Dispatches from Home – Hurricane Katrina. Twenty Years Ago. A Remembrance.

It was hot–very hot–on Saturday, August 27, 2005! While sitting in a wicker rocker, sipping iced coffee and enjoying the cool of my balcony, I observed over two thousand people running along Gulfport’s picturesque 2nd Street. Along the way, homeowners had set up cooling stations comprised of frozen bottles of water and garden hoses spraying a fine mist of cool water. People ran. People walked. They laughed. They perspired. Everyone was out to have a good time for a good cause — The American Heart Association.

As I sat admiring the runner’s determination, a dear friend from church, Fred Signs, dropped by and asked me to babysit his three-year-old son while he continued the run. I agreed. As little Weston and I built castles out of empty Cheerio boxes, the hot morning passed. Once his father had completed his run, he returned, out of breath and sporting a man-sized thirst. He guzzled down an icy glass of water and then asked a question, a question that would change my life forever. “What are you going to do for the storm. Leave? Or stay?” And then came my never-to-be-forgotten remark, “What storm?”

Like many lifelong Coastal residents, Katrina took me by surprise. The 2005 hurricane season was the most active in recorded history, with a record twenty-eight tropical and subtropical storms. Eight strengthened into major hurricanes. Four became Category 4 hurricanes, and a record four reached Category 5 strength! All that summer, Coastal residents had watched storms form and gain strength, only to dissipate or journey elsewhere. We were spared time and time again. Perhaps many Coastal residents felt we would be spared since we’d experienced the horrors and destruction of another iconic storm–Camille. We were wrong.

Once my friends left, I rushed to the television and turned to WLOX. The weather report was indeed bad. Mike Reader, chief meteorologist at the time, was warning of the impending storm. At that point, I lunged into “hurricane mode.” Having lived through Camille and other hurricanes, I knew what had to be done. I filled the bathtubs with water and covered my antique furniture in thick carpenter’s plastic, taping everything down with masking tape. Down came the paintings from the walls, and under the dining table they went. They were kept company by my china, crystal, and silver. The dining room chandelier was swathed in heavy canvas. I taped my windows. We old-timers did so, even after this “ protection” had been debunked. All through the night, I got things in order.

The next day, Sunday, August 28th, I decided what I needed to take with me to my mother’s house, where she and I would ride out the storm. My computer, some clothes, toiletries, important papers, and my Bible were the few things that I took. In my haste, I forgot to pack my daily devotional book, Open Windows. It was safe, though, under the plastic that covered the breakfast room dining table. I looked around my cozy, old apartment, remembering the happy times with friends and family that had taken place there. My antique wall clock chimed 12:30 pm. I locked the front door and said, “Lord, it’s in your hands. If it survives, so be it. If not…well…it’s only stuff.”

Riding east along Beach Boulevard towards Mom’s house, I could not help but notice two things: the gorgeous old homes and the rising water. Yikes, I thought! The water’s already lapping at the seawall. I remember thinking how lovely the old homes looked, like old friends that I’d known all my life. I remember the moss swaying fitfully in the majestic old oaks, their lush green leaves like a leafy green crown. Little did I know what was in store for them and my family.

When I arrived at Mom’s house, she was also in “hurricane mode,” as I knew she would be. We had weathered Camille in the hallway of our same house. It was not near water and was not damaged in that storm. I kissed mom, told her that we were in for a really big blow and that we’d best batten down the hatches. She laughed and said, “I watched All About Eve the other night…” To which I responded, “Yes, Bette, it’s gonna be a bumpy night.” Little did we know just how bumpy that night and the following day would be.

My family never evacuated for storms; Katrina was no exception. We’d learned after Camille that once a storm passes, getting back to the Coast can be a major problem. We would stay for this one, even though my dear father had passed away. Sitting in front of our television, Mom and I heard the ominous, updated weather report. As the day wore on, the azure-blue sky dissolved into a smear of trembling, grey-black clouds. The moaning wind danced a slow samba. And then the rain began, a syrupy drizzle at first. But later in the evening, it sounded like rocks hitting the roof.

