Mouring in Lakeview...
The Times-Picayune suggested in its Saturday edition that anyone wishing to go back and see their homes should bring the following...
A. A box of Kleenex
B. A shoulder to cry on.
I had neither.
This is my account of the aftermath of Katrina and what I saw when I entered Nola and my dear neighborhood of Lakeview.
We left early for Nola on Saturday, September 17th. It is perhaps a day I will never forget. I just knew to expect destruction and also know 'nothing can be salvaged' from my home. The crew consisted of my father, my Brother-in-Law, and myself. We first traveled to my Brother-in-law's Mom's house in Kenner, LA. She had little damage to her home, some mold in the garage, dining area, and a stinky fridge. Half of her fence in the backyard was down as well. She was lucky though. After a while we headed to my side of town...to the Big Easy...to my neighborhood, Lakeview.
We were re-routed 4 times by the National Guard enroute to my home. Passing through Mid-City, City Park, and downtown. The images of people’s belongings thrown askew and the filth of rotten food, dirty clothes, abandon blankets, pillows, shoes, and other items just lie on the Interstate with ease and cover the once busy highways known to many of us during rush hour and peak traffic on a daily basis. As we drove through each borough I noted the houses that were each marked with ‘0,’ ‘2,’ and ‘3,’ dead. The rescue teams broke into many a home, searching for the dead and having to leave them in one of the cities make-shift morgues. Finally, after many detours and our long city 'tour' we finally made it to Lakeview and had a look at the 17th street Canal Levee just 2 blocks from my house.
We parked by the now abandon Rally's Hamburgers and were not prepared for the horrors were about to face. Clad in knee-high boots, all black clothing, rubber gloves, garbage bags, and face masks I made my way down Pontchartrain/West End Boulevard and immediately saw a large yacht (I kid you not a large yacht propped up against a brick wall on the neutral ground. It lay propped up like a kid would sit his toy boat aside to run and eat his dinner promptly at 6. Many of the large pleasure boats we saw just lying in the street, left for dead by their owners. With determination and a false sense of security and faith I marched down Spencer Avenue, pumping with adrenalin, ready to see my home, my house, my life destroyed right in front of my eyes. I headed the troop and noticed a woman's metallic high heel pump covered in mud and a child's planner sopping from the 17th Street Canal waters. I began to walk faster, just knowing my home would be filled with mud and substances that look much like soot. I came to a stop, contemplating how I was going to tackle the large puddle of black water that stood stagnant in front of me. With determination I just went for it. Stepping in the hellish waters I was the first to witness my fathers TR7 British Import covered in the same muck that covered the blocks before us. My heart broke for him. This car and many others parked in the garage were his babies. The white sports car sits in the carport shoved up against our garage with the two back wheels missing. When I walked a little further I began to cry, tears were already streaming down my face, my hands already covered in the toxic ebony gook, and my fingernails black with crud from touching the alabaster auto. I pried a white plastic lawn chair logged against another British import vehicle and our old washer and dryer. Something came over me to move the chair, roughly dislodging it and throwing it to the side, very determined to get into my home. My Dad saw the cars, saw my tears, and asked ‘why don't we go through the front door.' Out of habit I held the golden keys to our paid off home. We approached our white pristine front door with caution, but the door had been bashed in (most probably from the rescue teams searching for dead bodies). I immediately looked through the door, into the foyer, and was shocked at what I saw. The once white textured walls were now covered with black, grey, and muddy like soot. Three feet of mud cover my rubber boots and I slipped and slid holding on to the walls of my home for support. The paint was peeling, the sheet rock exposed, and pink insulation covered the black muck. 