A Katrina Story

(Note from Bill: This post is from my cousin, Tom Arceneaux, who has such an amazing Katrina story that I said, you gotta write it down! So he did. Here it is in his own words. Enjoy.)



Last year at this time I was in New Orleans, having gone to Louisiana for a job interview. After almost 20 years in Georgia I'd decided it was time to move back to be closer to the family. Atlanta traffic alone can kill you. Most of my family was in Louisiana, including my elderly parents, four kids, two grandchildren, and dozens of others.

I spent a busy week driving all over La, from Slidell to Baton Rouge, and everywhere in between. The interview was on Wednesday, Aug 24. It went well and I'd begun looking around for places to live. I discovered real estate was very cheap near Hammond where 2 of my kids lived.

I should also mention that Aug 24 is the Feast Day of St.Bartholomew, the patron Saint of neuro disorders(like Tourette's Syndrome) and also twitching. I remember praying for St.Bart's intercession so that my anxiety during the interview would not result in any tics or symptoms.

Later that day I learned my Aunt Aline had a stoke. When my sister Beth called to tell me the news, we were both on cell phones and both in a car at the time. I didn't hear the message clearly that it was serious and that she wasn't expected to make it. At the time I thought "I sure hope she gets out of the hospital before I leave town so I can share my New Orleans song with her while I'm here." There's a line in the song about her pecan pie. Also, I'd brought my "Sound of Music" karaoke CD with me in case we got a chance to do it. It was her favorite movie.

Aunt Aline and Uncle Billy instilled in me the love of sing-a-longs. To this day, I attribute my love for karaoke to them. It has proved to be quite therapeutic at many times in my life. I also hoped I'd get to share that with her since I'd never told her how much those parties she hosted meant to me when I was a kid: Mitch Miller and all that.

While I was visiting Louisiana during this time, every meal I ate with the family was something non-Cajun. My sister Barbara's 50th birthday was on Monday and of course we ate wherever she wanted, which was Italian. Tuesday I had dinner with my son and his girlfriend at a restaurant (also Italian) in Baton Rouge. Just like Dorothy kept telling everybody "I just want to go home," I kept telling everybody "I want some Cajun food." On Wednesday I drove with Adam the 20 miles to Middendorf's in Manchac for lunch. Not that I wanted to be driving any more than I was, but I wanted some Cajun food, damn it!

My buddy Sean arrived the next day. We'd planned to spend the weekend in the French Quarter, something I'd never done, not for a whole weekend. While walking thru the city, I shared with him hundreds of memories of the various streets and buildings. I took pictures of places like the building that was Werlein's where I first took piano lessons 40 years ago. Little did I know it would be some of the last pictures taken of the city intact for a long time. Much of it is still awaiting reconstruction today, a year later.

I remember thinking that when I moved away from New Orleans many decades ago I had left with a negative attitude toward the whole place. The economy was bad, unemployment was depressing, the politicians all seemed corrupt, the weather was unbearable, there was racial tension, crime was on the rise, the drug culture was getting out of control, etc. But on those few days before the storm I was reminded of how it was a great city in so many ways. The food, the music, the diversity of the people all made it one of the most colorful places I'd ever been.

Friday night was spent partying in the French Quarter in a way I never had before. I couldn't remember when I had had so much fun. It was great!

Then Saturday came.

I learned my beloved favorite Aunt Aline had passed away and was now in Heaven with Uncle Billy, who had died five years earlier. Katrina had been upgraded to a Category 5 and was headed straight for New Orleans. The Luau-themed birthday party my sister Theresa was having got pretty much canceled as everyone was boarding up windows and stocking up on batteries, bottled water and candles. Some were saying "we gotta get out of here" and evacuating as fast as possible. Others were saying "it's just another hurricane, we've seen a hundred of 'em." There was much protracted discussion, much controversy, much confusion, and sometimes hysteria.

