Summer's over. I go back for staff week in..oh...less than 8 hours.
It was, hands down, one of THE best years at camp ever. We have a solid staff with competent...no, BEYOND competent head teachers. We had people who didn't create or care about drama. It all went too quickly.
I have had to spend the night away from home every week for like 8 weeks.
Week 3 of camp had me spend the night to babysit the Tzofim Friendship Caravan, which is our favorite event. These singing and dancing Israelis are amaaaaa-zing. They stay the night with us the day before performing, and the director and I had to stay with them.
One week later was the camp overnight.
The next week was my cousin's wedding in the French Quarter, and we had a hotel room for two nights.
The next weekend was my brother-in-law's wedding in Thibodaux, so we had a hotel room there.
The next week was the final camp overnight.
This past weekend involved driving my brother-in-law and new sister-in-law to their new home in Starkville, MS.
We should be going to stay at a friend's camp near Baton Rouge this weekend. It'll be nice to put away the suitcase.
Okay, 7 weeks.
Speaking of putting things away, we have not done any more to the house. Too many weekends out of town. There was a third wedding in there, but we didn't have to stay in any hotels for it, haha. I'm losing my mind.
Some people nest because they are having kids. Other people nest because there are too many huge things which need to be done around the house, and they are powerless to do them, and so they start tinkering and upgrading little things around the house as a means of controlling some little part of their lives.
Yeah, that second one is me.
For instance, now that my b-i-l and s-i-l are 5-6 hours away from us, we have no idea how often we'll be able to see them. We'd like to have a place for them to stay if they have a chance. This is really hard to deal with, especially for Mark. He is so close to his brother, and while we live an hour and a half away from his family, he could and sometimes did visit at random. You can't really do that on a 5-6-hour trip.
Anyway, we have two guest bedrooms which double as our offices. Each has a twin bed in it. It would not be fair to have them sleep in separate rooms. While wandering in Target, we were checking out all of the fun back-to-college stuff, and we found a futon on sale. We decided to do what my mother-in-law did for us when we would visit: put the two twin beds in one room (my office, in this case), get one of those foam bed bridge thingies, and turn the two twins into a king. The futon will go in Mark's office.
So now we need king-sized bedding, to get the stuff moved out of my office, and start turning this into a nice guest room.
I've also picked up curtains, some new pillows, new flatware since the dishwasher ruined ours, some new sheets, and countless other things that needed upgrading around here. And I feel like there's SOME control regained over my house.
Hopefully, after this weekend, we can get back on this renovation thing.
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Back into it
I've had several people tell me that I need to get back into this. I had neglected things a bit, but the school year tends to be a little difficult for free time. And once we hit spring, I have my bowling team, and then I go back to camp every few days to prepare for the upcoming summer. My available hours are slim.
Don't let my Facebook presence throw you, though. I keep the browser window open and the FB tab on top, so I see notifications. And I get all ADD and start looking at whatever went up there while I'm working on other things.
Anyway, I hate that all of my posts over the past year or so have been "let me catch you up" posts, but, well, sometimes, that's just how it is.
And, unfortunately, I guess that's what this one will be.
Last regular post I'd had was about my little Nala cat. I think I just couldn't write again for a while after that.
The biggest thing to change in my life was a life-saving moment. My quality of life dropped significantly last year. It started getting worse towards the end of the summer and into the beginning of the school year. I would come home, fight to stay awake, fall asleep on the couch, have Mark wake me up, eat, fall back asleep, have Mark wake me up, shower, go to sleep, go to work, drag all day, go home... and repeat.
It was scary, but I'd also lost my will to care about it. I was shedding like crazy, couldn't stay awake, quick to fly off the handle, and constantly dealing with broken nails. As much as I hate the phrase, Mark tried a "come to Jesus" moment. My annual exam was approaching, and he made me promise to talk to my doctor about it. My mom's theory was that I was having thyroid troubles. That WOULD explain the weight gain I've had over the past few years. I just chalked that up to Katrina, but maybe there was more to it.
Sure enough, I was suffering from hypothyroidism. My levels were dangerously low. A few weeks of trying different dosages, and my quality of life started to improve. I was also given something for the PTSD I've been dealing with the past few years, and that did it, too. I lost about 10 pounds almost immediately, all without changing any dietary or exercise regimens.
What do you know. I wasn't crazy. I was just in physical trouble.
The school year was a very good one. I got to repeat my classes from the year before. This is the first time in 6 years that I've been able to reuse my class materials. What a wonderful, wonderful thing. Of course, adjustments needed to be made here and there, but wow. Just reducing that level of stress was amazing.
I remember being in school, probably middle school, and thinking about how my poor teachers had to teach the same things, year after year after year. Little did I know that one day I would long for that luxury. It's pretty neat knowing what I have coming up for first quarter. I like that I can improve upon what I did the year before. It's funny how your perspective changes as you age.
I still do not see much of Mark. He works nights, I work days, and we frequently worked Sundays, and he sometimes worked Saturdays. It's hard. But we try to find things to do, be it drive around or watch a movie we DVRed two weeks prior.
We do have one project we've tried working on together, though. My father told us that he would help us remodel the front of our house. We hit a huge snafu, though. Well, many of them.
We tore down the paneling in the den. Bit by bit, we worked a little on the weekends. We got some of the sheetrock up, but the holidays started getting in the way. The weekend before my dad's birthday, Mark went to work for 5 a.m. Shortly after 5 a.m., the phone rang. It was my mom. My father had a heart attack, and they were in the hospital. I showered, ran out into the cold early Saturday morning with a soaking wet head, and somehow safely made it to the hospital. While they were working on him, my mom broke the news to me that she was having a lumpectomy that week, and she was only telling me because now I would have to take her in for the procedure.
My world crashed down. That night, my family was supposed to go to 5 Happiness for my dad's birthday dinner. We were happy and excited. He was going to come over to work on the house a little with me while Mark was at work. It was going to be a busy but fun day. And then, there we were. In the Cardiac Care Unit, waiting to hear how my father was after a heart attack, my mom telling me she could have cancer, and all of this being the absolute last thing I ever expected to happen.
The heart attack turned out to be a small one, and Dad went home for his birthday. I spent the night there so that I could get up early and bring my mom to the hospital for her surgery. My aunt, a breast cancer survivor, came to keep me company while we waited. Hours later, I was able to bring her home. That weekend, I spent most of my time chauffeuring them around, putting almost 200 miles on my car. Mom's results were good, no worries. Dad has also made a great recovery.
But then we were stuck. We didn't know what we were doing with regards to home repair. My dad wasn't allowed to do anything for a while. We decided to go through a contractor. He was going to replace our doors, but it took him about a month or so to return the new doors to us. All of our old doors, save for the ones on the bathrooms, were gone. The guys skipped out on a lot of stuff, and months went by. We fired him, got all of our doors back, and tried another guy, who gave us the runaround for a few months. We hired a third guy, who came on time on the appointed days, brought a crew, and had the den sheetrocked and floated in two half days. Booyah.
This was in February/March. We started in October.
We are still not finished. We have trouble aligning my work schedule with Mark's work schedule with my dad's work schedule. We've had another guy do our crown molding, and we'll have other people come in to finish the rest. We'd planned to be done by Christmas. We had no idea it would be June and we still would not be finished.
What we've accomplished:
Painting the range hood and the oven/broiler
Repairing the roof
New A/C and heater
Fixing the ceiling in the den, where the leaking roof ruined things
Removed paneling in the den
Put up sheetrock in the den
Painted the den and the kitchen (we left the paneling there, and deglossed and primed it before painting)
Crown molding in the den and kitchen
Removed the doors to the upper cabinets
Put cabinet contents in boxes in the den (sighhhh)
Deglossed the upper cabinets
Painted, mostly, the upper cabinets
Purchased new hinges for the cabinets
Purchased new drawer pulls/handles for the cabinets
Ordered new flooring which will go in the den, kitchen, and hallway
Had the flooring delivered
Put new doors up
What still needs to be done:
Bottom cabinets
Reattaching cabinet doors
Installing flooring
Finishing the doors
Repairing a kitchen fan
Painting pantry doors
Installing a new countertop
Installing a new kitchen sink
Repainting woodwork and reinstalling it around the windows
Sigh. Mayyybe we'll finish before the first anniversary of this project.
Don't let my Facebook presence throw you, though. I keep the browser window open and the FB tab on top, so I see notifications. And I get all ADD and start looking at whatever went up there while I'm working on other things.
Anyway, I hate that all of my posts over the past year or so have been "let me catch you up" posts, but, well, sometimes, that's just how it is.
And, unfortunately, I guess that's what this one will be.
Last regular post I'd had was about my little Nala cat. I think I just couldn't write again for a while after that.
The biggest thing to change in my life was a life-saving moment. My quality of life dropped significantly last year. It started getting worse towards the end of the summer and into the beginning of the school year. I would come home, fight to stay awake, fall asleep on the couch, have Mark wake me up, eat, fall back asleep, have Mark wake me up, shower, go to sleep, go to work, drag all day, go home... and repeat.
