My Visit to Metairie

Katie and I were at each other's throats the day before our scheduled trip back to Metairie, so I ended up making the trip alone. For selfish reasons, I am glad that I did so. Entering Metairie alone I was able to react from the gut to whatever I saw, without having to concern myself with what sort of "spin" I would want to put on it for Katie's sake. Having already passed through Beaumont TX, I had become accustomed to seeing the bright blue tarps covering so many roofs. The most striking feature of the post-Katrina landscape is the mass of uprooted trees and brush that lines each road. Here is a shot of the corner of Severn Avenue and West Esplanade, looking west. Much of the groundcover is brown because the grass--while well-watered--was deprived of light. Realize that I was driving into town from the west, so I did NOT pass through devastated Orleans Parish. Still, many buildings had piles of ruined furniture, discarded moldy sheetrock and insulation, piled in front of them. Small signs were everywhere, announcing the re-opening or moving of various businesses. Occasional signs addressed Jefferson Parish President Aaron Broussard, who earned the wrath of thousands by evacuating the workers who ordinarily operated the flood pumps--leaving the pumps turned OFF, and thereby leaving the parish to drown! (You may remember a tearful Aaron Broussard on CNN, tearfully relating the story of someone's mother being left in a nursing home, day after day, waiting for rescue.)

Our house looked much as Joel described it. The small crape myrtle adjacent to our front walkway had fallen southward, missing the house. Helpful neighbors had apparently swept up palm fronds and debris into a small pile on the driveway. The woman who mows our lawns had obviously mowed the lawn. One pair of decorative shutters on our porch had detached from the house, but someone had retrieved them and leaned them against the building where they belong. The television that had died in the weeks before the hurricane remained on the porch where we had left it. (See the cat hiding under the PapaSan chair?) Inside our house was the usual clutter. Small stains marked the laminate flooring under the refrigerator. I taped it shut with bright blue tape to remind myself not to open it.

The house and the neighborhood were QUIET. Joel had left the air conditioning on, to keep the house ventilated. As I walked through the house, I would start to greet the birds as I entered the room where the large flight cage is: I had to keep reminding myself that the animals were gone. It felt eerie to empty the van, carrying items into the house, WITHOUT having to close the doors firmly behind me on each trip to keep dogs inside. Although the house was intact, the floors and windows unsullied, the atmosphere was funereal. I felt as if I should cry because of the gravity of the scene, but then I decided that I should not, because we did not have enough damage for me to have earned that right.

As I sat alone in my silent house, I realized that I loved it, and that I did not want to leave it. As lovely as the Houston housing listings are, they are full of white-painted cupboards, tiny kitchens, and wall-to-wall carpeting--features that cry out to be destroyed by dogs. To move away from our hardwood floors and our remodeled kitchen with its granite counters and spacious oak cabinets would feel crazy and disloyal. Why take on such aggravation when we already have a doggie door and a giant, grassy yard in which the dogs can run and play? I was amazed to see, that for as much as I berate Louisiana, calling it a Third-World country, that at least our little corner of it is truly my home.