Arisen!

I have decided to begin again, start anew, refresh the effort. I have taken a break. Just that. Nothing more. I have been absent, inactive, uninvolved in most things writerly. And now, I feel a need to return.

Perhaps it is the onset of spring. Or perhaps it is just time.

The weather today was nothing less than glorious. The azaleas are just before popping and the birds were loudly heralding the event.

So, I'm back. I will see how long it takes for anyone to notice.

Waiting for Rita

It is 2:07 pm, when I would normally be wrapping up the school day, and here I sit at home and at my computer. It was announced yesterday, before we left, that schools would be closed today. We have not yet processed all the fear of Katrina and her aftermath, and now we must react to new fears of Rita.

There is a routine in areas that are consistently visited by the threat of hurricane. You watch every depression that forms during the season and monitor its progress. We know the names of all major storms in the past … oh, 50 years, at least …as well as we know the names of our family members. They are like members of the family – the unwelcome relatives who show up without invitation at family gatherings; the ones who sit at the table with bad manners and vulgar conversation, totally spoiling what should have been a warm, wonderful, and cherished family memory.

Katrina left far too much of herself behind and now Rita is going to do the same.

I didn’t evacuate this time. I think I am far enough east, somewhere here between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, and I know I am high enough to be safe from flooding. I felt getting on the road, in the way of others who had to evacuate, might not be the best course, this time.

The morning started warm and drizzly, with the smell of the ocean in the air. That’s usually the first thing I notice. Our typically humid atmosphere takes on the eerie feeling of being closer to the ocean than we really are. I can’t say with any accuracy just how far I am from the gulf, but figuring how far it is from here to Morgan City and then from there to the gulf … and figuring how long it takes me to drive to Grand Isle … well, I guess I am about 150 miles inland. Far enough not to smell the ocean under normal conditions.

The drizzle has segued into a more steady rain and just minutes ago tornado warnings were issued for the parish. I am concerned about that. I will continue to type and reflect while listening for the roar of the train that would indicate it is time to run downstairs, seeking the safety of the cinder block walls of the laundry room, calling for Moose and Bella to follow me or get left behind.

I went out early this morning, while the drizzle was still light enough to barely notice, and moved all the patio furniture inside, along with the potted plants and anything I could carry that might become a flying projectile later on this evening or overnight. I moved the garbage cans into the garage and did a visual check of the yard for anything that might get caught up in the winds and thrown through a window. All part of that routine I mentioned earlier. There are limbs, still, from Katrina that I had intended to burn – before the “no burn” order was issued, due to the drought following the storm. I can do nothing but leave them where they lay.

There is a bit of wind outside, blowing intermittently, not overly gusty at the moment. My apartment is upstairs, surrounded by big old oaks. I always say it is like living in a tree house. There is no one in the main house. The Katrina evacuees returned to their homes near New Orleans last week and are going to ride this one out there. They had no water in their homes with Katrina and feel they will be dry for this one, too – but I insisted they keep the extra key in case they needed to get out in the middle of the night.

They aren’t on the same side as the water that is now re-entering New Orleans, overtopping the levees, re-opening breaches in the levee walls. They should all be safe.

I am more concerned about my neighbors to the south of me … all those little fishing villages with the French names – Pointe-au-Chene; the Fourchon; Chauvin; Dulac. The TV is already showing the roads in those areas completely covered with water. Not still water, but rapidly moving water that looks more like an angry river than an overflow.

It seems southern Louisiana is undergoing another major cosmetic change, before the scars of the last surgery have healed. What will we look like when the bandages come off, when the waters recede? What more will we have learned?

Schooldays

Today ended like so many other schooldays – days from last school year, when I came home in the afternoon and bustled around to do a little housework, ate a quick sandwich and washed a load of clothes before or after tutoring a student in math or reading or occasionally some other subject. So much like so many other days, except today I continue to carry feelings that I don’t like having; feelings I cannot even express, yet, except for the obvious.