It was scary, but I'd also lost my will to care about it. I was shedding like crazy, couldn't stay awake, quick to fly off the handle, and constantly dealing with broken nails. As much as I hate the phrase, Mark tried a "come to Jesus" moment. My annual exam was approaching, and he made me promise to talk to my doctor about it. My mom's theory was that I was having thyroid troubles. That WOULD explain the weight gain I've had over the past few years. I just chalked that up to Katrina, but maybe there was more to it.
Sure enough, I was suffering from hypothyroidism. My levels were dangerously low. A few weeks of trying different dosages, and my quality of life started to improve. I was also given something for the PTSD I've been dealing with the past few years, and that did it, too. I lost about 10 pounds almost immediately, all without changing any dietary or exercise regimens.
What do you know. I wasn't crazy. I was just in physical trouble.
The school year was a very good one. I got to repeat my classes from the year before. This is the first time in 6 years that I've been able to reuse my class materials. What a wonderful, wonderful thing. Of course, adjustments needed to be made here and there, but wow. Just reducing that level of stress was amazing.
I remember being in school, probably middle school, and thinking about how my poor teachers had to teach the same things, year after year after year. Little did I know that one day I would long for that luxury. It's pretty neat knowing what I have coming up for first quarter. I like that I can improve upon what I did the year before. It's funny how your perspective changes as you age.
I still do not see much of Mark. He works nights, I work days, and we frequently worked Sundays, and he sometimes worked Saturdays. It's hard. But we try to find things to do, be it drive around or watch a movie we DVRed two weeks prior.
We do have one project we've tried working on together, though. My father told us that he would help us remodel the front of our house. We hit a huge snafu, though. Well, many of them.
We tore down the paneling in the den. Bit by bit, we worked a little on the weekends. We got some of the sheetrock up, but the holidays started getting in the way. The weekend before my dad's birthday, Mark went to work for 5 a.m. Shortly after 5 a.m., the phone rang. It was my mom. My father had a heart attack, and they were in the hospital. I showered, ran out into the cold early Saturday morning with a soaking wet head, and somehow safely made it to the hospital. While they were working on him, my mom broke the news to me that she was having a lumpectomy that week, and she was only telling me because now I would have to take her in for the procedure.
My world crashed down. That night, my family was supposed to go to 5 Happiness for my dad's birthday dinner. We were happy and excited. He was going to come over to work on the house a little with me while Mark was at work. It was going to be a busy but fun day. And then, there we were. In the Cardiac Care Unit, waiting to hear how my father was after a heart attack, my mom telling me she could have cancer, and all of this being the absolute last thing I ever expected to happen.
The heart attack turned out to be a small one, and Dad went home for his birthday. I spent the night there so that I could get up early and bring my mom to the hospital for her surgery. My aunt, a breast cancer survivor, came to keep me company while we waited. Hours later, I was able to bring her home. That weekend, I spent most of my time chauffeuring them around, putting almost 200 miles on my car. Mom's results were good, no worries. Dad has also made a great recovery.
But then we were stuck. We didn't know what we were doing with regards to home repair. My dad wasn't allowed to do anything for a while. We decided to go through a contractor. He was going to replace our doors, but it took him about a month or so to return the new doors to us. All of our old doors, save for the ones on the bathrooms, were gone. The guys skipped out on a lot of stuff, and months went by. We fired him, got all of our doors back, and tried another guy, who gave us the runaround for a few months. We hired a third guy, who came on time on the appointed days, brought a crew, and had the den sheetrocked and floated in two half days. Booyah.
This was in February/March. We started in October.
We are still not finished. We have trouble aligning my work schedule with Mark's work schedule with my dad's work schedule. We've had another guy do our crown molding, and we'll have other people come in to finish the rest. We'd planned to be done by Christmas. We had no idea it would be June and we still would not be finished.
What we've accomplished:
Painting the range hood and the oven/broiler
Repairing the roof
New A/C and heater
Fixing the ceiling in the den, where the leaking roof ruined things
Removed paneling in the den
Put up sheetrock in the den
Painted the den and the kitchen (we left the paneling there, and deglossed and primed it before painting)
Crown molding in the den and kitchen
Removed the doors to the upper cabinets
Put cabinet contents in boxes in the den (sighhhh)
Deglossed the upper cabinets
Painted, mostly, the upper cabinets
Purchased new hinges for the cabinets
Purchased new drawer pulls/handles for the cabinets
Ordered new flooring which will go in the den, kitchen, and hallway
Had the flooring delivered
Put new doors up
What still needs to be done:
Bottom cabinets
Reattaching cabinet doors
Installing flooring
Finishing the doors
Repairing a kitchen fan
Painting pantry doors
Installing a new countertop
Installing a new kitchen sink
Repainting woodwork and reinstalling it around the windows
Sigh. Mayyybe we'll finish before the first anniversary of this project.
Friday, February 08, 2008
I am PISSED
Every day, generally, I check into a great "news" website, www.fark.com. They link news articles to sarcastic headlines. It's a great way to kill some time. Well, today, they had this headline, which linked to a story on www.nola.com: "New Orleans continues to make the case against rebuilding it" (this was also tagged "Obvious" by the people at Fark. http://www.nola.com/news/index.ssf/2008/02/man_fatally_shot_in_lower_gard.html is the article, if you're interested.
What had me upset was, yeah, we're in trouble. Yeah, things aren't good. But it's not the whole city, and it's not everyone, and it's generally crimes committed against people the murderers know and sometimes innocent bystanders. You know, same thing in cities all over the world. Charles Grant, a New Orleans Saint, was an innocent bystander victim the other day. Outside a nightclub. He was stabbed in the neck with a broken bottle. IN GEORGIA.
You can't cover up these grisly stories. That would do everyone an injustice. But for crying out loud. Don't kick us while we're down. I love Fark. I love their headlines. Generally, when there's a story about New Orleans, the headlines are funny. It's not like I got so offended I'll never go back to the site. I'll go back tomorrow to see what else is new. In fact, that headline is NOT what has me so pissed off right now. I got over that quickly.
Why am I pissed? Because of what just happened that has me blogging at 1 a.m. Luckily, since it's Mardi Gras week, I'm off of school all week and don't have to get up early tomorrow. However, Mark, who has a cold, is still up because of this, and he DOES have work in the morning. Good thing he's not at WWL any more...otherwise he'd have to be to work in 4 hours.
I was sitting here at my computer, watching an instruction video for the Cat Genie...you've GOT to see this thing...it's a self-flushing, self-cleaning litter box. My idea of heaven, really... www.catgenie.com if you're interested.
Anyway, I heard four close together popping sounds. We live next to the Interstate, so we're used to weird noises. We just wound up Mardi Gras. We're used to weird noises. People were still shooting fireworks around here as of Endymion and the Super Bowl. For a split second, as I always do when cars backfire and when fireworks go off out of season, I thought, "GASP! GUNSHOTS!" Then I told myself I was overreacting and should continue watching this amazing video. Within a couple of minutes, a loud crashing sound happened. I called to Mark, who was in his office, and we both got up to investigate. We live at the end of a street. There are street signs posted warning of the dead end. Yet since we've lived here in May, we've been at home in time to hear what now amounts to THREE cars slamming through the signs and getting stuck in our yard. Usually, the people can't back up because the signs are stuck under their cars, and they have to pull up into our front yard and go through our driveway. But on two occasions, we've had both cars in the driveway, and they've had trouble getting out.
The loud crash was the sound of a car running through the signs again. And since we were both parked in the driveway, Mark went to see if the driver, who was frantically revving his engine, needed help, i.e., Mark moving his car. The closer Mark got, the faster he revved his engine. It was an old hoopty of a car. He peeled out, leaving a burning smell in the air, and managed to not hit Mark's car in the process. We tried to catch the plate numbers but missed. Our nice next-door neighbor, Brett, was outside on his cell phone calling it in. He also missed the plate. It was dark outside.
We went to talk to Brett, who, it seems, we only see when something weird happens in the neighborhood...like the 5 times trucks pulled down our power and/or cable lines, or when the meth kids across the street got busted and subsequently evicted. But our neighborhood is nice. Our section hasn't been overtaken by mini-mansions yet, and it has a lot of old people. There are rentals closer to the train tracks, but it's nice and quiet. Neighbors talk to each other and wave. In fact, we met another one tonight, who came out to see what the ruckus was.
Anyway, we could tell Brett was on 911. We heard him say, "There were four shots fired, poppoppoppop, and then a few minutes later, a car came screaming down the street, ran into the street signs in my neighbors' yard, got stuck, peeled out, and drove south down our street, then turned right."
Shots fired.
SHOTS FIRED!
It wasn't until we eventually came back inside that the enormity of the situation hit me. We live in a decent area. Mark was going to see if the guy needed help. His car didn't look like it belonged here...a gold four-door late '80s Chevy Malibu (according to Brett)...and the driver was kind of thuggy-looking. Now, we have a mostly white neighborhood, but there are several black families who live further down our street. He didn't look like any of them. Or like he would even be going to visit them. He definitely didn't belong here. Yet, being nice people in a nice neighborhood, he went to see if he could help. Thankfully, he didn't have anyone else in his car. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure we would have been shot at. If he fired four shots, chances are he would have two rounds left, right? Mark. Me. Or Brett, who has two young kids, a wife in the hospital, and his mother staying with him.
