De-ja Vu

I'm back. And like the buzz you have when you first return from a really good carribean vacation, the feelings and memories are quickly fading. I'm moving from slow mo to mo jo.

I'm still wearing my construction boots, though - seems unnatural not to. My first night home, like Tom Hanks in Castaway, I seriously thought about sleeping on the floor. The bed was just too soft; the room too warm. I missed all the tent noises. And a good storm would have been nice. Really.

I will miss the sense of urgency; of doing something meaningful and immediate. I will miss the people who look you in the eye when they shake your hand. The people that mean what they say or don't say anything. A certain tangible pull together and get it done attitude.

It was changing as I left, though. The real work is starting to wind down. Now that the roads are cleared and motel rooms are available, ever larger numbers of office types are showing up. You can spot them a mile away. They're all wearing those cargo, first responder-type pants and nice new safety boots. All bought at Government expense. Time to start the meetings and briefings to discuss "lessons learned". Time for a good Standing Operating Procedure manual, don't you think? Time for that next inevitable phase. Time to measure everyone else's performance with tools designed not to measure performance; take too long to write, review and rewrite even the simplist memo. Time for white papers that are never issued and to prepare briefings for people whose entire reason for existing seems to be to attend such briefings.

Time to go.

The South will Rise Again

I was looking for Helen Ousalet. She lives in Moss Bluff north of Lake Charles. Her home is set far off the road on a once heavily wooded lot. The handpainted sign on her driveway read 1612: the sign on her other driveway read 1261. The house was set back too far to read the numbers above the door. I knocked and was met by a sprightly mid-80s year old woman.

She proudly gave me a tour of her yard while I measured her home for a blue roof. "Lived here some 50 years. Should have seen my garden before the storm." She had fled. Her son had stayed "to keep an eye on thangs." After about two weeks, her son finally reached with news of her home. "Mama, it's fine. All the trees, every-a-one, came down. Narry a one hit the house. All you lost was one pane of glass. You can come home now."

I looked over the large, carefully raked yard. "I take car of the place myself. Good exercise." Huge piles of stumps, logs and branches lay along the road awaiting the debris trucks. I praised her cleanup job and she proudly told me her boys had done it. "Took out my lilly garden, though."

On the left some color; a tree I'd never seen was flowering. I commented how remarkable that so soon after the storm, amoung such distruction, to find a beautiful flowering tree. I asked what it was. "Why honey, that's a Confederate Rose", she answered brightly. We laughed. Lake Charles will rise again.

I was done. I shook her hand and said, "Mrs. Ousalet, the contractors should be by in three or four days to install your roof; long before the next rain." She looked at me, "I'm not Ousalet. She lives down the street. I'm a Brien." After a moment of stunned silence, we both laughed again. I promised she'd still get her roof. She invited me back "anytime" for a glass of sweet tea. As I walked down the driveway she called out, "You keep up the good work."

Mrs. Brien never got her roof but Mrs. Ousalet did. I made sure of that.

True Colours

Danny, Jimmy and I huddled, as guys will do, around the bed of the pickup. Around us as far as the eye could see stretched what remained of Cameron: a large debris field that stretches miles into the marsh inland.

Danny points at a small, American flag that lays in his truck bed. "Found it in a ditch the other day. Thought I might hang it on the tower. What do you think?" I looked at the flag. It was dirty; all covered with mud. It was plastic, like something you'd cover a picnic table with. I looked at Danny to see if he was serious. I looked at Jimmy. Both were studying the flag laying in the bed of the truck. A moment or two, maybe more, passed and Jimmy, in a deep, reverent, Kentucky drawl slowly said, "Yeah. We're mightly proud of that thar flag." You could have heard a pin drop. The world around me slowly stopped as my inside the beltway cynicism was crushed by the moment.

Danny slowly bent over and ever so carefully tucked the edge of the flag under his cooler so it wouldn't accidently blow out of his truck. I told Danny I thought it was a wonderful idea and offered to help.

Little Wonders

Danny and I had come to "close Billy down." No flagman. No cones or signs. Working his truck mounted boom while sitting in someone's front yard. Overhead powerlines much too close. A long set of deep tire marks in a nearby ditch showed he had tried to do it right. "Went to my axles. Used a tree to winch out."