One of Mike Reader’s last reports, received before the power went off, informed us that Katrina would make landfall sometime on the morning of Monday, August 29th. “Folks, she’s gonna be with us for about eight or nine hours! She’s gonna bring with her wind gusts of 130mph, and a wall of water twenty-five to thirty feet high in places! And she’s gonna leave a whole lot of destruction!” Mom looked at me. I looked at her. We prayed that God would protect us during the dark night and the frightening uncertainty of the following day.

For those of you who have never experienced a hurricane, it isn’t easy to describe in words what living through one is like. Words like horrific, terrifying, and awe-inspiring come to mind, but still fall short. Around 10:00 AM, at the height of the storm, I thought I’d made a mistake by not evacuating. It was then that my dear mother asked, “Anthony, what’s another Seven-letter word for dictionary?” I looked at her in amazement as she calmly worked a crossword puzzle in the boiling, gray light of that horrifying day. I muttered an answer, and it was at that point that my worries and cares vanished. Mom was not worried, so why should I be?

Late that afternoon, I ventured out. The steamy heat smothered everything it touched. I waved to neighbors. We were thankful we’d experienced no significant damage. Roof shingles covered people’s yards, along with downed tree limbs and debris blown in by the storm. But we’d survived! Then the radio reports began: The Coast had experienced cataclysmic destruction; many lives had been lost; many people were missing.

I knew I had to get back to my apartment as soon as possible. Any damage would have to be repaired as best as possible. And there might be looters; parasitic bottom feeders who took it upon their selves to descend on destroyed homes like the vicious Harpies of Greek mythology. My homeward odyssey began on Tuesday, once the sky was aflame with light. What would usually have been a ten-minute drive along Beach Boulevard turned into a three-hour journey. It was hampered by debris-laden back streets, downed power lines, and distraught drivers. Dazed people walked those back streets trying to find their homes or what was left of them. Tears welled up in my eyes; so much destruction, so much chaos, so many sad people. What would I find when I got home?

Sections of Gulfport’s West Railroad Street had been partially cleared, as I slowly inched my way along it. I could see parts of 2nd Street south of the railroad tracks, but where were the quaint homes that had once dotted the quintessential old street? At the 18th Street railroad crossing, I parked my car, fearing a punctured tire. Seeing the apocalyptic destruction that surrounded me, I could not imagine what I might find at home.

As I neared my apartment, great oaks obscured my line of sight. Their once leafy-green crowns were now nothing more than dull-brown halos. Walking atop piles of debris–the ruined and tattered treasures of people’s lives–I suddenly fell. The piercing morning sunlight had blinded me. As I stood, brushing filth and blood off my knees, my eyes readjusted to the bright light. It was then I saw it, my apartment! The roof was gone, but the house had survived.

I carefully ran to it. I dashed up the stairs that had miraculously survived. I thrust the key into the lock, turned it, and the door creaked open. I was home! But I was not alone. The smell of mold immediately attacked my senses. I knew I had work to do if I was to salvage my clothes and possessions. As my antique wall clock chimed the hour, I hurriedly checked everything. And everything was just as I had left it. Even though the tin roof was gone, the thick, one-hundred-year-old ceiling plaster had acted like a sponge, soaking up the storm’s torrential rain.

As I walked into the breakfast room, I saw my Open Windows devotion book under the carpenter’s plastic. Wonder what the August 29th devotion was, I thought? Picking up the book, I then spied the passage from the Book of Matthew. “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.” How apropos was that! I thought about the many “treasures” that had been washed into the Gulf. I thought of the rust that would soon destroy. I knew thieves would start stealing. But I also knew Father God was still on His heavenly throne, and I remembered the words in Psalms: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” And many mornings later, it did.

In the days and weeks that followed, and the enormity of what had happened during Katrina’s lengthy visit sank in, I remembered those verses as I surveyed street after street of total destruction. But during that time, I witnessed something that transcended all the ruin and rot that surrounded me: man’s ability to rise above adversity and survive.

I witnessed total strangers hugging each other and crying together in the streets. I saw people set up outdoor kitchens to feed storm-weary residents. Children played around debris piles with broken toys, laughing happily. And more than once I heard someone say, “We’re down! But we aren’t out!”

Since then, most of the grand old homes that once dotted the coastline are but sepia-toned memories. Gone, too, are many of the Coast’s famous landmarks. Katrina destroyed so much of our history, but she couldn’t destroy us–the people who call the Mississippi Gulf Coast home. We always have! Always will!