Time to feel awful, because the racial divides in this city are ridiculous -- Jefferson Parish cops pulled up within 4 minutes of Brett hanging up with them. At LEAST 5 squad cars passed us. Three blocked our street for the majority of the time. In fact, Mark went to make sure we'd locked up a little while ago, and he said he thinks the cops are patrolling the neighborhood because he saw one pass.
If this wasn't a predominantly white neighborhood, we'd still be waiting for the cops, and they probably wouldn't be patrolling still. Why is this fair that we should get this attention? It's not. It's disgusting. That's yet another reason why I'm pissed and blogging at...well now it's 1:30 a.m.
So here's what we're thinking. Something happened a few streets west of here...no more than about 3 or 4, I would assume. Other reports about shots being fired were from the street and possibly block that my uncle Dennis lives on with his fiancée, Kim. Guy got in his car to make a getaway, in the darkness couldn't see the road signs because they're already a little slanted from the last idiot who ran into them, and slammed into them and the no-longer-connected-to-any-wires telephone pole that's right there. He broke the pole off, pulled it out of the ground, and thankfully slammed it into the tree. It's precariously balanced in the crook of some tree branches right now. There's a gaping hole where it was, and broken wood next to it. He definitely lost pieces of his car, because, despite the darkness, we found them in the grass. The cops have a piece of what may be the thing that holds his headlights. It's metal. I found plastic parts covered in oil. He leaked a trail of oil down the street. I told the old cop to just follow the trail, and they'll at least find the car. It was making far too much noise as he sped away, and smelled like burning, too. He's going to have a lot of front bumper damage, maybe rear bumper damage, and definitely undercarriage damage. He'll more than likely break down, and they'll at least get his car.
But holy crap. We could have been killed, all because we thought he was an innocent idiot who needed help getting out of our yard.
Goddammit.
Anyway, Obama was at Tulane University today. I'm not attaching myself to any candidates just yet. It's too early. And as a registered independent, I can't vote in the primaries, so I'm waiting until I see who gets narrowed down. The man has great speech writers and researchers in his employ. He made a great deal about this area and helping it recover and education, especially here...and now assholes like our yard idiot are just giving people more reason to say, "Fuck New Orleans. They don't deserve to recover."
Editing this to add that Entergy is outside right now taking care of our pole. Again, white neighborhood, fast response.
What had me upset was, yeah, we're in trouble. Yeah, things aren't good. But it's not the whole city, and it's not everyone, and it's generally crimes committed against people the murderers know and sometimes innocent bystanders. You know, same thing in cities all over the world. Charles Grant, a New Orleans Saint, was an innocent bystander victim the other day. Outside a nightclub. He was stabbed in the neck with a broken bottle. IN GEORGIA.
You can't cover up these grisly stories. That would do everyone an injustice. But for crying out loud. Don't kick us while we're down. I love Fark. I love their headlines. Generally, when there's a story about New Orleans, the headlines are funny. It's not like I got so offended I'll never go back to the site. I'll go back tomorrow to see what else is new. In fact, that headline is NOT what has me so pissed off right now. I got over that quickly.
Why am I pissed? Because of what just happened that has me blogging at 1 a.m. Luckily, since it's Mardi Gras week, I'm off of school all week and don't have to get up early tomorrow. However, Mark, who has a cold, is still up because of this, and he DOES have work in the morning. Good thing he's not at WWL any more...otherwise he'd have to be to work in 4 hours.
I was sitting here at my computer, watching an instruction video for the Cat Genie...you've GOT to see this thing...it's a self-flushing, self-cleaning litter box. My idea of heaven, really... www.catgenie.com if you're interested.
Anyway, I heard four close together popping sounds. We live next to the Interstate, so we're used to weird noises. We just wound up Mardi Gras. We're used to weird noises. People were still shooting fireworks around here as of Endymion and the Super Bowl. For a split second, as I always do when cars backfire and when fireworks go off out of season, I thought, "GASP! GUNSHOTS!" Then I told myself I was overreacting and should continue watching this amazing video. Within a couple of minutes, a loud crashing sound happened. I called to Mark, who was in his office, and we both got up to investigate. We live at the end of a street. There are street signs posted warning of the dead end. Yet since we've lived here in May, we've been at home in time to hear what now amounts to THREE cars slamming through the signs and getting stuck in our yard. Usually, the people can't back up because the signs are stuck under their cars, and they have to pull up into our front yard and go through our driveway. But on two occasions, we've had both cars in the driveway, and they've had trouble getting out.
The loud crash was the sound of a car running through the signs again. And since we were both parked in the driveway, Mark went to see if the driver, who was frantically revving his engine, needed help, i.e., Mark moving his car. The closer Mark got, the faster he revved his engine. It was an old hoopty of a car. He peeled out, leaving a burning smell in the air, and managed to not hit Mark's car in the process. We tried to catch the plate numbers but missed. Our nice next-door neighbor, Brett, was outside on his cell phone calling it in. He also missed the plate. It was dark outside.
We went to talk to Brett, who, it seems, we only see when something weird happens in the neighborhood...like the 5 times trucks pulled down our power and/or cable lines, or when the meth kids across the street got busted and subsequently evicted. But our neighborhood is nice. Our section hasn't been overtaken by mini-mansions yet, and it has a lot of old people. There are rentals closer to the train tracks, but it's nice and quiet. Neighbors talk to each other and wave. In fact, we met another one tonight, who came out to see what the ruckus was.
Anyway, we could tell Brett was on 911. We heard him say, "There were four shots fired, poppoppoppop, and then a few minutes later, a car came screaming down the street, ran into the street signs in my neighbors' yard, got stuck, peeled out, and drove south down our street, then turned right."
Shots fired.
SHOTS FIRED!
It wasn't until we eventually came back inside that the enormity of the situation hit me. We live in a decent area. Mark was going to see if the guy needed help. His car didn't look like it belonged here...a gold four-door late '80s Chevy Malibu (according to Brett)...and the driver was kind of thuggy-looking. Now, we have a mostly white neighborhood, but there are several black families who live further down our street. He didn't look like any of them. Or like he would even be going to visit them. He definitely didn't belong here. Yet, being nice people in a nice neighborhood, he went to see if he could help. Thankfully, he didn't have anyone else in his car. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure we would have been shot at. If he fired four shots, chances are he would have two rounds left, right? Mark. Me. Or Brett, who has two young kids, a wife in the hospital, and his mother staying with him.
Time to feel awful, because the racial divides in this city are ridiculous -- Jefferson Parish cops pulled up within 4 minutes of Brett hanging up with them. At LEAST 5 squad cars passed us. Three blocked our street for the majority of the time. In fact, Mark went to make sure we'd locked up a little while ago, and he said he thinks the cops are patrolling the neighborhood because he saw one pass.
If this wasn't a predominantly white neighborhood, we'd still be waiting for the cops, and they probably wouldn't be patrolling still. Why is this fair that we should get this attention? It's not. It's disgusting. That's yet another reason why I'm pissed and blogging at...well now it's 1:30 a.m.
So here's what we're thinking. Something happened a few streets west of here...no more than about 3 or 4, I would assume. Other reports about shots being fired were from the street and possibly block that my uncle Dennis lives on with his fiancée, Kim. Guy got in his car to make a getaway, in the darkness couldn't see the road signs because they're already a little slanted from the last idiot who ran into them, and slammed into them and the no-longer-connected-to-any-wires telephone pole that's right there. He broke the pole off, pulled it out of the ground, and thankfully slammed it into the tree. It's precariously balanced in the crook of some tree branches right now. There's a gaping hole where it was, and broken wood next to it. He definitely lost pieces of his car, because, despite the darkness, we found them in the grass. The cops have a piece of what may be the thing that holds his headlights. It's metal. I found plastic parts covered in oil. He leaked a trail of oil down the street. I told the old cop to just follow the trail, and they'll at least find the car. It was making far too much noise as he sped away, and smelled like burning, too. He's going to have a lot of front bumper damage, maybe rear bumper damage, and definitely undercarriage damage. He'll more than likely break down, and they'll at least get his car.
But holy crap. We could have been killed, all because we thought he was an innocent idiot who needed help getting out of our yard.
Goddammit.
Anyway, Obama was at Tulane University today. I'm not attaching myself to any candidates just yet. It's too early. And as a registered independent, I can't vote in the primaries, so I'm waiting until I see who gets narrowed down. The man has great speech writers and researchers in his employ. He made a great deal about this area and helping it recover and education, especially here...and now assholes like our yard idiot are just giving people more reason to say, "Fuck New Orleans. They don't deserve to recover."
Editing this to add that Entergy is outside right now taking care of our pole. Again, white neighborhood, fast response.
Monday, August 27, 2007
I say 'Hey! What's going on?'
A new school year has fallen upon us, to the chagrin of the scholastic aged everywhere. Or, at least, those in the south. Which brings up an interesting question. Hold on while I wipe that bead of sweat rolling down my back.......ahhh. Oops. There's another. Ok.