Billy waved and bounded down from his truck with a winning smile and the first of many stories to tell. Big, round head stuffed into a preposterously small, brownish safety helmet. "That's kevlar. It'd take a bullet." "Yeah, yeah, I know. My flagman didn't show this morning. A man's got to keep working, you know?"

Jimmy is a short, powerful, wide man. He could charm a snake charmer. He hadn't shaved in a week. From Kentucky, you quickly learn that you are in the presence of a man who built his trailer including motor, hydraulic lift and chassis from scratch. "She don't look like much, but she's a good truck." There may be nothing mechanical he can't do. Then you learn this Kentucky hills guy left his wife in charge of the business running his trucks that "feed the pulp mills." Came down with his bother, uncle and a brother-in-law "to help". He lives on 50 acres of land in a double wide. Looking back at his rig, "Not sure what I'll do with her when I get back home. May fix her up pretty and sell her. May keep her to move the junk I got around my property", he says with a twinkle in his eye. He's his neighbor's worst nightmare. He could probably buy me several times over. And he's probably one of the kindest, nicest, most clever men I'll ever meet.

Danny and I couldn't bring ourselves to close him down. But we warned him, again, about that powerline.

Saint Elmo's Fire

We knew the storm was coming. The wind started around 9 pm, well after everyone was in bed. Slowly, painfully, the huge tents began to sway, gasp, then boom. Tent side panels exploded outwards in unison throwing the standbags that held them. Then the rain came; droplets the size of VW Rabbits; hammered the tents that were still standing. It was like trying to sleep in a drum. The campers huddled in their cots as the water silently rose around them. The temperature outside fell from the 50s to the low 30s in less than an hour. The chill factor was in the teens. I got up, found my knife and put on my pants. Others around me did the same. We lay back down in our cots and watched our tent above gasp and cough. I wanted to be able to cut my way out of the tent if it should fall during the night. Can you imagine such a thing?

We watched in facination as static electricity, like Saint Elmo's fire in Moby Dick, arched from tent pole to tent pole in the darkness above.

At midnight we were all awake; those with raingear were outside helping man the pumps. The tents had 4 to 6 inches of water and the slit trenches dug around the camp needed to be drained. Most everyone's gear was wet. We were cold and there was no where to go. Those with dry gear passed it out. They served breakfast at 3 am. The wind gusted over 40.

We shivered, blue, in the open sided food tent happy for the warm coffee, the company and knowing that this was the end of the mosquito season.

All in a Day's Work

The Corp has moved me to Camp Cameron to help with debris removal. Duties include safety inspections to make sure that contractors picking up debris along roads and ditches follow basic safety requirements: keep away from powerlines and maintain proper traffic control signs and flaggers. And to stand in the tower and visually judge the size and approve payment for each load entering the debris dump site. The work is dusty and dangerous: the trucks come in twos and threes; drivers are courteous but they are paid by the load; the trucks are large (semis, sometimes tandems) and you are small and you move amoung them freely. You learn quickly to catch the eye of each driver before venturing into harm's way. You also, after 10 hours on the job, find yourself doing stupid things; walking behind trucks that may be asked to back up to give the person in the tower above another look or nonchanaltly walking alongside a moving 22 ton truck; things that you wouldn't do when it was morning and you were fresh; and that was 10 hours ago and you still have 2 hours 'til 6:30.

Modern Medicene

I'd caught a cough. Went to the doctor and told him what I was doing; where I'd been. Told him about the tents. I asked him what I had. "Hell, if you where a dog and I was a veternarian, I'd tell you you had kennel cough."

Baby Steps

Brian pulled into the driveway to see what I was doing. His 1800s victorian, lovingly but slowly restored over the last 10 years, had been nearly split in half by an unruley oak. I'd stopped by a week before, judged it beyond the scope of the blue roof program and left. I'd returned several hours later having decided to fix her. Now I'd returned once again to photo the result.

It took 20 pieces of plywood and over 250 lin. ft. of 2x4s and 2x6s. The roofing contractor rebuilt her crushed ridge and hips. It cost a fortune. She's drying out. Not perfect but she can wait until the restoration starts anew. And Brian, although like his house still crushed and in denial, is finally starting to plan his permanent repairs.