'Oh, God, oh my God, oh, God' was all I could muster, speechless, and in shock from what I saw before my eyes. My Father took 5 steps inside the house and walked out. I on the other hand, still clinging to the walls and goop, make my way to the entrances of my father’s bedroom, our middle ‘computer room’ and my room. Each room was covered in the same blackish gook and mud. I tried to search for something to salvage in each room, but all I was faced with was broken furniture, broken valuables and collectables, and a sinking feeling in my gut. My room, my dear domain. I come to the door which was rotting off the hinges and about to fall on top of me. The door was hanging by one hinge and out of anger and hurt I rip what remains of the door off of its hinges. It's amazing what we will do in crisis situations. Adrenaline was pumping in my body and it’s the only thing that kept me from falling apart. I looked in my room and saw once again my Grandmothers antique furniture broken in half, my dresser on it's side which had bashed in the sheet rock of my room and was now broken apart. I could not get through the broken furniture, and everything that had once been important to me and still is blocked the path to salvation and the notion that I would be able to recover anything from what I once considered my sweet domain. My own salvation, my escape to a comfy bed, now represent a blackish hell, a hole filled with nothing but destroyed memories and ruined items given to me by my dear friends and family. I had one glove on my hand, hoping to salvage something of mine, but there is nothing to salvage...nothing. However, 2 items still hang on my wall from the levee breech and flood of toxic soup that slugged into our home. A gray ‘Phantom of the Opera’ mask sadly still hangs on one side of my room and a pink pair of now tattered, muddy, baby ballet shoes hang on the other side of my wall. The mask is all that remains of a 15 + year Phantom collection and the ballet shoes represent what is left of anything that symbolized my childhood.
I left in shock, in pure shock. I must have hyper-ventilated for 20 minutes, breathing heavy along with the black crud that now covered my face and injured left hand. Somehow I made my way out of the house and looked out into the front yard and to my horror lies our great Oak tree toppled over with my street sign that reads 'Fleur De Lis Drive.' As we left Lakeview we saw the now burned out Southern Yacht Club and battered New Orleans Yacht club. We were also asked for our ID’s and Drivers Licenses. A National Guard troop takes my ID and notices tears in my eyes and sweat that covers my face and smiles. He said ‘Coming from seeing your home?’ I noded yes and hand him the ID. He hands me back the ID and salutes me and said ‘good luck to you,’
I leave you with many images of a day I will never, ever forget. Rest in peace Lakeview, Fleur De Lis, and a home I grew up in and enjoyed tremendously.
A. A box of Kleenex
B. A shoulder to cry on.
I had neither.
This is my account of the aftermath of Katrina and what I saw when I entered Nola and my dear neighborhood of Lakeview.
We left early for Nola on Saturday, September 17th. It is perhaps a day I will never forget. I just knew to expect destruction and also know 'nothing can be salvaged' from my home. The crew consisted of my father, my Brother-in-Law, and myself. We first traveled to my Brother-in-law's Mom's house in Kenner, LA. She had little damage to her home, some mold in the garage, dining area, and a stinky fridge. Half of her fence in the backyard was down as well. She was lucky though. After a while we headed to my side of town...to the Big Easy...to my neighborhood, Lakeview.
We were re-routed 4 times by the National Guard enroute to my home. Passing through Mid-City, City Park, and downtown. The images of people’s belongings thrown askew and the filth of rotten food, dirty clothes, abandon blankets, pillows, shoes, and other items just lie on the Interstate with ease and cover the once busy highways known to many of us during rush hour and peak traffic on a daily basis. As we drove through each borough I noted the houses that were each marked with ‘0,’ ‘2,’ and ‘3,’ dead. The rescue teams broke into many a home, searching for the dead and having to leave them in one of the cities make-shift morgues. Finally, after many detours and our long city 'tour' we finally made it to Lakeview and had a look at the 17th street Canal Levee just 2 blocks from my house.
