When I wasn't attending meetings and learning about how to do things for Kentucky lawyers better or differently than we do now, or attending meetings of the ADA Disability Rights Commission, I went around the corner to the French quarter to eat some oysters at Felix’ and some redfish at Galatoires and some fried catfish at Deanies. These days the fancy drinks do not interest me as they used to, but I have a lot of fun watching people who have a keen interest in drinking everything New Orleans has to offer.
Now this may sound a little strange. The highlight of my trip to New Orleans occurred on Friday when I took my van for service at Toyota of New Orleans, about 10 miles east of Canal St. A red light had appeared on my dashboard during the last few miles my trip down there, and I figured I better get it checked out before I drove home 12 hours on Sunday. I spent five hours at the dealership, spent about $1400 on various things, including tires and brakes, and got my Sienna in much better shape than it was. Highlight you say?
The service manager who came out and met my car when I pulled in was named Ray, a pleasant young black man who was eager to help. The service technician who worked on the van was named Travis, a white man in his mid-30s and also very pleasant. I had the opportunity to speak with both of these gentlemen for a period of time as well as with another gentleman whose name I cannot recall. Spending time with these ordinary Louisiana residents was eye-opening and enjoyable, but I did not dare tell them about the photo hanging in my basement of UK's stopping LSU at the goal line to indicate a couple years ago when she was never one. They were definitely of the ‘Geaux Tigers’ mindset.
Then, through sheer curiosity, I asked each man about Katrina. Certainly you remember Katrina. It blew roofs off of houses and knocked down trees here in Northern Kentucky, 1000 miles away from the Gulf Coast. I remember watching television and seeing people stranded on bridges, waiting on the roofs of their houses for rescue, and listening to the talking heads tell us just how bad things were. Robin Roberts went to her hometown and showed how it was destroyed. Senator Trent Lott cried. The court houses in New Orleans had records destroyed as they were stored at low levels with no digital backup. Remember? It was a real mess. For these three men, however, it was much more than that.
First, Travis showed me a mark on the wall of the service bay where the water level crested. It was at least 6 feet from the floor. He pointed out the door to the now vacant Six Flags amusement Park just a few hundred yards away. He told me about coming back after the water receded to try to find his personal tools. There were buried under 2 to 3 feet of mud. He told me that his business is just starting to come back a little bit. They had been wall-to-wall busy before the storm hit. I told him about the acres and acres of parking lots that I had passed on the way to the dealership. Travis told me that they had either been thriving businesses, apartment complexes or offices, but the buildings were destroyed. It is very strange looking at acres and acres of pavement serving nothing. Chain-link fences surrounded some, and other lots just sat there. I told them about one area where a road left the main road and had branches off to the right or left every forty or 50 feet. He told me that I had seen an apartment complex. The apartment buildings are gone but the pavement remains. Eerie.
Next I spoke with Ray. Ray was a teenager at the time of the store. He told me that his mother refused to leave their house until it was too late – the bridges had been closed and there was no way out. He and his family made their way to the Superdome, where he experienced horror beyond belief. Ray told me about the walls shaking and a portion of the roof pulling off, with the rain falling down on people parked on the Astroturf of the playing field. He told me that at first everybody was scared and calm, but after a while, given the lack of law enforcement, bad people surfaced. There was open drug dealing. Young girls were raped in the various restrooms and concession areas. Thousands of people used the restrooms for bodily function without running water and working toilets. He said it just piled up in there, but there was no place else to go. The smell made some people pass out. He couldn't wait to get out of there and told me he has a hard time going back to that building for pleasure. I don't blame him.
The third gentlemen made it across the I-10a bridge towards Slidell before it was closed. In his neighborhood, east of New Orleans, there was no power. He was fortunate, however, to have a couple of deep freezers, a gasoline generator, several cans of fuel, and natural gas. He cooked for his entire family and the neighborhood, including several elderly couples who lived nearby. He told me he had a pot of grits on the stove 24 hours a day for three weeks, that people brought what they could salvage from their houses, and everybody shared a bite to eat, war stories, and a common misery.
The drive back to the hotel was heartbreaking because now I knew what I was looking at. The glistening Superdome, now fully cleansed, sanitized and repaired, told me a different story than the one I remembered from my Sugar Bowl trip in the early 90s. The McDonald's restaurants in the area offer a bowl of grits on their dollar menu – I remember the gentleman from Slidell feeding his neighborhood that southern staple.
I am grateful for my trip to the Toyota dealership that morning. I learned so much from some great teachers. It was heartwarming to see how that, for at least these three gentlemen, the human spirit had won out, and they told their stories freely and easily with smiles on their faces. Considering what they had been through, Thanks Be to God!
To all of my friends and neighbors who volunteered in the cleanup, or who donated to relief causes, or who took in refugees from the south, or participated in any way to our fellow Americans in their time of need, God Bless You!
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