Today was the first day we returned to school after the hurricane. Plans had been made to register those students who had come into the parish for evacuation. No one could predict exactly how many students were here, but we are a small parish – a farming parish, nothing much but sugar cane growing along the side of the road. There are the remnants of sugar mills that once refined hundreds of tons of sugar each year; a few insurance offices, a couple of attorneys, the city hall, the courthouse, a Popeye’s Fried Chicken and a few grocery and hardware stores. We have but four traffic lights in the entire parish. It is a truly rural community.

Predictions were vague, but expectations were for perhaps fifty new students. By the time I left this afternoon, after assisting with getting papers and folders sorted and dropped off at various places, I had counted 137 … and there was a stack of at least fifty more. And that didn’t include the students who registered at another site. This doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you put it in context, it reflects the magnitude of the displacement.

Donations had poured in for uniforms and school supplies – donations from children selling lemonade by the side of the road, boy scouts and girl scouts working together to collect spare change. Each family came through the center that had been set up for registration and filled out the necessary paperwork then went to the tables to choose three uniforms, searching for the right sizes, looking for empty rooms to try them on. Many of the children still wore a look of disbelief – as though they had been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep and were not yet sure they were really awake. As if they were hoping someone would tell them this is all a dream.

I sometimes found myself in the position of trying to make someone comfortable as they waited in long lines to get to see the right person to help them. I would ask them about where they were staying, where they were coming from. And I asked about their homes. I know they are homeless, but they are NOT homeless ... not in the sense that is usually imagined. They have lives – had lives. Lives that were lost through no failing of their own. They need to know that others know that. Sometimes they need to talk.

I spoke to a man from St. Bernard Parish. If you have been listening to the events unfold, you might know this is one of the parishes most heavily hit. Most of the parish is 8 to 10 feet under water. His home had been built on pilings, but the water still rose four feet inside his home. He recounted how, when he saw the water rising, he took his children to the attic. No sooner had he gotten them settled than he heard other children screaming outside. He ran out just in time to grab a child rushing past him in the swollen waters and to scoop another from where he had caught on a fence.

He took the two of them to safety and found two other men to assist him in looking for others. They tied themselves together with water safety vests and began going from house to house. As they found people they would carry them to the second story of a building nearby and continue to look for others. Finally they found some boats and the task became easier.

An older woman told of seeing an elderly man in front of her snatched away by an alligator. Another told of wading past the bodies of babies who had drowned.

At one point I just looked around the room, at the shear numbers of people in our small community who had lost, literally, everything they had worked their entire lives to build; people who had had dreams and had worked to make those dreams come true; people who had believed that if they worked hard for something it could be theirs forever; people who continued to look for hope with grace and dignity. Sometimes, however, I saw the despair that was fighting just below the surface, struggling to reach out and around them and to pull them totally under.

It was then I would walk down the hall to the ladies room, lock myself in one of the stalls, and cry for all the dreams that would never live again.

Who was it who said, “The worst pain of all is the grief for what will never be”?

Day Five of Fury

I read another comment today - this time from someone in the UK whom I summarily blasted - about the deplorable way in which New Orleans and Louisiana responded to the needs of their impoverished citizens prior to the storm, not taking the necessary measures to evacuate more people, save more lives. I am again appalled at the simplicity of thinking that generates these sorts of comments. The dilemma of poverty in America is not so simple, the blame neither so easily placed nor so readily deserved.

There were many reasons for people remaining behind to await the storm - very few had to do with the ability to leave, except where transportation was truly lacking, but rather with the lack of choice of where to go. The impoverished were offered transportation - to the shelter of the Superdome, which only afterward became a poor choice. In previous storms, the Dome has been a semi-comfortable shelter for many people. Not home, but not desolate. It was the best we had to offer, considering the unpredictable nature of the storm. What if the city had sent people in the direction the storm chose to take? What then? What would have been the analysis then?

And this storm was mightier, much mightier, than any storm for many years. For the first time in 25 years, I evacuated. I felt this one was different. I was scared, and I have never feared a storm in my life, having grown up with tornadoes and having lived these past years with hurricanes. I am one of those who sit on the porch to watch the fury of nature. But this one ... my god, it was big. So big. To see the map and this damned storm covering the gulf from shore to shore, filling it to overflowing, no sign of the ocean waters beneath ... and to see that eye, tight, powerful, holding on to so much force. And to see just how far from the eye were the winds. No one should have been able to look at that and stayed behind. No one. But anyone looking at that must have wondered, as did I, just how far must I go to get away?