I had to go to my sister's house regardless. My parents would be there. It was to be the last time I saw my mother before she went in the hospital the final time. She'd had Alzheimer's for about 10 years and it was progressing. My Dad would be there, and my son and two-month-old grandson. I was going to get a four-generation picture of us no matter what, come the proverbial Hell or high water. (little did I know)

I took the Causeway bridge across Lake Ponchartrain to Theresa's. We lit candles on the cake, sang happy birthday, and ate and drank in typical Louisiana fashion. It was great. When my mother saw me she couldn't remember my name, of course, but lit up when she saw me, and I swear there was some kind of recognition there, on some level. I also got the 4-generation picture I'd wanted so much, and we shared the last pleasant social gathering we would know for quite a while.

By the time I was on the Causeway heading back to the hotel, Interstate 10 out of New Orleans was already gridlocked all the way to Baton Rouge, and there was nowhere else to go. I'd been through enough hurricanes to know the last place I wanted to be when the hurricane hit was stuck on an interstate in a car, probably running out of gas.

So, we decided to ride out the hurricane on the fifth floor of the Ramada Hotel in downtown New Orleans. I made sure we had enough bottled water and candles to get us through, and half a bottle of Vodka. I also had the rosary I bought at Saint Louis Cathedral. Anyone who grows up in New Orleans knows that during a hurricane there's always someone, if not an entire extended family, praying the rosary by candlelight when you're riding out a hurricane in the dark.

I assured Sean, who'd never experienced a hurricane before, that we'd be okay. The only time he got freaked out was when the large air conditioner jumped out of the wall asnd crashed to the floor. I calmly said, "we just push it back in the wall, prop it up, and we're okay." Not sure if he believed me, but I think I sounded convincing. Meanwhile I was praying the whole time: "Lord have mercy on us and get us through this alive."

We couldn't sleep all Sunday night, but toward dawn we were fading. At exactly 5:55 a.m. on Monday, the power went out. Category 5 hit. Numerologically, they say 5 is the number of change and drama!

Being exhausted, we slept through the storm. What else could you do? The A/C was propped up, we were on the 5th floor (the #5 again!) and the 5th of vodka was finished. We slept about 5 hours.

Around noon, I went out to forage for food, not knowing if the hotel would or could provide anything. All the hotel staff up to that point appeared to be freaking out and anxious to get out of there ASAP. After an hour or two of searching all over what was left of New Orleans, I came back with was two bags of potato chips and a bottle of vodka (some bars were still open).

That night at the hotel I assured Sean that it would all be okay, that the power would be out for a few days and before long we'd be getting back home just a few days late. After all, I'd been through many hurricanes and this was no big deal.

Tuesday morning I awoke to the sound of Sean screaming at the window. "Oh my God! Oh my God! Tom, come see this. You won't believe it!" I walked to the window and saw water up to the level of the second floor of the hotel. I reacted with "Oh my God! I don't believe it!" I stared until the reality of it would sink in. It never did sink in.

We were blessed, however. There were a few people from the hotel still there, particularly Allison Wolstenholme, sales director or something, who said "welcome to the Island of Ramada; we'll be here a while." She and her fiance had waded thru the water across the street to City Hall to report that there were about 50 people stranded in the hotel and to get some MREs. That was the last help we got. After that we were on our own.

I never knew MREs tasted so good. The first night we had salad with a few chicken bits in it, and they opened the wine cabinet. So we dined on salad and wine. I looked around at all the nervous, scared, depressed people (especially the remaining hotel staff) and wished I could help. I walked up to one of the hotel staff, a guy named Sean (a different Sean) to express a concern I had. He was getting voluminous complaints and concerns from everybody there, but was trying to be as helpful as possible. When he finally turned to speak to me, I said that the meal was very nice, but I had a concern. We were interrupted a couple of times, then he finally turned back to me. I said "this is very nice, especially the glass of wine, but, excuse me, this is red wine & I had the chicken." It took a minute before he got it, asnd then he laughed. I'm sure it was the first time he'd laughed since Katrina hit.