We parked by the now abandon Rally's Hamburgers and were not prepared for the horrors were about to face. Clad in knee-high boots, all black clothing, rubber gloves, garbage bags, and face masks I made my way down Pontchartrain/West End Boulevard and immediately saw a large yacht (I kid you not a large yacht propped up against a brick wall on the neutral ground. It lay propped up like a kid would sit his toy boat aside to run and eat his dinner promptly at 6. Many of the large pleasure boats we saw just lying in the street, left for dead by their owners. With determination and a false sense of security and faith I marched down Spencer Avenue, pumping with adrenalin, ready to see my home, my house, my life destroyed right in front of my eyes. I headed the troop and noticed a woman's metallic high heel pump covered in mud and a child's planner sopping from the 17th Street Canal waters. I began to walk faster, just knowing my home would be filled with mud and substances that look much like soot. I came to a stop, contemplating how I was going to tackle the large puddle of black water that stood stagnant in front of me. With determination I just went for it. Stepping in the hellish waters I was the first to witness my fathers TR7 British Import covered in the same muck that covered the blocks before us. My heart broke for him. This car and many others parked in the garage were his babies. The white sports car sits in the carport shoved up against our garage with the two back wheels missing. When I walked a little further I began to cry, tears were already streaming down my face, my hands already covered in the toxic ebony gook, and my fingernails black with crud from touching the alabaster auto. I pried a white plastic lawn chair logged against another British import vehicle and our old washer and dryer. Something came over me to move the chair, roughly dislodging it and throwing it to the side, very determined to get into my home. My Dad saw the cars, saw my tears, and asked ‘why don't we go through the front door.' Out of habit I held the golden keys to our paid off home. We approached our white pristine front door with caution, but the door had been bashed in (most probably from the rescue teams searching for dead bodies). I immediately looked through the door, into the foyer, and was shocked at what I saw. The once white textured walls were now covered with black, grey, and muddy like soot. Three feet of mud cover my rubber boots and I slipped and slid holding on to the walls of my home for support. The paint was peeling, the sheet rock exposed, and pink insulation covered the black muck. 'Oh, God, oh my God, oh, God' was all I could muster, speechless, and in shock from what I saw before my eyes. My Father took 5 steps inside the house and walked out. I on the other hand, still clinging to the walls and goop, make my way to the entrances of my father’s bedroom, our middle ‘computer room’ and my room. Each room was covered in the same blackish gook and mud. I tried to search for something to salvage in each room, but all I was faced with was broken furniture, broken valuables and collectables, and a sinking feeling in my gut. My room, my dear domain. I come to the door which was rotting off the hinges and about to fall on top of me. The door was hanging by one hinge and out of anger and hurt I rip what remains of the door off of its hinges. It's amazing what we will do in crisis situations. Adrenaline was pumping in my body and it’s the only thing that kept me from falling apart. I looked in my room and saw once again my Grandmothers antique furniture broken in half, my dresser on it's side which had bashed in the sheet rock of my room and was now broken apart. I could not get through the broken furniture, and everything that had once been important to me and still is blocked the path to salvation and the notion that I would be able to recover anything from what I once considered my sweet domain. My own salvation, my escape to a comfy bed, now represent a blackish hell, a hole filled with nothing but destroyed memories and ruined items given to me by my dear friends and family. I had one glove on my hand, hoping to salvage something of mine, but there is nothing to salvage...nothing. However, 2 items still hang on my wall from the levee breech and flood of toxic soup that slugged into our home. A gray ‘Phantom of the Opera’ mask sadly still hangs on one side of my room and a pink pair of now tattered, muddy, baby ballet shoes hang on the other side of my wall. The mask is all that remains of a 15 + year Phantom collection and the ballet shoes represent what is left of anything that symbolized my childhood.
I left in shock, in pure shock. I must have hyper-ventilated for 20 minutes, breathing heavy along with the black crud that now covered my face and injured left hand. Somehow I made my way out of the house and looked out into the front yard and to my horror lies our great Oak tree toppled over with my street sign that reads 'Fleur De Lis Drive.' As we left Lakeview we saw the now burned out Southern Yacht Club and battered New Orleans Yacht club. We were also asked for our ID’s and Drivers Licenses. A National Guard troop takes my ID and notices tears in my eyes and sweat that covers my face and smiles. He said ‘Coming from seeing your home?’ I noded yes and hand him the ID. He hands me back the ID and salutes me and said ‘good luck to you,’
I leave you with many images of a day I will never, ever forget. Rest in peace Lakeview, Fleur De Lis, and a home I grew up in and enjoyed tremendously.