We drove, my daughter and I, for twelve hours. Due north. Roads to the west were jammed and roads to the east were still in the possible path for far too many miles for me to trust them. We drove north, into Arkansas; the first hotel available was 9 hours away. I have friends living a few hours beyond that, so we drove further.

I am sure the world will always believe that the poor were left to perish. But the world sees what the media shows and only that. After all, how newsworthy are the white folks who stayed behind because they didn't want to leave? Of course, that would put an entirely different spin on the story.

Not that poverty isn't an issue, but not for the reasons the media implies or the world infers. The reasons are much more complicated. I strongly believe that if the city had offered free lodging in hotels in Houston and Dallas and Memphis and had presented a streamlined charter bus with full-screen TVs for in-route movies, and all the food they could eat, very few of the impoverished would have remained in the city. The fact is, riding out the storm was a helluva lot more exciting than sitting it out in the Superdome.

I also strongly believe a certain contingent of those who remained behind in the center of the city did so in order to take advantage of the situation. If you are a thief and I tell you everyone in town is going to be gone for twelve hours ... everyone ... would you not stay? Yes, I am quite sure there were many of those who are looting now - for merchandise, not for food - who saw this as an opportunity.

As for the wealthy white population ... I suppose it is because they are so rich that so many are still awaiting evacuation, still in shelters, still wondering where they are going to live.Yes, the wealthy have more options. It has always been this way, and it will remain this way. With means comes opportunity. It is this that inspires people to achieve wealth. It is this that is the basis for our democratic, economically republic society. We have, as a country, denounced economic systems that prohibit or even limit the commerce that makes wealth possible. We actively seek to force our economic system and standards onto other nations. We can't have it both ways. If we have economic competition, we will continue to have those who achieve and those who do not. How can we, then, pass judgment when the system works in exactly this way?

Yes, the wealthy had a place to go and the means to get there on their own. The poor had the option of public transportation to public shelters. Many of the poor did stay because they could not afford to go anywhere but to these shelters, and shelters are not attractive in the best of times. I am curious as to what supports other countries - which are so quick to criticize - have in place to accommodate one million plus evacuees. I am sure we could learn from your example. What do you have set up to offer them as immediate, emergency housing? What do you have to offer for transportation to the sites, other than buses?

Remember, although we know these storms are coming, we cannot predict exactly where - and the when is predictable within only a few days, most of the time. I suppose a mobile evacuation site would be the answer. I suppose other countries have this - to accommodate one million plus people? And of course they have reserves of food and water stored there, with bedding and blankets? And doctors, hundreds of doctors and nurses, waiting for days, just in case ... And of course they have enough vehicles to provide the transportation?

As for the looting ... remember, most of those looting had nothing before the storm damage. Now many of them have wide-screen TVs. The local news media has made little reference to those who are looting for food, water, essentials, other than to say it is happening and to comment on the desperation. It is the looting for electronics, jewelry, guns, etc, that most of us living this madness have a problem with. And to tell you the truth, I have little problem with that. Where the heck are they going to plug in that big ol’ TV? How are they going to protect it from the rising water? How are they going to escape the typhus and other dreadful diseases they will contract from walking in that polluted water? My theory is, let them loot and drown with their plunder. But then, I have never believed we can "fix" everything. Some things are way too far beyond our control. Let nature take its course. It usually wins.

Was poverty an issue in the number left behind, the number left to be rescued, the number left to die? Of course, it is an issue. It is always an issue. Poverty has been an issue for years in this country. However, where was the indignation of the national leaders, the national black leaders, before the storm? How many millions of dollars have other nations sent to the US to save our starving children? How man of those in this country raising money for those in others have acknowledged that we have a huge problem with poverty and hunger and the diseases they beget right here on our one doorstep? Why did you wait until now to get angry about this? And when are you going to DO something?
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When I grow up ..

