A Katrina Scrapbook

By: Jed Duvall

Rappahannock resident Jed Duvall, an occasional contributor to these pages, spent ten days in New Orleans at the end of September as a guest of his friend Steve Steinberg, who lives in the city and survived Katrina and the subsequent flooding. This is Jed’s scrapbook of New Orleans scenes.
The people who live there call it the “misery tour”. They fled the hurricane, and lived in exile because their homes were flooded after Katrina passed. Some returned in a few months, some just a few weeks ago. Now, as they drive a visitor through the miles and miles of wreckage and misery, they can point out the few who are back, and the empty homes of many who may never return.

One of thousands

In the hard hit Ninth Ward, home to African-Americans for the most part, sits a maroon house that appears untended since the flood. This dwelling could be the emblem for residential neighborhoods submerged when levees gave way. It appears untouched, weeds growing tall, occupants living elsewhere. The city has threatened to seize homes that have not been gutted of rotted and mildewed walls and flooring, but has not acted. This is the picture of thousands of homes: occupants gone, no the small building sitting empty. The stories of funding, of insurance money, of government assistance, personal financing, are different for each house with the same bottom line for all: no one is doing anything to fix the place.

The sad signals

Around the corner, on North Robertson Street, a two-family home still bears the spray-painted signals of the first rescuers to float here in small boats. Whatever they found, or did not find, these authorities left behind, usually on the front of the house, jottings about pets, condition of the house, and people. A zero at the bottom indicates no human dead bodies found here.

After a year, some of these codes are no longer understood, because there were more than a score of rescue organizations, from nearby states and from various federal agencies.

“Habitat” results

Habitat for Humanity is building 70 new homes in that stricken Ninth Ward. Nearly half are close to being finished. They are in a long row on Alvar Street. Each home is a three-bedroom, one-bath bungalow. The new owners-who made their own choices about colors — take on an interest-free mortgage of $70,000.

Mr. Swanson’s feelings

Around the corner from the Habitat line of homes, Mr. Henry Swanson, a retired hospital worker, has put up signs offering his opinions to passersby. There isn’t much of an audience; except for Habitat volunteers and the National Guard patrols, the Ninth Ward has little traffic. Miles of block after block are mostly empty. No dogs, no neighbors, no regular mail delivery, no rhythm of life. By recent count, Orleans Parish alone has 80,000 empty homes.

Corps complaint

Others, too, have vented their feelings with large signs, easy to see from a distance. This one, on West End Boulevard, by abbreviating the query “where are you?”, complains about the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers. It is difficult for people in New Orleans to speak about the Corps, or FEMA, without expressing disappointment, anger or bitterness.

The “King” is gone

The Lakeview community-predominantly white–was populated with homes selling for $400,000 and up. That was before the flood. Many homes were simply washed away when the nearby levee broke. Others stand, untouched since the calamity. In one, the front door has been painted with a phrase reminding all who pass by that the “king” isn’t here any more.

As an example of where things stand, a house in Lakeview that has been gutted, is dried out and ready for new interior walls, new flooring and some landscaping could be purchased for about half its pre-flood value - around $250,000 or less. As in the far less prosperous Ninth Ward, many homes in Lakeview are empty, untouched for more than a year.

Spirits unconquered

It isn’t everyone in a damaged home who takes the trouble to create an effigy to complain about FEMA or the government in general, or looters - but these folks did.

“We’re here!”

At the corner of Filmore and Catina, the street sign looks unusual. The flood that wrecked so many homes also swept away many street signs; numerous intersections remain unmarked even now. So, those who live near Filmore Avenue and Catina street simply made their own sign. If the reader will permit, we will let this homemade street sign represent New Orleans a year after the deluge. The colors are more interesting than those of just about any town; the spirit that set an anonymous citizen to work with saws and screws and paint brushes still glimmers across the diminished city; as if to announce: “we’re still here”.

The food is still great in the French Quarter, and other parts unaffected by the high water. The streetcars are still running (please do not call them trolleys). Cafe Degas is still jammed of a Sunday on the Esplanade. The ferry across the river at the foot of Canal Street is still a free ride and runs regularly. Bourbon Street’s cheap tourist-trap bars are still lighted and noisy - but there are few customers.

Anyone is welcome to work for Habitat or any number of agencies that are helping people get back into their homes. Many Americans from all regions of the country show up at these sites, having paid for their own air tickets, hotel rooms, (a super-bargain these days) and rental cars. If you go you will find good food, very friendly people, higher-than-usual crime in some areas, and lots of talk about the hurricane and the flood, about survival and contractors and rebuilding and families here and there. You will hear a lot of talk about the professional football team, the Saints. What you won’t hear is New Orleans being called “The Big Easy”. Not anymore.

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