The Last Normal Day: Reflecting on Pre-Katrina Life

The date August 29, 2005 is far more than just an important date for anyone that lived in the inundated parts of New Orleans around this time last year; it marks when life as we knew it changed forever. From that day forward, many will view their lives divided between pre-Katrina and post-Katrina years.

The physical reminders of the hundreds of thousands of people’s pasts, whether they were photographs, treasured family heirlooms or homes were washed away, many irreplaceable, to say nothing of the over 1300 lives that were consumed by the forgiving rising waters and the other maladies that came with America’s most destructive storm.

For this writer, my last day in the pre-Katrina world was Saturday August 27th.

That morning at 9 am I was anxiously pacing the floor at the Lod Cook Alumni Building at LSU. I had been largely oblivious to the approaching storm that had survived passing over the southern tip of Florida until watching the news that morning at the site of a quarterly state GOP meeting in Baton Rouge.

Regrettably those in charge of the meeting callously refused to cancel, supposedly in response to the urgings of committee members not residing in areas of the state threatened by the menacing cyclone. One even had the audacity to wisecrack that he thought the weather was beautiful and how he had wished he would have brought his golf clubs. Too bad he didn’t, I would have found a new home for his three-wood.

I would have bolted had it not been for a project I had been working on for over a year that was supposed to be considered, so for three hours I sat there and stewed until the meeting was adjourned just prior to a vote on the only reason I was even in attendance. I was livid though my immediate concern now was getting on Interstate 10 to New Orleans before the State Police enacted contra-flow (converting all lanes of the highway to a single direction).

The brisk drive down to New Orleans was surreal and reminded me of a scene from “Independence Day” as the westbound lanes of the I-10 was clogged with bumper to bumper traffic while I had the eastbound lanes virtually to myself.

My first stop was to take care of my Sabbath obligation at a church in Metairie. I had attended high school with the priest’s younger brother and we had scheduled a card game for that Sunday evening, which was going to be canceled. Just before Mass I saw the priest as he was proceeding to the altar, tugged his vestment and asked him to keep his homily “short and sweet.” Because the Archbishop of New Orleans had neither canceled Mass nor ordered his priests to leave town, Saturday vigil went on as usual though the faithful for the most part busied themselves with either evacuation or hunkering down for the worst. The Church, as most in the New Orleans area, was nearly empty.

After church I made my way to St. Bernard for the first of my last two trips before it would become a casualty of meteorological history. My first parish destination was my childhood home to check on my grandfather. When I arrived members of my family were putting the finishing touches boarding up the windows, a traditional hurricane exercise that on this occasion would be in futility.

Inside the house was my paternal grandfather Mickey Bayham, the man who had raised me. Once a tough as nails shipbuilder, his body had been wrecked by a combination of bad knees and a stroke brought on my diabetes. Having lost the ability to walk in 1999, Pop was confined to a bed though through use of an elaborate contraption could be moved to a wheel chair or motorized scooter.

Pop was watching television from his hospital bed as he fussed about the family’s intentions to move remove him to safety. He wailed that the neighborhood had never flooded, not even during Hurricane Betsy, which until 8/29/05 was the most notorious of hurricanes to visit the New Orleans area. Pop was a veteran of the Coast Guard and loved stormy weather and feared little to nothing.

As he was putting up a fight an aunt, I would find out later, suggested that maybe it would be better for everyone to stay with him in the house, which was raised three feet off the ground. That idea was summarily rejected by her spouse and we physically carried him to my uncle’s car as he continued to protest. After they left I walked into my old bedroom that contained almost everything I had from my childhood to my college years, yearbooks, comic books, TKE memorabilia and a trove of political collectibles, including a signed copy of Ronald Reagan’s autobiography. I glanced at a binder of baseball cards that I had left sitting on my bed from a previous visit but did not put it up with the others in my closet. Luckily I didn’t as that binder would be the only part of my baseball card collection to survive as the mattress they were on floated in the five feet of water that flooded the house.

Leaving the house that I called home for almost all of my life, I drove a few blocks down to the home of a friend of mine’s grandparents. Playing out in their living room was a drama that had begun since early that morning as the man of the house was locked into a war of wills with his wife over evacuating. She wanted out; he didn’t; and she was not leaving without him.

I had been involved via cell phone pleading with my friend’s grandfather to agree to leave, a request that he had stubbornly refused. I made a pitch in person that did not seem to move the stern ex-Airborne rifle instructor, who also seemed to be suffering from a case of “invincibilitis,” a mental disease common amongst elderly men that in far too many cases proved fatal. Seeing that my latest attempt was falling on deaf ears, I asked his teary-eyed wife to join me in the kitchen for a moment where I informed her of the possibility that I could have her husband arrested and dragged out against his will, causing the blue-haired church lady to go into hysteria. I took my leave.

