Friday, August 25: I
notice that a few people on Facebook have changed their profile pictures to
this:
I chuckle nervously. When
you grow up here, hurricanes are a part of your life. Just like earthquakes are if you live on a
fault line. When we were growing up, 30
and 40 years ago, hurricanes didn’t incite panic from flooding. We were always warned about what could be the
doomsday scenario.…a Category 5 hurricane moving up the mouth of the Mississippi
River, which could overtop Mississippi River levees and flood the entire Metro
area. Now things are different. We are losing wetlands. Wetlands and small barrier islands that used
to stop the storm surges. Still, Isaac
appears to be a bit of a sissy. A
Category 1 just doesn’t pack the punch that a bigger storm does. At this time, it’s not even a hurricane, it’s
a tropical storm. Isaac is unorganized
and hard to pin down. What a man! (We later learn he is quite the asshole, and
even worse, he won’t leave.)
Saturday, August 26:
The models are still not certain if Isaac will commit to Nola. Sometimes the smaller storms are harder to
predict. They’re not the bowling balls
that bigger storms are. They don’t barrel
through. They linger. Lingering is bad. These yats around here are just funny, and
this starts appearing on my FB news feed
No one knows where it's going, but since I'm also a meteorologist, I decide it’s clear we’re going to be on the windy, rainy side. I see the words "Party popper" in the photo and realize I need supplies. So I drag 3 kids to Wal-Mart, where lunatics
are pulling water, liquor and canned goods off shelves like the hurricane is
directly overhead right now. I chuckle
at the mayhem because I was
smart and took a chill pill. I got this.
While
unpacking our supplies and trying to figure out where to hide the flashlights
from my boys, I get a call from the Kentucky muthas. BFF’s only child, Drew, age 23, has flipped
his car, been sawed out by the jaws of life, airlifted to a hospital, and is
profusely bleeding from multiple head wounds.
I grab the kitchen counter for support because my world is momentarily
pulling a G force that threatens to knock me on my ass. I hold my breath as I wait for the
answer. For the first thirty seconds of
the phone call, I’m pretty certain she’s going to tell me he’s dead or dying. Instead I learn it’s bad, but not that bad. I feel far away and helpless because all I
can do is offer love and prayers from afar.
Everyone here is texting back and forth about hurricane plans, and I am transported
to Kentucky emotionally. I don’t even
care about the hurricane.
Sunday, August 27, 3:00 pm:
My brother texts to say his pregnant wife has toxemia and is being
induced at 36 weeks with their miracle baby.
I’m not worried at all, but sense they are terrified. Again I feel helpless and wish I were there. They live in another state.
6:00 pm: We gather
with neighbors to commence the hurricane gluttony. We begin grilling our freezer contents in
anticipation of losing power, and drinking from hoarded stocks of alcohol. By now it’s clear Isaac has plans to hump Nola. I walk up 16 steps to get in my raised house
every day. My house is 100 years old and
has proved itself worthy over as many years.
Other muthas plan to evacuate here. It’s still just a tropical storm.
11:00 pm: We walk
home from neighbors after drinking and especially smoking way too much. Between the vehicle accident, the hurricane
and the baby on the way, I was chain smoking.
I now have an Emma voice.
Monday, August 28, 4:00 am:
I wake up and haven’t heard anything about the baby. I frantically text and learn he’s been born,
but wasn’t breathing well and is in NICU.
Mom and baby are both in jeopardy.
I rush to coffee pot and start pacing and texting. There are no pictures of the baby. I wonder if he’s deformed?
10:00 a.m.: The
evacuees arrive to hunker down at my house.
We have enough food and drink for a small Caribbean Island, yet we
nervously anticipate running out.
11:00 am. I text
Kentucky mutha to check on her and get a reply saying: “This is dress boss” and
then a bunch of shit I’m not sure about.
Has Kentucky mutha lost her mind?
The muthas here are already drinking and are yelling at me and calling
me a pussy because I’m hung over. They’re
telling funny stories about a mutha who had a tumor with hair and nails on
it. “Sweet Baby Jesus, was it a baby?” I’m
screaming. “It wasn’t a baby!” is the
response in a hysterical yat voice. I’m
laughing so hard, I decide I should drink a Bloody Mary and join in the fun. I text my brother for baby info. He responds with nothing about the baby but
says he hasn’t drank water or eaten anything in 24 hours. I finally scream text: TAKE A PICTURE OF THE
BABY YOU FOOL AND STICK YOUR HEAD UNDER THE FAUCET FOR SOME WATER. We make fun of him for the rest of the night. (Mom and baby are fine.) We try to watch the news stations with the most hysterical coverage. We find it makes you drink more.
9:00 pm: We get texts
from some muthas across town. Apparently
they are not rationing alcohol because their text says: “Pine tree down across street. Drink heaving omit.” We crack up laughing at the Chinese text then
go to bed. The wind is whipping ass but
we still have power. Cable is now out so
we no longer have a visual of what’s going on beyond our street. Facebook is out, but works slowly on our
smart phones. Cell phones never work
during hurricanes. Historically texts
have been reliable during storms, but now they are not going through most of the
time. Facebook quickly becomes the only
reliable means of communication. The muthas who evacuated to Baton Rouge want updates. We refuse to tell them what anything looks like. It's their punishment for leaving. We won't even say it's windy or raining.
Tuesday, August 29, 5:57 am:
It’s the 7 year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Adonis texts asking my whereabouts. I say I’m home and house is shaking and rattling
but I think the worst should be over. He
is watching news about levees breaking and streets flooding and he thinks we
are drowning. I say I’ve been sleeping,
but all is well. He calls us a bunch of “cwaaazy
coonasses” and I go back to sleep.
