stained cut-offs. My swimsuits began to change to accommodate fashion (and some semblance of breasts). And the urge to beat up boys began to lessen.
Yes my summers changed and if memory serves in any small way to reveal what was real and true then I must say I left the better part of myself behind as adulthood began to reach out to me. And only years later did I find my place upon a bicycle again laughing at how easy it still was to remove my hands and coast, steering only with sways. Swimming never left me and sometimes during my laps I stop and dive under and see how long I can hold my breath and wait for the alligator.
Comments: Debbie@whereyat.com and Talesofthequarter.blogspot.com
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