Anyway, WHY THE HELL DO THEY MAKE US GO BACK TO SCHOOL IN EARLY AUGUST WHEN IT'S SO FRIGGIN'HOT HERE!?!?!?! There are a million and 12 days better to start school than August 14. I mean, really. I don't mind getting out in early June if it means we start in September. I had two window units, two ceiling fans, and a bottle of deodorant in my desk, but I sweat profusely. Part of this is because they're rewiring the school for better Internet capabilities. "Gee, what does that have to do with you sweating?" you ask? Well, I'll tell you. I am on the second floor. Heat rises, right? Well, it also tends to filter down through missing ceiling tiles from the attic of the school and into my cooler classroom. More specifically, right above my desk! Thank God last year's rodent problem was solved. Mmmm...Post-Katrina Mid-City New Orleans! God, if this had been last year... Ugh. I'm grossing myself out.
Other than that and the way they keep tinkering with our schedules, school is the best year yet. No evil bitch teaching partners. Nothing but helpful teaching partners who get involved as far as my eyes can see this year. People splitting journal-reading duties, no one treating my like I'm incompetent...I am teaching just as many classes, plus working on updating the school website, plus running a club by myself, plus having a homeroom this year...yet I'm so much more relaxed. I'm ENJOYING myself again. This is what it's supposed to be.
First, my homeroom is amazing. I love, love, love them. I had half of them last year as 7th graders for both reading and writing. This year, they are 8th graders. Got a bunch of cool new kids and the 6th graders who moved into 7th this year are awesome. Including a former camper from the Day School. Love her. Everyone agrees that my homeroom is the best. They enjoy having them. I think I may get back into baking at holidays. I did that my first year for my homeroom. Last year, I didn't care and was stressed too much to be bothered. This year, it's a whole new ballgame.
Also, they listened to me. Do you know how much it means to have a boss who listens to you and takes your suggestions to heart? It's so rare to find in today's world, where everyone is replaceable, and if you don't like the way it's run, you get a pink slip. But last year was rough. Let me backtrack to every year until last year:
Our student-teacher ratio is 18:1. Sometimes, after the storm, we've gone over that. We co-teach in many subjects, and the two teachers split the room into two groups and teach on opposite sides of the room for reading and math, (with a 9:1 ratio) while one does science and the other does social studies to the whole class. Their co-curriculars and religion classes are together, too. Writing would be half and half, but the ratio there is 9:2.
Then, last year, we departmentalized. We had two reading and two math teachers co-teaching in the same room at the same time the same subjects. In reading, this is hard. The reading teachers tend to be dynamic. If we were in different books, or different parts of the same book, even, it was very disrupting to hear a round of "HUZZAH" from the other side of the room. And for writing, it was two teachers, as usual, but 18:2. Not the 9:2 we'd had before. And it was impossible to keep up. I'll be the first to admit that our students were cheated. As you may recall, we teach children with learning differences. These differences could be ADHD, Dyslexia, OCD, Asperger's Syndrome, and a billion and one other things that hurt you in "regular" school, but keep you out of special ed. We're the bridge between. Our low ratios are paramount to the success of our program. And it wasn't working last year.
This year, we have two rooms available for reading. Two teachers, two rooms, 8 or so kids per group (since we aren't at capacity yet). It's peaceful, relaxing, and "noncompetitive." This year, we are still putting all of them in one class for writing, but a third teacher filters in. For two of those classes, we have an extra room available, so we can pull smaller groups out for individualized attention.
Again, it's a whole different atmosphere. I feel like the kids are going to get the attention they deserve this year, and that they will learn a lot more in the process.
I'm moderating media club again, so that's good. And, Sabrina, a fellow teacher, and I are going to coach the bowling team. It's our first year of sports! We finally have a senior class, after 3 years of steady growth and hurricane interruption. There's 7 of them, but by golly, we have a senior class!
The house is at a standstill of sorts. It is too hot to do anything else outside. Gardening will have to wait, as will painting the rest of the outside. Dad put mortar in the brick gaps and we painted the front, but we are afraid of heat stroke. It's slowly starting to cool off here, though. In the next few weeks, we can move back to the outside.
Inside, we just got a garbage disposal this weekend, and our dishwasher is being delivered Friday. I grew up with both of these luxuries, plus we had a dishwasher in our old house. I have had enough of plastic and paper goods, as well as dishpan hands. I won't use gloves. Sorry. Just a few more days.
Started up at UNO again last week. One class on Tuesdays this semester. They only offered one of my three available, remaining classes. Joy. Well, three plus the third "internship," followed by the capstone internship/student teaching semester. Maybe 2008? But this frustration over this formerly great university has halted my master's pursuit. I have given it up in favor of only my certification. Maybe someday, if they get their act together, I'll get that hood I covet so badly.
The anniversary of Katrina, number 2, is this Wednesday. I can't tell you that it weighs heavily on my mind. There isn't a day I don't think about it. There's still so much work to be done. Lakeview at night is great, simply because I can see how many places have lights on. Mid-City, where my school is, is largely back. Sometimes, I'll sit in the house and feel content, but then I remember what got me here. The other day, we were unpacking a box that was in our attic, and I found the most inane keepsakes from college. But did I throw them away? Hell no. They're all that remain of a former life. They're going nowhere, no matter how useless they seem.
When Dean was making a beeline for the Gulf, I had the worst sense of losing it all again. God...can I put up with that? I don't think so. I mean, this time, we're homeowners, so the insurance would be way better. And Mark refuses to stay again. So we'd get to load both cars. But two cars of stuff is ridiculous. I really questioned our decision to return. But then I realized that to leave would kill me slowly. I have to stay right now. I have to help revive my city. Call me crazy if you will, but can you truly dedicate yourself to any one place? There's something about her...something so seedy and sultry and splendid and swampy and steamy and tons of other things my lisp won't let me say. Call me crazy, but I love her.
Anyway, WHY THE HELL DO THEY MAKE US GO BACK TO SCHOOL IN EARLY AUGUST WHEN IT'S SO FRIGGIN'HOT HERE!?!?!?! There are a million and 12 days better to start school than August 14. I mean, really. I don't mind getting out in early June if it means we start in September. I had two window units, two ceiling fans, and a bottle of deodorant in my desk, but I sweat profusely. Part of this is because they're rewiring the school for better Internet capabilities. "Gee, what does that have to do with you sweating?" you ask? Well, I'll tell you. I am on the second floor. Heat rises, right? Well, it also tends to filter down through missing ceiling tiles from the attic of the school and into my cooler classroom. More specifically, right above my desk! Thank God last year's rodent problem was solved. Mmmm...Post-Katrina Mid-City New Orleans! God, if this had been last year... Ugh. I'm grossing myself out.
Other than that and the way they keep tinkering with our schedules, school is the best year yet. No evil bitch teaching partners. Nothing but helpful teaching partners who get involved as far as my eyes can see this year. People splitting journal-reading duties, no one treating my like I'm incompetent...I am teaching just as many classes, plus working on updating the school website, plus running a club by myself, plus having a homeroom this year...yet I'm so much more relaxed. I'm ENJOYING myself again. This is what it's supposed to be.
First, my homeroom is amazing. I love, love, love them. I had half of them last year as 7th graders for both reading and writing. This year, they are 8th graders. Got a bunch of cool new kids and the 6th graders who moved into 7th this year are awesome. Including a former camper from the Day School. Love her. Everyone agrees that my homeroom is the best. They enjoy having them. I think I may get back into baking at holidays. I did that my first year for my homeroom. Last year, I didn't care and was stressed too much to be bothered. This year, it's a whole new ballgame.
Also, they listened to me. Do you know how much it means to have a boss who listens to you and takes your suggestions to heart? It's so rare to find in today's world, where everyone is replaceable, and if you don't like the way it's run, you get a pink slip. But last year was rough. Let me backtrack to every year until last year:
Our student-teacher ratio is 18:1. Sometimes, after the storm, we've gone over that. We co-teach in many subjects, and the two teachers split the room into two groups and teach on opposite sides of the room for reading and math, (with a 9:1 ratio) while one does science and the other does social studies to the whole class. Their co-curriculars and religion classes are together, too. Writing would be half and half, but the ratio there is 9:2.
Then, last year, we departmentalized. We had two reading and two math teachers co-teaching in the same room at the same time the same subjects. In reading, this is hard. The reading teachers tend to be dynamic. If we were in different books, or different parts of the same book, even, it was very disrupting to hear a round of "HUZZAH" from the other side of the room. And for writing, it was two teachers, as usual, but 18:2. Not the 9:2 we'd had before. And it was impossible to keep up. I'll be the first to admit that our students were cheated. As you may recall, we teach children with learning differences. These differences could be ADHD, Dyslexia, OCD, Asperger's Syndrome, and a billion and one other things that hurt you in "regular" school, but keep you out of special ed. We're the bridge between. Our low ratios are paramount to the success of our program. And it wasn't working last year.