I woke to my usual routine ... turned on the computer, set the pot of coffee to brew, walked back to the computer to dial up and log in; while that was happening ... s l o w l y ... I let the dog out, walked back to the kitchen to fix the first cup - just a little half n half (prefer the real thing, but sometimes settle for the white stuff and only drink it light when I make it myself or order it in a cafe/coffee house in southern Louisiana - otherwise it is too weak to take the jolt); I let the dog back in, head back to the computer with the coffee cup warming the palm of my hand and easing the morning arthritic ache in my fingers, then click on my 'favorites'.

There's the folder here of MSN Groups, one of Blogs and a special one for Poetry Sites. I often save that one for last. It is a savoring experience. One most enjoyed when approached tentatively - with the electricity of anticipation, the yearning built from abstinence, and the knowledge that fulfillment will be sure and complete.

It was. A favorite site is Poetry Daily, http://poems.com/. This morning my foraging brought me to a poem by William Greenway, which is a jewel in itself ...

The insurance will pay for nine
pills a month, he says. Out of what
hat did they pull that number?
- from Aesop at Sixty

Having falling immediately in love with a man who could write so eloquently, honestly and sincerely about the pills to enhance erectile dysfunction, I had to know more about him. And, in my foraging through google, I found this most delicious quote which contains a most delicious quote:

To live without poetry is to risk living only on the surface. I like what William Carlos Williams says:

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

All these writers urge me to do all I can to spread the word that poetry is not a hobby, but a way of living more fully.
- poet William Greenway

For me, too, poetry is not a hobby. I came to poetry late ... to steal from another quote ... and I could say it has transformed who I am. But the really telling effect is that it has transformed who I want to be.

Somewhere in Between

We are between the holidays, now, and there is nothing particularly outstanding about how southern Louisiana spends this time compared to other places. Lots of folks are exchanging Christmas presents and lots of others are out scooping up after Christmas sales … you know, the usual, materialistic American activity.

I am painting, mostly. I have not yet moved into the apartment I am preparing, because I am still painting the walls a pale yellow and the trim a linen white … on the advice of a friend … ahem! Seriously, it was the best advice anyone has given me in quite some time that I actually acted upon, and the results are … what word should I use? … sublime, perfection, exquisite. Perhaps there is not just one word that tells how totally perfect the results are proving to be.

Of course, I had to attempt a variation on the theme by bringing in a few contrasting colors, and, thus, the task has taken longer than anticipated ... as I have had to paint over the contrasting colors. After two successes and two disasters I have committed to finishing the job with no more experimentation. One can overdo a good thing.

My younger daughter is in Orlando, seeing Disney World with the family of a friend and preparing for the LSU bowl game on New Year’s Day, and the older daughter has not yet arrived for her intended visit. And I am contemplating the space in between.

That space that I always seem to find to be so fascinating. It shows up in the oddest places. Today it was the random first-time meeting of someone who not only knew a truly special friend of mine, but who was also present at his funeral when I sobbed my way through a poem I read in memoriam. I was reminded how much I miss my friend and what a large space he has left behind.

Those of you who are artists will understand the difference between painting the line and painting the shadow; between painting a figure and painting the space around the figure. Well, I sometimes cannot resist contemplating the space that has no figure for contrast; the space that is contrast. The space that my friend, Bill, left is that sort of space. All contrast.

You know, he always said some day I would write about him. I never wanted to admit he was right.

Merry Christmas, sha'! 

and so it is … Cajun Christmas

From the outside looking in, on first glance, there is nothing much different about Christmas way down South. But, of course, one cannot stand outside around here without being invited in for the traditional spicy, hot gumbo with a heap of potato salad sitting right there on top. To be honest, not everyone eats it that way. Over the years, those with aspirations of rising to the top of the Cajun social ladder began to eat their potato salad on the side. Such a pity! The blending of the flavors and the hot and the cold … well, as they say ‘round here … it makes ya wanna slap ya momma!

One of the grander traditions on the bayou is the lighting of the bonfires to show the way for Pere Noel. There are a few folks, still, who build there own and gather around with their families on Christmas Eve to light the flames and toast the tradition. But there are also entire communities who have adopted this tradition in a large way. They build hundreds of bonfires on the levee of the Mighty Mississippi, and this evening thousand will gather as the fires are lit.