You do what you can. Baby steps.

Lagniappe

I took the time to read some of the promotional materials that came with my Timberline boots. I'd ordered them before I'd left but they had been lost in the shuffle in Baton Rouge. Luckily, I'd packed my trusted L.L. Bean hikers and they have kept me safe from all the dangers that lurk out there.

I am amazed and appreciative at all the hidden effort taken by others to make my life more comfortable and safer. I'd ordered boots but got so much more.

My Pro Series boots have a steel safety toe. This is a good thing if you (or your co-workers) are proned to dropping heavy items on your toes. In fact, my boots "stand up to" the American National Standards Institute 175/C75 Z41 PT99 ANSI standard for people (me) that work in hazardous work environments. I wonder if the standards for working in Washington D.C. are or should be more stringent?

But it gets better. Timberline's helpful shoe designers also took the time to equip my boots with Agion antimicrobial agents. I'm assured that this will help prevent odor and the growth of bacteria and fungii. And, amazingly, is "environmentally friendly technology." As standard equipment, my boots are equiped with a 24-7 comfort suspension; "that meets the most rigorous worksite demands 24 hours a day." Now, I've never worked a 24 hour workday, hope to never have to, but it is comforting to know that these boots can "get me through to quitting time. Today, every day." And my boots reduce electrical shocks, too. My boots are designed and constructed against open circuits of up to 600 volts! Now I'm going to have to test that one!

Samantha Webster Wright

I learned yesterday that our cat, Sam, died last week. Hit by a car. She had been missing for two weeks and we'd passed out fliers. Karen called to let me know that all our neighbors on Danville Street knew what had happened to her but wouldn't, couldn't tell us.

Sam was about eight. Half wild. Caught under a shed while Karen worked on a Christmas in April project. We almost called her Spook.

Sam was 9 pounds of pure energy. With eyes of gold and a tiger's spirit, never happy inside for more than 10 minutes, she spent her life terrorizing the neighboring cats and keeping the sparrow population within bounds. We learned early that her happiness depended on being able to leave and enter the house at will. She was totally miserable if house-bound. Unless, of course, she was curled up on my lap on Sunday morning reading the paper.

Sam died as both she and we preferred; able to visit her Mom (me) at will or sit outside viewing her domain and all foolish enough to venture into it.

We could have kept her inside. We could have kept her safe. But what kind of life would that have been?

Southern Hospitality

A large man, Paul Manion stood quietly before the gathered responders. His ample stomach hung astonishingly low over his wide belt. "Cupcake", as he is known to his friends, is a maintenance worker for the Corp's St. Louis District. Moose had just presented him an award for the good work he has accomplished over the last 30 days - picking up applications for blue roofs at the five collection centers located around Lake Charles.

After a quick presentation, Moose asked the crowd if we were aware that Cupcake had unselfishly paid all his costs so that he could come help out at Lake Charles. This included meals, lodging, rental car and room. No small contribution. I was impressed.

Then Moose noted that Cupcake would have to wait until he returned to work to receive reimbursement for his "out of pocket" costs. What?

As I get older, I am increasing sensitive to how seemingly similiar people respond differently to the same situation. How could Cupcake's sacrifice be admirable? How could he stand there obviously proud of himself? I was almost embarrassed for him.

But Cupcake's situation is different from mine. I could easily cover my costs; he obviously can't. What is probably a nervous checkbook jungling act for him is a contribution for me. In an unfamiliar and unexpected way, Cupcake has made a sacrifice.

A respectful murmur flowed through the crowd. Moose beamed. Cupcake beamed. Everyone gave him a nice round of applause; including me.

A Breeze from the Gulf

Fall is my favorite season. It's especially pleasant in Virginia. And now I'm having a second Fall, except that it's November and I'm in Louisiana. Fall in Louisiana in November is like Fall in Virginia in early September. Endless blue skies, sunny and in the mid-eighties. And it has only rained once since Rita struck over five weeks ago.

The winds here swing gently to the north as each cool front moves through. And then swing to the south all humid and tepid. The northern air is cool and dry and invigorating. The breeze from the Gulf saps your strength, reminds you of hurricanes and leaves you strangely apprehensive.