This year, we have two rooms available for reading. Two teachers, two rooms, 8 or so kids per group (since we aren't at capacity yet). It's peaceful, relaxing, and "noncompetitive." This year, we are still putting all of them in one class for writing, but a third teacher filters in. For two of those classes, we have an extra room available, so we can pull smaller groups out for individualized attention.
Again, it's a whole different atmosphere. I feel like the kids are going to get the attention they deserve this year, and that they will learn a lot more in the process.
I'm moderating media club again, so that's good. And, Sabrina, a fellow teacher, and I are going to coach the bowling team. It's our first year of sports! We finally have a senior class, after 3 years of steady growth and hurricane interruption. There's 7 of them, but by golly, we have a senior class!
The house is at a standstill of sorts. It is too hot to do anything else outside. Gardening will have to wait, as will painting the rest of the outside. Dad put mortar in the brick gaps and we painted the front, but we are afraid of heat stroke. It's slowly starting to cool off here, though. In the next few weeks, we can move back to the outside.
Inside, we just got a garbage disposal this weekend, and our dishwasher is being delivered Friday. I grew up with both of these luxuries, plus we had a dishwasher in our old house. I have had enough of plastic and paper goods, as well as dishpan hands. I won't use gloves. Sorry. Just a few more days.
Started up at UNO again last week. One class on Tuesdays this semester. They only offered one of my three available, remaining classes. Joy. Well, three plus the third "internship," followed by the capstone internship/student teaching semester. Maybe 2008? But this frustration over this formerly great university has halted my master's pursuit. I have given it up in favor of only my certification. Maybe someday, if they get their act together, I'll get that hood I covet so badly.
The anniversary of Katrina, number 2, is this Wednesday. I can't tell you that it weighs heavily on my mind. There isn't a day I don't think about it. There's still so much work to be done. Lakeview at night is great, simply because I can see how many places have lights on. Mid-City, where my school is, is largely back. Sometimes, I'll sit in the house and feel content, but then I remember what got me here. The other day, we were unpacking a box that was in our attic, and I found the most inane keepsakes from college. But did I throw them away? Hell no. They're all that remain of a former life. They're going nowhere, no matter how useless they seem.
When Dean was making a beeline for the Gulf, I had the worst sense of losing it all again. God...can I put up with that? I don't think so. I mean, this time, we're homeowners, so the insurance would be way better. And Mark refuses to stay again. So we'd get to load both cars. But two cars of stuff is ridiculous. I really questioned our decision to return. But then I realized that to leave would kill me slowly. I have to stay right now. I have to help revive my city. Call me crazy if you will, but can you truly dedicate yourself to any one place? There's something about her...something so seedy and sultry and splendid and swampy and steamy and tons of other things my lisp won't let me say. Call me crazy, but I love her.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Part 10: Finding out what is lost.
Recap: We had just survived Hurricane Rita, just weeks after Hurricane Katrina. My job called me back to Metairie, so I moved in with my parents. Mark, however, would remain in the RV in Baton Rouge.
My school was, miraculously, fine. Located in Mid-City, it was truly an island. However, due to its location, we had no idea when electricity, water, and sewerage would be restored to our campus. We opened a high school in a defunct elementary school this year. Being so small, there was a ton of space available. And so, our administration, combined with the Archdiocese, decided that we would have to move the elementary school to the high school campus. Because it would be such a monumental task, we would remain out in Metairie for the school year. By this point, we were six weeks out of the storm. That's half of a summer vacation. It seemed like school would probably run until July.
The Monday after Rita, I had to report to school. Almost 80 percent of our staff was planning to return. But, in some small part thanks to Rita, many of them could not yet return. Others needed a few more days to come in. But most of the 80 percent would be there to help move.
I arrived at 9, and found myself in a room of the shell-shocked. Then one teacher, who was one of the rookies with me, came up to me while I was reuniting with Melissa, my teaching partner. Melissa lived in St. Bernard Parish, as I think I said before. We'd been in contact during our exiles, but we had not seen each other yet. We were a great match for each other. We are the same age. She'd taught for 3 years in another school, and was experiencing her first year at this school. We had some common interests. Both of us curse like sailors (not in the classroom, naturally, unless the kids are gone), and both of us can burp better than most men can (also, when the kids are not in the classroom). She was really helping make my first year as a teacher a lot easier. It was great to see each other.
But this other teacher came bouncing up, hair in a a perky ponytail, wearing her own clothes. Melissa and I, like so many others, were in borrowed clothes or clothes we'd evacuated with. We'd lost everything else.
Don't get me wrong...this other teacher is great. I like her a lot, as do the students. But what she did next still has me floored. She came up, happy and perky, and said, "So....how'd you guys do?"
Melissa and I looked at each other, then the other teacher. "Pretty rotten," I said. "About as bad as you could have," Melissa said. We each briefly stated our neighborhoods, and I mentioned having had to go through the storm. The perky demeanor was immediately replaced by an uncomfortable one. Another teacher came up, and she edged her way out of our conversation and into another one.
After about an hour, enough people were there to get started. The administrators knew we all wanted and needed to talk. So, while we sat around the tables, we told our stories. Most were fine. They evacuated early, went on vacation while in exile, stayed with family and friends, enrolled their kids in schools, etc. Some had no damage (the ones from River Ridge), others had downed trees, an inch to two feet of water in their homes, etc.
Those of us who lost so much seemed to seek each other out. We had a lot of teachers from Lakeview and St. Bernard. Most of us were in a group together. I'll interrupt for a second to say exactly how wonderful it was to FINALLY be with someone non-immediate family who understood what I was going through, and how I was feeling. You can say you understand, you can say you have sympathy, but until you experience what we have experienced, you have no idea. Don't even try to pretend.
As soon as we got to our area, the Kleenex boxes came out. Dry eyes were few and far between. Sometimes, it was the story-teller. Other times, it was other people. Most were not here for the storm. I was a rare breed there. One of the religion teachers, a sweet little old lady, lived in the Upper 9th Ward. The Lower 9th was obliterated. The Upper, not as much, but still bad. Anyway, she stayed in her home, by herself. She was trapped by water. She slept on her porch at night, because it was cooler. She was evetually taken out.
When I spoke, the room was silent. No one knew about Mark working at WWL. When I said he worked there, the president of the school said, "Oh, the heroes!" I hadn't realized how important where we were and what was done actually was. I wasn't entirely comfortable with talking about it all, but once I started, I couldn't stop. I spoke of everything we'd seen, felt, and heard, from the windows, to Garland running, to looting, to Spud's heroic efforts. I talked about our house, my father's business, Mark living in Baton Rouge, and moving in with my parents.
At the time, I didn't realize how long I'd been talking. But my audience was captivated. They sat and listened. When I was done, many had tears in their eyes. I didn't realize how much attention people had paid to me. But for weeks afterwards, people would talk to me about it all, ask me how we were doing. It felt so good to see real people caring. Up until that point, I felt no one did, locally. Everyone was caught in their own drama. I had only seen the generosity of total strangers and long-distance relatives. But now I had the support of my colleagues. These were people who didn't know who I was until I spoke. Most...not that they didn't care...they just didn't know who I was or what grade I taught or anything. I was a nameless face they worked with for 2 weeks. Suddenly, people cared. And it wasn't just about me. It really brought a lot of our staff closer. Those who faced little to no damage were trying to do everything they could for those of us who were devastated. We started a donation room that quickly filled up. People brought in clothes, snacks, supplies, household items, shoes, uniforms, you name it. Some came from staff members and their families. Others were trucked in by schools that had adopted ours. And everyone was there for each other.
The first thing the school did was set up a healing team. We have an ecclectic staff, which includes social workers, counselors, and psych degrees. These people worked tirelessly to put together a very comprehensive plan for helping the kids and teachers cope with what happened. We knew it would be a very rough year. We knew we would probably never see some of our students again. Or some of our coworkers. We'd all been through so much in those six weeks. Our healing team has earned several grants, and they also have been approached by various agencies in the city to adopt their plan. The whole Archdiocese will implement it, as well. They're amazing.
Due to Rita reflooding parts of the city, our return to our Mid-City campus was delayed. Instead of getting in there Monday, we could not go to Orleans Parish until Thursday. We had to get special permission to set up an emerggency caravan to get through. So on Monday and Tuesday, we regrouped, discussed the Healing Team and the plans, and waited for our numbers to rise.
We were promised that all of us would have some sort of job, even if our numbers were low. We are a necessary school, since we serve special needs kids in a Catholic school setting, and no one else does. They created some positions to retain people. We were so lucky: the Archdiocese was laying off thousands of workers due to insufficient funds. However, they were not really telling us what we could do. The newbies, like Melissa and I, worried. We were the newest employees. Those who were there longer would surely be the ones to definitely have jobs. Even though we were all being promised positions, the promise was not set in stone. The promise was more of a "we'll try our hardest to keep you and justify it."
Some of us went to Target, which had just reopened for about 4 hours each morning, and a manager stopped us. "Do you all have jobs yet?" he asked. We looked at each other. "Maybe," Melissa said. We're supposed to know soon. Why?" "Because we're raising our salaries for three months. The regular starting salary is $6.25. We're promising a $3 increase for at least these three months. The guy pushing carts in teh parking lot? He'll be making $9.25 an hour."