Emotionally drained from political manure from earlier and the impending doom upon me and my community, I needed to get recharged. What better place I could find than my own version of Nirvana: Rocky and Carlos.

The famed-Sicilian eatery was as much of a landmark in St. Bernard Parish as the obelisk commemorating the American victory in the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812. Every Sunday morning, I would stride in with the Times Picayune in hand, order my meal (veal cutlet and French fries with a shredded lettuce salad) and read the paper for the next hour and a half. I was such a regular at the restaurant that the waitresses would begin cooking my food upon first glimpse of my entering the establishment.

With pandemonium all around and much to do, I questioned the wisdom of taking the pit stop but I had a feeling that said it would be a good idea. And so, I went to the newspaper machine in front the place, picked up the Saturday edition heralding the approach of the killer and had what is perhaps the finest meal I would ever consume.

Sated, I then went to the townhouse I rented in the middle of Chalmette. Ironically I was supposed to move out of it that weekend but dragged my feet some and worked out a deal that would allow me to stay until the middle of September. Besides I had yet to get that chip on the wall fixed from the time I bumped into it with my television while hauling my worldly goods upstairs from Hurricane Ivan the previous year.

The apartment was a mess and I was starting to feel the day’s exhaustion. Dejectedly I say on the middle of the staircase and just…stared. If Katrina was going to be as bad as they said it would be, I would have the limited time frame of only a few hours and the similarly limited spatial capacity of my Ford Escort to haul my possessions. After zoning out for a few minutes I decided that I would take not what was most valuable but what would be the hardest to replace, that being my three years of research on St. Bernard Parish history. And so I grabbed a laundry basket and began throwing in all assorted papers from hundreds of hours of risking epilepsy at a microfilm machine. I also disconnected my hard drive and brought down a bag of dirty clothes and some reading material I had meant to get to. As I was running like a mad refuge to my car with my obsolete computer, I watched as my neighbors were running into their apartment with an ice chest full of beer.

With my car partially loaded, one of the things I did not have at the moment was a plan for leaving. I’d get to that later as the night was still young, 8 PM and there was Mille Bornes to play and one last attempt to knock some sense into an old coot.

Upon arriving at my friend’s grandparents house I saw the old man still sitting steadfastly in his Lazy-Boy though at his feet were several suitcases. I asked his wife, still a nervous wreck, if they were leaving and she replied in the affirmative. Did my begging and that of their daughter and grandson finally sink in, I wondered? The old lady said that the appearance of their eccentric son, who had visited en route to his own evacuation, had finally won over her husband. Apparently when his father saw that his son, who was a Vietnam Vet that had seen everything, was not going to ride this one out, the old man came around to the idea of fleeing. Happy that the dreaded possibility of police forcing my friend’s grandfather out of his own house now moot, I could play some cards.

Now Mille Bornes is a French card game similar to Uno, except it involves cars. I generally call it “coup farre”, a term stated, or shouted, when a trump card is flopped. You’ll understand momentarily where this innocuous game fits into the grand scheme of things.

My friend the priest was packing up his own possessions at the church rectory and I went over to lend him and his brother a hand and to slip in a few games of Mille Bornes thereafter. Sacramental records, saintly relics and other items of community importance needed to be secured in addition to the priest’s personal items.

After an hour of moving books and whatnot, we finally got around to game. It would be most fortuitous, and not just because I would win most of the hands played.

While engaged in the typical skull drudgery that accompanies the game, all eyes were peeled to the Weather Channel as the category 3 storm was blossoming to a 5. The Gulf of Mexico itself was disappearing under the large splotches of red and yellow as Katrina made her way to the Louisiana coastline. This was not going to be like Ivan or any of the other powerful storms that had seemed destined to Louisiana before veering off to Mississippi or Alabama. This was the one New Orleanians had collective nightmares about.

Around this time I began to examine what exit options I had, which were not many. Driving was not an option. I had called my mother, who was essential personnel and could not leave, earlier in the day and had asked to borrow her car, to which she refused. I had retorted if the storm was as bad as everyone was saying it could be, she would lose it. She replied that she was going to park at a supposedly safe spot in the parish. My humble vehicle had a tendency to overheat and I was not about to suffer anxiety attacks over the radiator while crawling through 2 mph on the Interstate, which was perpetually backed up as of 11 AM Saturday.

My “coup farre” comrades offered to let me join them and their family at the Holiday Inn in downtown New Orleans, where they had reserved a room. But my spider-senses told me that was not a good option either. So now what?

I then had an epiphany. I remembered that I had just earned two weeks before a free frequent flyer trip on Southwest Airlines. I called a friend of mine in Arizona up and asked if I could crash at his place. As his wife had just given birth to their first child, he said he needed to clear it with the missus and that he would get back with me. Ten minutes later he called back in the affirmative. Now the catch was how I was going to get there.