I told my friend Sean that night that I was feeling guilty because he'd brought his guitar with him (he's a singer/songwriter) and I was getting a free live concert every night. Fortunately, he plays acoustic guitar. I said "you need to go play for those nervous, depressed, scared people down in the lobby, they need it." At first he was reluctant, then finally agreed.

He played for them and they loved it. It brought joy to them and uplifted their spirits. I was reminded of the lesson I learned about how to handle the holidays when they're difficult. What do you do when you just can't get in the Christmas Spirit? You forget about yourself and try to make someone else's Christmas merry. It works.

We adjusted, uncomfortably, to our situation with no power, no running water, no chance to bathe or shower, and no freedom to leave the hotel. Yet it was the lack of communication that was hardest to deal with. Cell phones gave out right away. Text messaging was still possible on Sunday. The last messages I got were all saying, "go to the Superdome." I knew better.

There was no way to tell my loved ones that I was even alive. I, of course, was also worried about all of them, as all my family is in South Louisiana. Sean hadn't even told his mother that he was going on a "weekend trip." He dreaded her finding out that he was in New Orleans, of all places.

The hotel was a block from Charity hospital. It was 2 days before they started evacuating the patients. The back-up generators only lasted a day. A doctor from Charity came over in a boat and told us what was going on. Their morgue was in the basement and they weren't able to preserve the bodies. So, there were dead bodies rotting in the water just a block away from us. He said out on the street people were killing each other over food and fresh water. The roof came off the Superdome the first day, and there was no police force or security. We began to realize how lucky we were, uncomfortable or not.

Those on the Superdome side of the Ramada could hear screams and gunshots at night. We were on the library side of the hotel. We could hear the sound of chewing as the rats got into the library and were chewing on the books.

Being a nurse, I'm not accustomed to sitting still. I decided the only way to get any exercise (and fresh air) was to climb the 12 or so flights of stairs up to the roof. The first time I got to the roof I broke down in tears at the sight of my hometown, which I'd only recently begun to appeciate, inundated. Buildings I'd seen intact my whole life were destroyed. It was heart-wrenching. I could also see the Superdome down the street with thousands of people standing outside, and on the intersate dozens of people were stranded out in the sun's heat. In the distance were several gigantic black smoke clouds, which no one could identify, looking like entire cities were burning.

Everyday some of us would make the trek up to the roof, expecting to see the crowds at the Dome dwindling, but to the very last day there were still thousands waiting on the buses.

There were rescue guys in swamp boats passing back and forth everyday, evacuating people from Charity, splashing water against the windows of the hotel, and helicopters flying overhead transporting people from Tulane Medical Center across the street. But not one of them ever stopped to ask if we were okay or offer any help.

Wednesday, August 31, was the birthday of Josh, one of the other guests at the hotel. He turned 11. What a way to spend your 11th birthday, I thought. So that night Sean brought down his guitar and played for them. I collected the souvenir beads I'd gotten that week and gave them to the three kids there, with Josh the B'day boy getting the one that had flashing lights. Sean was taking requests. One of Josh's favorite groups was Green Day. When Sean did "Wake me up when September ends" it seemed so fitting, about surviving a loss. It kind of became our theme song.

Later that night, Sean and myself pulled our first night watch. With the danger of rapists out loose and no police protection, all the men took turns taking 2-hour shifts guarding the hotel doors. There were about a dozen college-age girls in the hotel. Someone gave Sean a knife, in case he had to use it. It was all they had. I'll never forget turning to Sean on our watch, trying not to laugh, and saying, "what are we gonna do if somebody armed or crazy tries to get in? Attack them with your knife and my sharp wit?" Fortunately there were no intruders on our watch.

Each day a few people would leave, and we'd never see them again, never knowing if they made it out to safety or not. One day a crazy woman came wading through the waist-high nasty water looking for her sandals. She was in the water barefoot. I was shocked to learn that one group stole our provisions as they left: bottled water and the last of the ice. Desperate times drive people to drastic measures.