We were shocked. But this apparently became a trend. Workers were scarce, jobs were scarce, and companies instituted incentives. Work for Burger King? Earn $9 an hour, plus get a $6,000 bonus for working for 12 months. McDonald's? Extra $125 per week, plus $10 an hour. There is now no shame in asking someone if they want fries with that.
Because we could not cross over into Orleans yet, Wednesday was an optional day. I woke up to the sound of my phone vibrating with a text message. It was Geoff. "Kev says no roadblocks into Orleans. Go while you can." I ran down the hall, read it to my father, and called Mark to tell him. We were making a try for Lakeview. Orleans was not open to anyone other than emergency personnel. Mark said, "I'll be there in an hour." Mom and I ran to Target to buy some ratty clothes for him to wear, along with boots for him and for her. I bought some "designer" Isaac Mizrahi boots from there on Monday. They were white and had his name printed all over them. They were the only boots I could find. Designer "Cajun Reeboks." Joy. I donned Karen's castoff clothes, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and prepared myself. I had seen Kevin's pictures of his parents' Lakeview home. He has a construction permit, which allowed him in. He'd seen our house, and told us that we had broken windows, but that it was standing. He'd taken pictures of Phil's Firehouse Snowballs, the best snowball stand in the city. It was almost across the street from us. It looked bad, as did the gas station behind it. I knew what I would expect.
We drove up Verteran's Blvd. to the parish line. Army men stopped us. "Can't get in." My dad had been in the week before to survey what was left of his Lakeview service station. It was not pretty. I'd seen those pictures, too. He hadn't been able to get to us, though, because Rita had broken through the not-quite-repaired 17th Street Canal breach and caused minor flooding which hadnot yet gone down. But he's also been with an Orleans Parish cop he's friends with. Anyway, he tried saying he was getting in to work on his business. However, that did not fly any more. And with no cop accompanying us, we were shot down. Mark flashed his press pass. The Army guy told us that if Mark was in his own car, he could get in. It was no use arguing the stupidity of that statement.
So, we went up to Metairie Road and crossed the canal there. How? Dad and Mark switched seats, Mark flashed his press pass, and in we rolled. We drove down Canal Blvd. in silence. The devastation increased the further in we got. We ran through some standing water by the train tracks. We gawked at the water lines, the downed trees, the crumpled homes, the flooded out cars. We passed my first elementary school on Harrison Ave. It looked awful. We paued at a great Po-Boy shop, Charlie's Deli, and thought sadly about how we may never eat there again. We stopped at my dad's employee's home on Harrison. It was in bad shape before. It was to be condemned in a few days' time. We crossed West End. Blvd., then Pontchartrain Blvd. We saw Phil's and the gas station. They looked worse thatn the pictures. We turned down Fleur de Lis. Everything was brown and in states of ruin that one could never imagine. We turned onto 26th. We were on the corner. I set my jaw. The house looked bad. My car....my poor little car.....it had floated and was blocking the door under the carport.
The front door was hanging inside. The screen door was ajar. The first spray-painted X for our house was on our roof. Rescuers left these marks basically, to say who checked it, when it was checked, and how many live and dead bodies were found. On Sept. 11, my house was still so under water that they reached it by boat, rapped on the roof, had no answer, sprayed the X mark on the roof, and moved on to the next house. Our second X came just days earlier, Sept. 25. It was painted on the screen door. The elderly neighbor had evidently left, as we'd been worried about. Her marks said there were no bodies found. We were relieved. She wasn't the nicest neighbor, but you don't want anyone to die like that.
I thought I was okay. I thought I could handle it. Then I stepped cautiously into the doorway. We had to move the door out of the way, but could not get it far, as the sofa had floated across teh room and was right behind it. Mask, gloves, and boots on, I looked inside for the first time.
I thought I was prepared. I'd seen enough photos in the past few days, especially of places I knew. But nothing, absolutely nothing can prepare you for this. I burst into hysterics.
I could not be consoled.
I composed myself, put Vick's Vapo-Rub inside and outside of my mask (thanks, CSI:!) , and removed myself from it. I pretended none of it was mine. I tried to find the funny (cat bed on top of a halogen lamp, perfectly centered) and the bizarre (the way the refrigerator flipped). I went home, and Mark went to Baton Rouge. I cried myself to sleep.
I won't say much more about this. It's very hard to talk about, yes, but this sort of pain can not be served justice by the English language. I am tearing up right now, actually, and will leave you with this:
I wish this on no one. Not Hitler. Not Vlad the Impaler. Not David Duke. Not Atilla the Hun. Not anyone I hate. Not even Bush. I wish it on no one.
Next time: Part 11: It takes a village to move a school.
My school was, miraculously, fine. Located in Mid-City, it was truly an island. However, due to its location, we had no idea when electricity, water, and sewerage would be restored to our campus. We opened a high school in a defunct elementary school this year. Being so small, there was a ton of space available. And so, our administration, combined with the Archdiocese, decided that we would have to move the elementary school to the high school campus. Because it would be such a monumental task, we would remain out in Metairie for the school year. By this point, we were six weeks out of the storm. That's half of a summer vacation. It seemed like school would probably run until July.
The Monday after Rita, I had to report to school. Almost 80 percent of our staff was planning to return. But, in some small part thanks to Rita, many of them could not yet return. Others needed a few more days to come in. But most of the 80 percent would be there to help move.
I arrived at 9, and found myself in a room of the shell-shocked. Then one teacher, who was one of the rookies with me, came up to me while I was reuniting with Melissa, my teaching partner. Melissa lived in St. Bernard Parish, as I think I said before. We'd been in contact during our exiles, but we had not seen each other yet. We were a great match for each other. We are the same age. She'd taught for 3 years in another school, and was experiencing her first year at this school. We had some common interests. Both of us curse like sailors (not in the classroom, naturally, unless the kids are gone), and both of us can burp better than most men can (also, when the kids are not in the classroom). She was really helping make my first year as a teacher a lot easier. It was great to see each other.
But this other teacher came bouncing up, hair in a a perky ponytail, wearing her own clothes. Melissa and I, like so many others, were in borrowed clothes or clothes we'd evacuated with. We'd lost everything else.
Don't get me wrong...this other teacher is great. I like her a lot, as do the students. But what she did next still has me floored. She came up, happy and perky, and said, "So....how'd you guys do?"
Melissa and I looked at each other, then the other teacher. "Pretty rotten," I said. "About as bad as you could have," Melissa said. We each briefly stated our neighborhoods, and I mentioned having had to go through the storm. The perky demeanor was immediately replaced by an uncomfortable one. Another teacher came up, and she edged her way out of our conversation and into another one.
After about an hour, enough people were there to get started. The administrators knew we all wanted and needed to talk. So, while we sat around the tables, we told our stories. Most were fine. They evacuated early, went on vacation while in exile, stayed with family and friends, enrolled their kids in schools, etc. Some had no damage (the ones from River Ridge), others had downed trees, an inch to two feet of water in their homes, etc.
Those of us who lost so much seemed to seek each other out. We had a lot of teachers from Lakeview and St. Bernard. Most of us were in a group together. I'll interrupt for a second to say exactly how wonderful it was to FINALLY be with someone non-immediate family who understood what I was going through, and how I was feeling. You can say you understand, you can say you have sympathy, but until you experience what we have experienced, you have no idea. Don't even try to pretend.
As soon as we got to our area, the Kleenex boxes came out. Dry eyes were few and far between. Sometimes, it was the story-teller. Other times, it was other people. Most were not here for the storm. I was a rare breed there. One of the religion teachers, a sweet little old lady, lived in the Upper 9th Ward. The Lower 9th was obliterated. The Upper, not as much, but still bad. Anyway, she stayed in her home, by herself. She was trapped by water. She slept on her porch at night, because it was cooler. She was evetually taken out.
When I spoke, the room was silent. No one knew about Mark working at WWL. When I said he worked there, the president of the school said, "Oh, the heroes!" I hadn't realized how important where we were and what was done actually was. I wasn't entirely comfortable with talking about it all, but once I started, I couldn't stop. I spoke of everything we'd seen, felt, and heard, from the windows, to Garland running, to looting, to Spud's heroic efforts. I talked about our house, my father's business, Mark living in Baton Rouge, and moving in with my parents.
At the time, I didn't realize how long I'd been talking. But my audience was captivated. They sat and listened. When I was done, many had tears in their eyes. I didn't realize how much attention people had paid to me. But for weeks afterwards, people would talk to me about it all, ask me how we were doing. It felt so good to see real people caring. Up until that point, I felt no one did, locally. Everyone was caught in their own drama. I had only seen the generosity of total strangers and long-distance relatives. But now I had the support of my colleagues. These were people who didn't know who I was until I spoke. Most...not that they didn't care...they just didn't know who I was or what grade I taught or anything. I was a nameless face they worked with for 2 weeks. Suddenly, people cared. And it wasn't just about me. It really brought a lot of our staff closer. Those who faced little to no damage were trying to do everything they could for those of us who were devastated. We started a donation room that quickly filled up. People brought in clothes, snacks, supplies, household items, shoes, uniforms, you name it. Some came from staff members and their families. Others were trucked in by schools that had adopted ours. And everyone was there for each other.