Southwest Airlines’ 24-hour lines were jammed but I got through and asked about my travel alternatives out of New Orleans. Slim and none was their reply. I pressed on and the operator said someone had just canceled and a seat for Phoenix became available. I swooped up on the 4:50 PM flight and went back to playing cards.

Two hours later I began to wonder about the likelihood of that plane leaving. As the gusts were already starting to announce Katrina’s arrival, surely they would not be running planes that late on Sunday? But what choice did I have. I was now on edge, loathing the prospect of having to wait a hurricane out in the airport. I then called Southwest back and asked if they had any other flights available to anywhere else at an earlier time and it looked like I was going to Albuquerque for 11 am when the operator said an empty plane had just been added to the system at 2 AM for Phoenix, leaving New Orleans at 7 AM. A blessing had been bestowed upon me.

With five hours to go, the card games ceased as I began to finish up the details of my hasty departure. My friend, who was going to celebrate Mass Sunday morning, agreed to bring me to the airport when I began to wonder about the fate of my car and the items I had left back at the apartment. I took back off for what would be my final pre-Katrina visit to St. Bernard.

I somberly packed a few electronic stuff into my backpack and swept through the abode looking for anything else that I might want to take with me. I had not the strength in me to even think of moving the large television downstairs and my lack of appreciation of Katrina’s true strength resulted in an activity that almost seems comedic now. Fearing that I might have as much as three feet of water inside, I began moving things of value from the bottom part of my first floor to the tops of my bookshelves, also on the first floor. Talk about rearranging the chairs on the Titanic.

I then went upstairs and committed what would be the only stupid thing I had done that day, aside from staying at the aforementioned meeting. Worried about the storm’s winds blowing out my second-story windows, I meticulously placed my most valuable political and history books in a cardboard box and place them away from the windows on the floor of my second story where they would now be safe from rainwater AND floodwater. Right?

My last act before locking the door was retrieving my stainless steel .357. Though I cherished that handgun, I did not pack it with luggage I planned on checking as I did not know what the policy was about transporting firearms on planes and was not about to risk anything that would preclude me from boarding that flight to Phoenix. Concerned about looters, I took the unloaded weapon, placed on the floor in a corner and threw a rag on top of it. I figured it would be safer there than in a drawer where a thief would be sure to look for valuables. And with that I bid farewell prematurely to the townhouse as I could hear the sound of partying next door.

While driving down St. Bernard’s main thoroughfare, I saw the government complex to my right. It was in that building where that I had worked every hurricane during my days as a councilman, grabbing naps on the office couch in between making checks on neighborhoods in my district during the midst of hurricanes.

No longer a part of the parish government after leaving office in 2004 and lacking an authority to do anything of consequence, hurricanes were now something for me to run from instead of work, though while zipping past the building I could not help but think of those black and white pictures of Hurricane Betsy’s legacy that hung in the committee room. During lulls in such meetings I would find myself gazing in amazement at the visuals of ten feet of water that submerged the western part of the parish and wondering if it was possible in this day and age for history to be repeated.

Instead of going to Metairie I met my ride at the New Orleans Center parking garage in downtown New Orleans. I was worried about my car and had earlier thought about dropping my car off at the elevated parking facility just steps away from the Superdome. Apparently others had the same idea, including a funeral home that had parked its fleet of new Cadillac hearses in one area, but after a few minutes of searching I found an optimal spot surrounded by concrete walls that would protect my windshields and windows from flying gravel. With my luggage loaded to the gills, I left my computer hard drive, tuxedo and research in my four-door economy car through looters and vandals were a source of concern. Seeing the George W. Bush stickers covering my bumper, I thought I should at least lessen the chances of my vehicle being torched by ne’er-do-wells by removing the Republican advertising from my car, though without success. Oh well, I guess the old car will just have to die in the faith.

Large rain drops from Katrina’s feeder bands splashed across the windshield of my friend’s van as we proceeded to the airport at 4 AM. Traffic looked like afternoon rush hour but the good news is that most vehicles were not planning on making exits off the Interstate before Baton Rouge allowing for a fairly smooth ride to the airport. While en route to the airport, I talked my friend into scuttling his plans to ride the storm out in downtown New Orleans and go to Georgia instead. Had they stayed, he and his family, which included two elderly people, would have been dispatched to the Superdome, soon to become the 8th ring of Dante’s Inferno.

The tension that had relentlessly gripped me starting Saturday morning began to ease as I was handed my travel ticket, thus beginning my almost two-week desert exile. But at that time, before Katrina had bared for the world her full wrath, I thought I would be back in a matter of days and dining once again at Rocky’s. In fact I almost booked my return on Southwest for the following weekend before thinking otherwise.

Though the day had been anything but normal as it would be a card game that ultimately led me to the safety of Arizona, the day of August 27th and twilight of August 28th would mark the final hours of the only world I had ever known. In the span of just over a day, the world that I lived in would change forever.