Toward the end of this ordeal, a group of us gathered one night and combined our candles and whatever liquor we had left and had a "party" (so to speak) trying to uplift our spirits as best we could. The last round was what we called a "Katrina cocktail." All that was left was Tropicana orange juice, blue powerade, and some cheap gin. It pretty much looked like the water outside and didn't taste much better. It was BAD! But in times like that, whaddya do?

Sean played his guiter and we tried to laugh as best we could. I even tried to make jokes, like...

Q - How many Katrina survivors does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A - None, we have no power!

Okay, I didn't say it was a funny joke.

On Friday our British friend Ged put on some waist-high boots and waded to where he found a pay phone, and it worked! It was a shock to me that an hour after he reached his brother in England, a reporter from the BBC was there to get his story and in another hour someone was there to rescue him! Don't even mention how slow our government was to respond. After all, poor George had to cut short his vacation, but don't get me started on that.

By then the water had started going down, at least in the vicinity of the Ramada. Those of us still there had cars in the parking garage down the street, all on the 3rd floor or higher. On Saturday morning we rode in a boat down to the parking garage, got in our cars, and drove on the sidewalk (streets were still flooded) back to the open area in front of City Hall, across the street from the hotel. Everyone's belongings were brought to the cars in the little boat, which took quite a few trips. Some of the cars had almost no gas and we all knew there'd be none available for a LONG ways. Whatever abandoned cars in the area that had gas in them got syphoned. Fortunately for me, I had over half a tank. I have never sucked gas out of a tank before and could only stomach it if my life depended on it, and this would have been the time.

So, there we were, the final dirty dozen, worn out, sweaty, exhausted, stressed out, achingly homesick, getting ready to make our escape. But, of course, the streets were flooded and the park area in front of City Hall was strewn with trees and debris. After managing to clear a path thru the park, we followed the route the buses had been taking to get out of the city. As we passed the Dome, there were still thousands of people waiting out in the sun to be rescued. Lord, bless'em. When we finally got to the bridge, we could see the city behind us, and HALLELUJAH! We'd escaped!

Heading for Baton Rouge, there were only a couple of gas stations open and the lines were literally over a mile long. When we finally could stop, all the cars pulled over before going our separate ways. We got out, hugged each other, exchanged phone numbers and email addresses so we could keep in touch, and said good bye. Some of us have kept in touch. Some we never heard from again.

It was in Gonzales that we first saw power on and gas available. We stopped at a MacDonald's and, my God! I never knew a Big Mac and a side of fries with a Coke could taste so good!

As God was merciful, I found the ONLY hotel room vacant in the city of Gonzales. Got there at noon and someone was just checking out, praise the Lord. There was air conditioning, running water, clean sheets on the bed, and laundry facilities. We were in Heaven. Sean was the first to take a shower. I remember how amusing it was hearing him screaming "Oh my God! it feels so good to get clean!" But I understood, so I didn't make fun of him. Then was my turn, and guess what? I got in the shower and screamed "Oh my God! It feels so good!"

After spending 2 hours on the phone with Delta, I finally got us flights back to Atlanta, but the earliest would be Tuesday. So, we spent the next 4 days catching up on the news. I had no idea the entire Gulf Coast was destroyed and over a thousand people had died. After recharging the cell phones, I spent hours talking to EVERYBODY letting them know I was okay and finding out how most of them fared. There still were some that no one had heard from. All you could do was pray. Sean finally told his mother what had happened and promised her he'd never take a trip without telling her again. As for my mother, impairments can be a blessing at times, as all she remembered about the experience was that it got dark for about a week.

When I finally made it back, I vowed I would never take hot showers, clean clothes, air conditioning, or ice for granted again. Even though many in my family lost their jobs, or their homes, or their cars, or (temporarily) their hope for the future, none of them lost their lives, thank God.

So, here it is a year later, and the levees still aren't fixed, much of the city is still abandoned, many refugees haven't returned, and much of the trust we used to have in the government has suffered. Still, I remind myself, if we can survive this, we can survive anything.

May God have mercy on us all!

Peace,
Tom