The first thing the school did was set up a healing team. We have an ecclectic staff, which includes social workers, counselors, and psych degrees. These people worked tirelessly to put together a very comprehensive plan for helping the kids and teachers cope with what happened. We knew it would be a very rough year. We knew we would probably never see some of our students again. Or some of our coworkers. We'd all been through so much in those six weeks. Our healing team has earned several grants, and they also have been approached by various agencies in the city to adopt their plan. The whole Archdiocese will implement it, as well. They're amazing.
Due to Rita reflooding parts of the city, our return to our Mid-City campus was delayed. Instead of getting in there Monday, we could not go to Orleans Parish until Thursday. We had to get special permission to set up an emerggency caravan to get through. So on Monday and Tuesday, we regrouped, discussed the Healing Team and the plans, and waited for our numbers to rise.
We were promised that all of us would have some sort of job, even if our numbers were low. We are a necessary school, since we serve special needs kids in a Catholic school setting, and no one else does. They created some positions to retain people. We were so lucky: the Archdiocese was laying off thousands of workers due to insufficient funds. However, they were not really telling us what we could do. The newbies, like Melissa and I, worried. We were the newest employees. Those who were there longer would surely be the ones to definitely have jobs. Even though we were all being promised positions, the promise was not set in stone. The promise was more of a "we'll try our hardest to keep you and justify it."
Some of us went to Target, which had just reopened for about 4 hours each morning, and a manager stopped us. "Do you all have jobs yet?" he asked. We looked at each other. "Maybe," Melissa said. We're supposed to know soon. Why?" "Because we're raising our salaries for three months. The regular starting salary is $6.25. We're promising a $3 increase for at least these three months. The guy pushing carts in teh parking lot? He'll be making $9.25 an hour."
We were shocked. But this apparently became a trend. Workers were scarce, jobs were scarce, and companies instituted incentives. Work for Burger King? Earn $9 an hour, plus get a $6,000 bonus for working for 12 months. McDonald's? Extra $125 per week, plus $10 an hour. There is now no shame in asking someone if they want fries with that.
Because we could not cross over into Orleans yet, Wednesday was an optional day. I woke up to the sound of my phone vibrating with a text message. It was Geoff. "Kev says no roadblocks into Orleans. Go while you can." I ran down the hall, read it to my father, and called Mark to tell him. We were making a try for Lakeview. Orleans was not open to anyone other than emergency personnel. Mark said, "I'll be there in an hour." Mom and I ran to Target to buy some ratty clothes for him to wear, along with boots for him and for her. I bought some "designer" Isaac Mizrahi boots from there on Monday. They were white and had his name printed all over them. They were the only boots I could find. Designer "Cajun Reeboks." Joy. I donned Karen's castoff clothes, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and prepared myself. I had seen Kevin's pictures of his parents' Lakeview home. He has a construction permit, which allowed him in. He'd seen our house, and told us that we had broken windows, but that it was standing. He'd taken pictures of Phil's Firehouse Snowballs, the best snowball stand in the city. It was almost across the street from us. It looked bad, as did the gas station behind it. I knew what I would expect.
We drove up Verteran's Blvd. to the parish line. Army men stopped us. "Can't get in." My dad had been in the week before to survey what was left of his Lakeview service station. It was not pretty. I'd seen those pictures, too. He hadn't been able to get to us, though, because Rita had broken through the not-quite-repaired 17th Street Canal breach and caused minor flooding which hadnot yet gone down. But he's also been with an Orleans Parish cop he's friends with. Anyway, he tried saying he was getting in to work on his business. However, that did not fly any more. And with no cop accompanying us, we were shot down. Mark flashed his press pass. The Army guy told us that if Mark was in his own car, he could get in. It was no use arguing the stupidity of that statement.
So, we went up to Metairie Road and crossed the canal there. How? Dad and Mark switched seats, Mark flashed his press pass, and in we rolled. We drove down Canal Blvd. in silence. The devastation increased the further in we got. We ran through some standing water by the train tracks. We gawked at the water lines, the downed trees, the crumpled homes, the flooded out cars. We passed my first elementary school on Harrison Ave. It looked awful. We paued at a great Po-Boy shop, Charlie's Deli, and thought sadly about how we may never eat there again. We stopped at my dad's employee's home on Harrison. It was in bad shape before. It was to be condemned in a few days' time. We crossed West End. Blvd., then Pontchartrain Blvd. We saw Phil's and the gas station. They looked worse thatn the pictures. We turned down Fleur de Lis. Everything was brown and in states of ruin that one could never imagine. We turned onto 26th. We were on the corner. I set my jaw. The house looked bad. My car....my poor little car.....it had floated and was blocking the door under the carport.
The front door was hanging inside. The screen door was ajar. The first spray-painted X for our house was on our roof. Rescuers left these marks basically, to say who checked it, when it was checked, and how many live and dead bodies were found. On Sept. 11, my house was still so under water that they reached it by boat, rapped on the roof, had no answer, sprayed the X mark on the roof, and moved on to the next house. Our second X came just days earlier, Sept. 25. It was painted on the screen door. The elderly neighbor had evidently left, as we'd been worried about. Her marks said there were no bodies found. We were relieved. She wasn't the nicest neighbor, but you don't want anyone to die like that.
I thought I was okay. I thought I could handle it. Then I stepped cautiously into the doorway. We had to move the door out of the way, but could not get it far, as the sofa had floated across teh room and was right behind it. Mask, gloves, and boots on, I looked inside for the first time.
I thought I was prepared. I'd seen enough photos in the past few days, especially of places I knew. But nothing, absolutely nothing can prepare you for this. I burst into hysterics.
I could not be consoled.
I composed myself, put Vick's Vapo-Rub inside and outside of my mask (thanks, CSI:!) , and removed myself from it. I pretended none of it was mine. I tried to find the funny (cat bed on top of a halogen lamp, perfectly centered) and the bizarre (the way the refrigerator flipped). I went home, and Mark went to Baton Rouge. I cried myself to sleep.
I won't say much more about this. It's very hard to talk about, yes, but this sort of pain can not be served justice by the English language. I am tearing up right now, actually, and will leave you with this:
I wish this on no one. Not Hitler. Not Vlad the Impaler. Not David Duke. Not Atilla the Hun. Not anyone I hate. Not even Bush. I wish it on no one.
Next time: Part 11: It takes a village to move a school.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
More pictures...a real post will come soon...
Went back to Lakeview to begin the arduous task of emptying the house. We have to throw everything on the curb so the landlord may gut and sell the property. Even if we wanted to go back, we can't. In the meantime, here are pictures of 2 months after Katrina hit.This is my new car. They took mine the other day. Notice I opted for mini-SUV in order to make it through flood waters and to pack more stuff to evacuate next year.
The trash heap on the beautiful walking track a block from my house between Pontchartrain Blvd. and West End Blvd. It's about 4 stories high.
More of the heap.
Heap.
I think the look on Mom's face says it all.
This was in the parking lot of my dad's BP station. Must have floated out of MeMe's Market or B&B Pharmacy. It says "Warm wishes to the whole family at Thanksgiving..."
The estimate to clear out MeMe's is $140,000. They deemed it too expensive. The food and other groceries are still rotting inside. Nothing has been removed. The flies are atrocious, and the stench....ugh.
Inside Dad's station, which they have finished gutting. They've put up the new studs and are rolling along. Estimate on electricity returning to Lakeview? 6-8 months. Estimate on Dad being ready to reopen? 2 months.This is a door hidden by a pegboard. Amazing what you discover when you gut an old building.
The bay. They towed the Yukon out, but the Porsche remains.
Poor Porsche.
A hole in the wall reveals the gutted Ace Hardware Store next to the station.
From the storage area to the front. See how slimy the windows are? They cleaned them today, but you can't even tell that's Geoff's red Corolla out there.
These clipboards stayed in place.
View from the storage area into the bay.
Mom and Alicia walking towards the storage and office area from the C-store area.
Alicia in awe of my dad's progress.
On Fleur de Lis, near where the levee breached.
Looking from Fleur de Lis to Bellaire near the breach. It's a small shot, but in either this picture or the next, there is a house in the middle of the road at the end of the block where the breach shoved it.
See above caption
The little park on Fleur de Lis, also near the breach.
More of the park.
The last photo of The Mirthmobile.
Broken front window of my house.
Broken bedroom window.
Broken guest room window.
Broken den window.The fuse box cover is missing, and everythign is rusted through.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Part 5F: F Katrina.
Got back through the checkpoint using Mark's press pass again today. We were going to rescue CDs, DVDs, china, and crystal.
CDs were impossible to get to, as you'll see. Mild hope for the DVDs. Got my fridge magnets, too. China and crystal were so full of water and muck. I emptied all glasses and most plates of their delicious smelling cocktails, but got overcome by the smell and gave up. Those we had to leave for another day.
Took some more pictures. Here you go.