8:00 am: I wake up to
find out that Isaac has moved a total of six miles all night long. A couple hours later I figure out what Adonis
is talking about. I have family in another
town, and it’s flooding. People are
being evacuated in boats. I’m in panic
mode now. The storm is not even to us
yet, and there is flooding. Isaac is
enjoying his stay, barely moving, while dumping rain and swirling Lake
Pontchartrain in a counterclockwise motion.
Right now, the water is pushing southwest into LaPlace. There are no levees there, this town has
never flooded.
1:20 pm: Receive text
from cousin saying her gran and paw paw had to be evacuated by boat because
their neighborhood is flooding. I think about how nervous they must have
been. How she is always pretty with her
jewelry and makeup on. My heart aches
for them. A photo follows of someone
standing waist deep in the neighborhood.
Facebook is still our only means of communication. People are posting their parent’s addresses
on their walls, and other people are confirming whether or not they have been
rescued. Good old social media is not just
for being social now. It seems incredibly crazy, and it is.
We finally lose power, so we sit on the patio and drink heavily, while the kids play in the rain. Little darling falls asleep for a 3 hour nap. When he wakes up, I notice he is drenched. Forgetting he has played in the rain, I conclude he is sweating due to being in a diabetic coma. I scoop him up and race downstairs for an assessment by the muthas. I am quickly scoffed at and reminded that he was playing in the rain. Clearly, I'm losing it.
Niece arrives with friends and some new tasty liquor. We discuss the flooding and their eyewitness reports, including a photo of a transvestite in a bathing suit and heels, holding an umbrella, which was apparently taken around the corner just minutes ago. Niece feels sorry for Tran, so won't give me the photo to post. Try to visualize a skinny African American Tran, kinda pretty, pink bathing suit, driving rain, black umbrella, big smile.
We slept with the windows open, and the wind
was gusting strong all night. With the
rain, we have a slight mist coming through the windows, so we are not hot at
all. But when the power comes back on,
my a/c is broken. There’s the usual
broken limbs and leaf debris in my yard.
No other damage. We pack up our
hoard of food and liquor and move everyone to the other muthas house. We forget little darling's clothes. He yells at us the rest of the night because his shirt is too big.
Thursday, August 30:
I can’t take not knowing what is going on at my grandmother’s house and I
know she can’t stand not knowing either.
Some people are saying inches of water went in, some saying four
feet. Everyone just keeps saying, “You
can’t get there.” I find this an
unacceptable answer for the 93 year old matriarch of our family, so I impulsively
leave my kids with the muthas, hop in the car and just drive there.
Some roads are underwater, so we bobble and weave through neighborhoods
until we can’t get any further. We then
hoof it about 10 blocks through thigh deep water to her house. As soon as we put her key in the door we know
she’s had water. It smells like poo. We quickly move furniture to the dry part of
the house, then rip out carpet and padding and throw it out the window. There’s no power and no running water, so
that’s about all we can do for the day and it’s getting late. We give all her frozen food to the neighbors
because it’s too heavy to carry. Does anyone
understand what food cooked by a 93 year old Louisiana native tastes like? I felt
like I was sinning when I reluctantly handed it over. I should also add that her fudge is so
incredibly delicious that some people ate it with poo-y fingers and it was
indeed carried 10 blocks through floodwater in a Styrofoam container. I will never tell who ate the poo fudge. It wasn’t me.
Friday, August 31: We
return home, so we can meet the a/c man.
As I’m getting out of the car, my phone rings with a Kentucky
number. It’s a stranger saying they
found Kentucky muthas wallet at Sams.
Apparently they watched her drive off with it on the roof of her
car. I have no clue how they got my
number, but we coordinate the return of the wallet.
Air conditioning is the Goddess of
Everything. It’s 85 inside when we get
here, so not great but bearable. Some of
the muthas who evacuated to Baton Rouge want to come home, but they have no
power. They’re coming here. We are so exhausted by this point that I’m
staring at the microwave trying to feed people and I can’t even figure out what
buttons to press. I just keep staring. I’m doing weird things,
like texting people and then putting the phone to my ear while I wait for them
to answer. At first I silently wonder if
I’m getting Alzheimers, but then everyone else confesses they are doing the
same thing.
Saturday, September 1:
The last group leaves here, and I start cleaning up the frat house. Everything is sticky. There are almost as many leaves inside my house
as outside. Blankets are everywhere,
pictures are askew, kids have scribbled with markers on my desk. The baby has no shoes. I’ve left all my condiments and liquor
somewhere else. We need to go to the
grocery and start getting back to normal.
I put my kids to bed at 7:15. I
realize I haven’t spoken to big darling in five days. I cuddle with him on the couch and suddenly
feel like I have the flu. I’m asleep in
about 15 minutes; I miss all of the movie. I wake up and realize I didn’t have
the flu, I was only exhausted.
Sunday, September 2: I
travel to LaPlace to my best friend’s house.
I’ve known her since we were four.
We danced in a recital together dressed like monkeys and pigs. She is a teacher. She bought a new house 20 days ago. Her flood insurance was to kick in on day 30.
She had inches of water everywhere, just
enough to require all new floors and sheetrock.
Did I mention she's a teacher? We walk in circles and she mostly cries.
I boss them around for a couple hours, then can’t figure out what else
to do without more labor. In desperation,
she calls the priest at church and he sends people over. I leave.
I come home and bathe the stink off of me. I realize I haven't written a word in over a week. Dear Diary....what a crazy week this has been.
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