REPOST Hurricane Katrina

Thurs. 9/9/05
6:15 am
“Ouch”. What did I expect would be my first words after a day like yesterday? No good deed goes unpunished, as they say. Showered, shaved, dressed and out the door, but Sam wasn’t there to greet me this morning.

Greg, from the Distribution Center, picked me up for work. He wasn’t as quite as he had been. He’s a proud man. Pride is like a double-edged sword sometimes. It can keep you from doing things you shouldn’t yet sometimes keep you from doing something you should, i.e. asking for help. I hope he soon finds that balance. I recognize the “ Balance” dichotomy because I too suffer from it.

The Distribution Center was in full force by the time we arrived. The overnight trailers of bottled water were downloaded, processed and moved to their place on the warehouse floor. The stress and long hours are beginning to show on the faces of the crews. Yet they don’t stop. The Belgium crew is amazing. Everyone continue pushing to get the next trailer load of supplies out to Gulfport or where ever.

9:15am

John, the volunteer Mobile Staff person, asked if I could be a part of the Red Cross convoy delivering supplies into Biloxi. Ten minutes later I was being briefed by the Red Cross staff on the rules, regulations and protocol for dealing with Red Cross supplies.

Some procedures included: door locked at all times, truck windows up, police escort once off the interstate and wait for clearance before exiting the vehicle.

Were we entering a war zone or the gentle Southern town of Biloxi? I soon realized the thin layer of difference between the two. It took about 2 hours to travel the 50 miles between Mobile and Biloxi. The progression of destruction intensified every mile. First the billboards were damaged and there was more road litter than normal. Within 10 miles of the city limits of Biloxi, the true force of Katrina began to be revealed. It’s almost indescribable. The flood line of debrie was about 12 ft. from the ground in areas. The definite horizontal line of trash, clothes and housing insulation ran parallel to the interstate. “It looks like winter here,” I said to Lynne, my team member. All the trees were bear, the leaves had been striped by the tremendous winds and the greenery was brown because of the salt water. The shoulders and curbs were lost beneath the debre and power lines weave within them like garland on a Christmas tree.

We pulled of the interstate and were met by the Mississippi Highway Patrol. They escort all relief personel and transports. It’s not only for navigational purposes, because most streets are impassable so alternate routes are in place, but earlier in the week it was for the protection and to safeguard the supplies.

I can’t describe it. I just can’t. I took a few photos of the areas near the highway but
they just can’t show the immense damage. A boat was resting perfectly on top of a drive-thru restaurant. As if someone had carefully placed it there with no concern about the structure beneath. We arrived at the Methodist church where the local victims could receive basic supplies. People, dazed and exhausted, smiled as we walked up. I felt almost as if they saw us not so much as relief workers but as though we held the key to making things the way they were. A Vietnamese man I met had lost everything. I’ll try to describe what it is like. Imagine standing on your front porch and looking across your street. Everything that is familiar to you. Look passed your neighbor’s home, passed the next row of houses, passed the next street, seeing the lights of the neighborhood beyond yours. Now imagine it’s all gone. Gone. Not just your home and front porch but your trees, and your neighbor’s home and trees, the street behind you is gone. If it’s not completely taken away it’s buried beneath layers of downed trees. What you know as a symbol of your visible reality is gone. The Vietnamese man spent the last 31 years bringing his and his wife’s family to the United States. They owned 2 businesses, 3 houses and I believe he said 5 cars. “ Nothing, no more. Nothing” he kept repeating.

“ Don’t cry Daniel,” I said silently to myself,.
“ Let him see hope on my face.” I thought “ and be someone to listen to him grieve.”

It sound a little self-center but I don’t mean it that way. The other volunteers and I represent hope. Sure we are bringing supplies and food but we also, in someway, bring back a little of yesterday. Yesterday when things were better. The faces of some of them seemed very confused toward their surroundings. As if they had been picked up then dropped down on the moon. Betty was the head of the church’s relief efforts. It’s surprising, not really, that almost all the shelters are headed by women. She invited us to sit down for lunch. A group from northern Alabama had driven down with a feast of fried chicken, green beans, slaw, iced tea, etc. for the church staff. Betty invited us to join them. We declined and stated that we would begin downloading the palates.

“ Nobody works during dinner when I’m in charge,” Betty said. “We’d loved to it you’re sure there’s enough” Lynne quickly replied. “ It’s the first hot meal we’ve had in seven days,” Betty added. I walked away for a moment. They had not eaten a hot meal in a week, yet refused to eat while we worked. I don’t understand the human spirit in times like these. How can a disaster bring some, like Betty, limitless compassion and resilience yet push others to pick up arms? They hoard more supplies and food then they can ever use. Leaving others without.

That will be question 249 to ask God. I have a list going since that age of 6.



The convoy that I was a part of included three others from eastern North Carolina. We finished downloading the supplies and headed to Gulfport, Miss. What an awful drive. Nothing was left undamaged. Those huge billboards that line the interstate were bent as if they had simply melted in the hot Mississippi sun. Mounds of trash (what used to be furnishings and family treasures) litter the road. As we entered the neighborhood I had not been prepared for what I experienced. The surplus fish from the fish distributors on the coast had been pushed, by the surge, 3 miles inland. This neighborhood, buried beneath countless trees, had thousands of rotting fish. People still had to continue to survive. This was, is, their home. Fuel is hard to find for even chain saws.

Our final drop was to a shelter out in the country. Water is being restored but is not suitable for drinking. The drive was very reflective. Lynne and I knew that they laughter and light hearted conversation on the trip down would fade, but we did realize just how much. We discussed how part of our main job was to listen. Just to listen. Listen to the fears, the pain, the loss and the anger. Just listening can sometimes be a challenge for Daniel Stoner. But I, don't ask me how, did just listen. We turned off the highway and stopped to comprehend what was in front of us. Almost complete destruction. It was like Paul Bunyan had used a huge dull machete and clear-cut every tree as far as we could see. The trees, 12 or so feet from the ground, were gone, broken, twisted or split. All of the debris had to fall somewhere and it fell onto the houses and the roads. Commercial chain saws had cut a clear passage along the main road. We could see very few homes because of the amount of debris. Signs were placed along the road telling passersby what they needed and even more surprisingly, what they had to offer. “ We need gas. We have extra water.” for example. It didn’t say trade or sell, it said “ have extra”. Amazing. Yes Lynne and I are crying as we drive the truck at this point.

Everyone is dirty and tried. Some of the victim’s tempers are short and yet others are so passive. This is Gulfport, Mississippi not some remote island. I remember this area five years ago. It was the quintessential southern country road. Massive live oaks branches with Spanish moss hovered over the road. Very little of those remain.


It’s been 8 days since the storm and people still say” Thank you” as you hand them supplies. This one guy, his family and I at the last stop had a great laugh. He was talking about being so dirty and he knew he was really dirty because he stopped being able to smell himself. “ That’s pretty damn bad” he said” When you know you smell like …….but you can’t even tell anymore,. That’s bad. But we don’t have any damn water” He said a few more four letter and then look at me as if he had seen a ghost. “ Man, I’m so sorry about my mouth. My mama raised me better than that.” Then he started to cry. I went out on a limb and said “ This is a damn Red Cross truck not a church one.” He started laughing. “ Thank you , man. You knew what I thinking.” “Yeah, It’s all good. We’re just here to help.” I said. I received some great hug from he and his family. I was a good thing he had lost the sense of smell for awhile also. The drive back took almost 3 hours. The day ended about 10:00pm.