It is unbearably difficult to grasp Jan. 2009 coming to a close. Its end signals the oncoming close of this chapter of my life. Soon, I will be a college graduate. I have just three and a half months between me and the terrible alias of alumnus. The “real world” awaits; I hope its like MTV.
The origins of the college chapter of my life began at the same time that the north shore of the Gulf of Mexico was ravaged by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, and I have had the fortunate opportunity to be a part of the recovery process in one of the towns affected by those devastating storms. I recently returned from my yearly sojourn to the Crescent City, which sat under water for weeks after Katrina breached the city’s storm walls and flooded 85 percent of it. It marked the fifth time I had packed my work boots and jeans, dusted off an old ball cap and donned a respirator to help people who lost everything put their lives back in order.
The most remarkable man I’ve met in a town full of them is named Earl. He is a retired postal employee, in his late 60s or early 70s, whose home lies on the southern edge of the Gentilly neighborhood of New Orleans. Gentilly lies in the famous Ninth Ward, northeast of the Industrial Canal and due south of Lake Pontchartrain, the two sources of the nearly 20 feet of water that engulfed the neighborhood. Earl and his daughter fled New Orleans prior to Katrina striking on Aug. 29, 2005, but his wife stubbornly refused. She had weathered storms before, and believed she could brave another. But she did not anticipate the tidal wave that caused water to pour into her neighborhood from the lake, and as she tried to escape her rapidly flooding house, she was overcome by the current, drowned and died. Her body was found in a neighbor’s yard weeks later, after the flood waters subsided.
I first met Earl in January 2007, a year and a half after Katrina hit. It was my second tour of duty with Catholic Charities, and we had been assigned to gut his home. We entered a once-proud estate that was now best described as chaotically destroyed: mold acted like an earthen wallpaper, the refrigerator lay diagonally across a doorway, blocking passage, and closets had regurgitated their contents. We entered, and as Earl watched, we took his life to the curb for trash collection.
It took our group of 12 two days to remove everything from the house: appliances, clothes, furniture, dry wall and every nail that held it up. When we finished, all that was left was the shell of the place he had called home for most of his adult life, where he had raised his children, where he had loved his deceased wife. We got on a plane to go home; Earl got in his truck and drove off 30 miles to the west, where the FEMA trailer that served as his home rested.
Earl was there every second that we worked; he would saunter out of his daughter’s trailer that rested on his front lawn to tend to his dog or smoke a cigarette, and chat us up as we took breaks from destroying what was left of his home. He shares many of the qualities of any New Orleans resident; strong accent, friendly demeanor and the ability to talk for days. But, the most stunning quality, and one that is not unique to Earl, was his optimism and resolve. He never blamed a soul for his misfortune, never trolled for pity, never talked about how nice his life was before Aug. 2005. Sure, he choked up when telling us about how his wife had passed, how he regretted not forcing her to come with him and how much he missed her, but he was determined to rebuild. Determined to stay, determined to start over when many had given up. New Orleans was all he had ever known, and he was proud of his home, no matter its state of ruin, and let us know our efforts would not go in vain.
I never forgot Earl, and he often came to mind whenever the city or Katrina was mentioned. When we arrived in New Orleans this past trip, we decided to call on him, unannounced, and see what progress had been made on his home. There he sat, on his front stoop, puffing away. The trailer that blocked a view of his home from the street was gone, but the impressions it left were visible. He squinted at us from afar at first, but his face lit up when he realized who we were. We reintroduced ourselves, and he invited the eight of us into his home. This time, the kitchen was intact, the couches in place and the walls were adorned with smiling faces and devoid of mold. The sun bounced off the hardwood floors and the comfy den beckoned to weary bodies.
Earl led us through the home, through the rooms we had emptied just two years before, showed us the washer and dryer Catholic Charities forced him to take. Turns out, despite all his hardship, Earl decided there were needier folks in the city who could use volunteers’ help. He refused future crews, and instead, interviewed and hired contractors to finish the rest of his house. He helped his neighbors move back in and recommended to them contractors that could and would do the work, helping them avoid the crooks who asked for money up front, and then never showed up to even drive a nail into a wall.
Before we left, Earl showed us his family: pictures of his two grandchildren, who he was able to visit during the holidays, and photos of his son and daughters. And then, he grabbed a photo of his beloved wife, and we all held our collective breath, waiting for Earl to break down and cry. He never did.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” he asked no one in particular. We all nodded yes, as he put her picture back up on the wall, and I took one last look around the home. She sure is, I thought, saluting his gorgeous old domicile.
Posts
Crustless Three-Cheese Tomato-Basil Quiche
15 hours ago