That brown stuff is one of my cloest doors and the face-down dresser in our bedroom. That's the bedspread on top.
We had seperate closets. Mine was in our room, Mark's was in the computer room. This is a prime example of why this is my mantra: "NO WIRE HANGERS EVER!!!" Look at the rust. Plastic will be a rule in my house. Not that it would matter anyway. Our clothes are condemmed. Mark's B.C. Rich Warlock guitar is on the shelf, suffering the same fate mine did. That board? That's a part of the bookshelves in the room.
Part of the reason why my Simpsons figures and the CDs are not salvageable: the pile of rubble. That's Castle Greyskull on top of our bookcases. Luckily, mine fell face down and was buried, so I did not see my book carnage. See my Chief Wiggum on the windowsill?
More of why we couldn't rescue stuff: That dresser had most of Mark's massive CD collection in it. The door leading to the backyard was rusted/swollen shut. CDs are everywhere. That orange thing was a white oldschool computer monitor. Something inside reacted with the chemicals in the toxic water that filled our home and turned it orange, according to Geoff.
More of the computer room. The file cabinets are there in the upper left. That's Jon Stewart's Daily Show book "America." That paper-looking substance on the left is part of Mark's closet door.
The panelled walls in the computer room are bulging. That's where the two bookcases stood.
From now on, no more do-it-yourself furniture. That stuff is too cheaply made.
A shot of the bathroom. That's the dirty clothes hamper on the ground.
That's a shot over the sofa. That big blank wall is where it used to be. "Napoleon Dynamite" is under the window. That black thing is my photo ladder. The silver thing is one of our DVD racks. The coffee table is almost where we left it. Dane Cook's "Harmful if Swallowed" is on the coffee table.
Here's a close-up of it. We call it, "Harmful if Flooded." That pretty much sums up our house.
CDs were impossible to get to, as you'll see. Mild hope for the DVDs. Got my fridge magnets, too. China and crystal were so full of water and muck. I emptied all glasses and most plates of their delicious smelling cocktails, but got overcome by the smell and gave up. Those we had to leave for another day.
Took some more pictures. Here you go.
That brown stuff is one of my cloest doors and the face-down dresser in our bedroom. That's the bedspread on top.
We had seperate closets. Mine was in our room, Mark's was in the computer room. This is a prime example of why this is my mantra: "NO WIRE HANGERS EVER!!!" Look at the rust. Plastic will be a rule in my house. Not that it would matter anyway. Our clothes are condemmed. Mark's B.C. Rich Warlock guitar is on the shelf, suffering the same fate mine did. That board? That's a part of the bookshelves in the room.
Part of the reason why my Simpsons figures and the CDs are not salvageable: the pile of rubble. That's Castle Greyskull on top of our bookcases. Luckily, mine fell face down and was buried, so I did not see my book carnage. See my Chief Wiggum on the windowsill?
More of why we couldn't rescue stuff: That dresser had most of Mark's massive CD collection in it. The door leading to the backyard was rusted/swollen shut. CDs are everywhere. That orange thing was a white oldschool computer monitor. Something inside reacted with the chemicals in the toxic water that filled our home and turned it orange, according to Geoff.
More of the computer room. The file cabinets are there in the upper left. That's Jon Stewart's Daily Show book "America." That paper-looking substance on the left is part of Mark's closet door.
The panelled walls in the computer room are bulging. That's where the two bookcases stood.From now on, no more do-it-yourself furniture. That stuff is too cheaply made.
A shot of the bathroom. That's the dirty clothes hamper on the ground.
That's a shot over the sofa. That big blank wall is where it used to be. "Napoleon Dynamite" is under the window. That black thing is my photo ladder. The silver thing is one of our DVD racks. The coffee table is almost where we left it. Dane Cook's "Harmful if Swallowed" is on the coffee table.
Here's a close-up of it. We call it, "Harmful if Flooded." That pretty much sums up our house.
Part 5E: Katrina ate my life
Got back through the checkpoint using Mark's press pass again today. We were going to rescue CDs, DVDs, china, and crystal.
CDs were impossible to get to, as you'll see. Mild hope for the DVDs. Got my fridge magnets, too. China and crystal were so full of water and muck. I emptied all glasses and most plates of their delicious smelling cocktails, but got overcome by the smell and gave up. Those we had to leave for another day.
Took some more pictures. Here you go.
This is our Halloween skeleton, Warren G. He's dapper. And now full of mold. We hung him on the door last week. Happy Halloween, kids.
That's the lunchkit I've used since 8th grade on that piece in the corner. It was on the table. The placemats and stuff are stuck to the table. There are newspapers, which were used as dams around our doors "just in case" on top of our rusted-out trashcan, which WAS on the other side of our fridge across the kitchen.
That's a ketchup packet stuck to the glass on the china cabinet.
That's one of my overly cute new shoes....they were blue and precious and I loved them. It was in my bedroom and is now on the island in the kitchen.
This is the breakfast room near the side door. The broom was on the other side of the fridge. The dutch oven (that rusted water-filled pot) was in the cabinets with the rest of the post on the other side of the kitchen. Those hats are/were on the hat rack (Thank WHOMEVER we no longer have that tacky, trashy piece of furniture any more..I will BURN any new ones we get). The paper plates were in an upper cabinet.
That's one of our Homer coasters on the China cabinet. It was on the coffee table in the den.
CDs were impossible to get to, as you'll see. Mild hope for the DVDs. Got my fridge magnets, too. China and crystal were so full of water and muck. I emptied all glasses and most plates of their delicious smelling cocktails, but got overcome by the smell and gave up. Those we had to leave for another day.
Took some more pictures. Here you go.
This is our Halloween skeleton, Warren G. He's dapper. And now full of mold. We hung him on the door last week. Happy Halloween, kids.
That's the lunchkit I've used since 8th grade on that piece in the corner. It was on the table. The placemats and stuff are stuck to the table. There are newspapers, which were used as dams around our doors "just in case" on top of our rusted-out trashcan, which WAS on the other side of our fridge across the kitchen.
That's a ketchup packet stuck to the glass on the china cabinet.
That's one of my overly cute new shoes....they were blue and precious and I loved them. It was in my bedroom and is now on the island in the kitchen.
This is the breakfast room near the side door. The broom was on the other side of the fridge. The dutch oven (that rusted water-filled pot) was in the cabinets with the rest of the post on the other side of the kitchen. Those hats are/were on the hat rack (Thank WHOMEVER we no longer have that tacky, trashy piece of furniture any more..I will BURN any new ones we get). The paper plates were in an upper cabinet.
That's one of our Homer coasters on the China cabinet. It was on the coffee table in the den.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Part 5D: Katrina ate my life (in pictures)
Using Mark's press pass, we got through the Orleans Parish Checkpoint to Lakeview on Wednesday. This is what we found. WARNING: None of this is easy to look at. If you thought the other photos were bad, keep going.
This is Tony Angelo's Restaurant, located cattycorner from my house, on Harrison Ave. and Fleur de Lis. Delicious. It will be sadly missed.
We hung Warren G., our dapper Halloween skeleton, on the door. See how the National Guard busted it in?
The markings on the roof indicate that the attic was searched, no bodies found, by Florida's National Guard on September 11. That means they still had water too high to write on the front of the house that day, as they would later on, and had to reach the house by boat and spray paint the roof.
The screen door was marked for searching on September 25, no bodies found, presumably by Missouri National Guard group 1.
Mark in front of our headboard, which did not move. The mattress and boxspring are across the room on my dresser and his nightstand.
Taken through the broken bedroom window.
The coffee table stayed in place, the end table moved, the sofa floated over the coffee table, the TV is on the ground, the entertainment center is warped and leaning, and the sofa is sitting in the recliner. Taken through the broken den window.
The window Lily jumped out of, broken again. The cover to the fuse box is on the ground. Everything is rusted out.
These pictures stayed on the wall but are all ruined.
A bit of humor: This is the Canal Blvd. Super Market up by the cemeteries. But that's not what it says....
This is Tony Angelo's Restaurant, located cattycorner from my house, on Harrison Ave. and Fleur de Lis. Delicious. It will be sadly missed.
We hung Warren G., our dapper Halloween skeleton, on the door. See how the National Guard busted it in?The markings on the roof indicate that the attic was searched, no bodies found, by Florida's National Guard on September 11. That means they still had water too high to write on the front of the house that day, as they would later on, and had to reach the house by boat and spray paint the roof.
The screen door was marked for searching on September 25, no bodies found, presumably by Missouri National Guard group 1.
Mark in front of our headboard, which did not move. The mattress and boxspring are across the room on my dresser and his nightstand.Taken through the broken bedroom window.
The coffee table stayed in place, the end table moved, the sofa floated over the coffee table, the TV is on the ground, the entertainment center is warped and leaning, and the sofa is sitting in the recliner. Taken through the broken den window.
The window Lily jumped out of, broken again. The cover to the fuse box is on the ground. Everything is rusted out.
These pictures stayed on the wall but are all ruined.
A bit of humor: This is the Canal Blvd. Super Market up by the cemeteries. But that's not what it says....
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