And as people walk around, from one bonfire to another, folks in the community gather in their front yards to offer the warming bowl of gumbo to those who are otherwise strangers. Cajuns do know how to warm the spirit while warming the body. Most importantly, they seem to instinctively know that nurturing the spirit takes precedence.

Most of us have altered the tradition to allow for Christmas lights, hung from the eaves or draping the doorways and hugging the bushes. The effort is still made, by those of us living on the bayou, to shine the brightest lights in order to show the way. You can drive either side of the bayou and find houses all along the way brightly lit with the hope of Christmas. I admit I am particularly fond of this tradition, and I also indulge in the decorations. My bushes are hugged and my doorway is draped as I sit in anticipation of the magic of the season … the magic that lights the way for us all.

There's a cold moon smiling in a blue denim sky ...

... and the weatherman says 'a hard freeze tonight'. Seems drying trends came this way in a big way, and with the dry cold winter wind the temps are dropping. Last night we sank as low as 32 Fahrenheit degrees, but tonight we will see it drop to around 25, with wind chill … well, if you’re unfortunate enough to be outside when the temperature drops that low, wind chill isn’t much of a factor for you, anyway.

Since I must be at work by 7:15 in the morning, I will be one of the unfortunates. That’s what they make coats for … and gloves … and stockings and boots and socks and long underwear, if need be. I have some of each, although they don’t get much wear.

Last night I brought in the delicate vegetation, except for the ficus tree - it’s wearing a trash bag, cinched tight around the pot, lest some wily breeze finds its way in. Bella the Cat thinks all these plants are just for her and has spent most of the hours since huddled down between the pots, staring through the spider fronds, green eyes shining with delight.

I’ve covered the faucets and drained the outside pipes and taken the gumbo out of the freezer for supper tonight. Except for the gumbo, I usually don’t go through this routine until sometime in January, but this winter is following a schedule all its own.

So, I’m just reading the sky and awaiting my instructions.

Music to Raise the Spirit (of the Dead or Almost)

The suggestion was made recently, by my older daughter- who is more observant than I sometimes give her credit for - that I should listen less to depressing music and more to music of an upbeat and lilting nature. Actually, what she said was, “If I listened to that music all day long, I’d want to kill myself!” Since the thought of self-demise has crossed my mind a time or two in my life, I wondered if she might be onto something. So, I began a campaign to listen only to optimistic, uplifting, inspirational tunes.

I began with Yo-Yo Ma and a bit of Beethoven, Bach and Mozart “show tunes”. The latter, I thought, would be a ‘two birds with one stone’ – having read that the music of Mozart increases the learning potential of the listener, opens the brain pan or some such thing. Mine has felt a little tight, lately.

It was not altogether a fruitless experiment, in spite of some poor choices. I actually felt my outlook brighten. But, then, we had a few days of uncommon heat and blinding sun, so one could not be totally convinced of a connection.

Therefore, strictly for the sake of scientific study, and being once again consumed in layers of partly cloudy and chance of showers, I turned off the CDs and switched on the radio, tuned to a station playing only Christmas music. Now, tell me, who can be sad and disheartened when inundated with the lyrics and tones of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” or “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire?” And if that doesn’t get the love light burning, there’s always “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

It’s not that I have a particular complaint about the season, or even about the music – if a song were played, say, once every six or eight hours. However, the station apparently has but a few Christmas albums, something stuck back in the closet for lo’ these many years, and it is these few that are played over and over and over. I counted, in one hour, three “White Christmases” one “Chestnut” and two “Rudolphs” with his blinkin' nose!

To be quite honest, I’m not certain I can handle this much happiness. I’m thinking it might be about time for an evening of Townes Van Zandt and Lucinda Williams, maybe a little Simon and Garfunkel – sitting in my rocker, lights off, wrapped securely in that old, worn Army shirt with the cut off sleeves that served some time in Vietnam, and a glass of wine in hand. Now, that’s my idea of a ‘fun’ ‘uplifting’ evening at home.

Cheers!