Brown Lines

I can’t believe I’ve never noticed it before—this morning on my way to work, driving down Canal Street, I realized that all of the oak trees have flood marks, too. I don’t know why that should surprise me—it doesn’t really. I guess I’ve just been so focused on examining the brown lines on the buildings, imagining how deep in the water I would be, that I’ve neglected to look at the trees. For some reason, it makes me even sadder to realize that even the stately live oaks around the city weren’t spared the always-present reminder of what happened here last August.


Okay, So I'm A Little Odd...

I have a somewhat warped sense of humor. Therefore, I think this picture of K and E examining the hole where the fake giraffe's tail used to be is funny. No giraffes were harmed during this photo shoot at the Destin goofy golf.


1 Dead in Attic

Just finished reading Chris Rose's book, 1 Dead in Attic, a couple of days ago. It's a compilation of columns he posted in The Times-Picayune from the time "The Thing" (his words) happened up through December.

I can't get the title story out of my head. At the time he first published the column, neither Rose nor we, the readers, knew who "1 Dead in Attic" was. He has since discovered that he was an 80-year-old retired longshoreman named Thomas Coleman. He had a can of juice and a bedspread with him in his attic when he died, awaiting rescue.


How's Life in New Orleans?

Just got back from a trip to Atlanta to visit my sister, who’s expecting a baby in early August. I had a good time there, but I find it really difficult these days to talk to people who haven’t been to New Orleans since Katrina and assume we must be completely back to normal by now. When they ask how things are in New Orleans, I’m torn between saying what I know they want to hear—things are slowly improving, we’re managing, blah, blah, blah—and telling them the truth.

Because let’s face it—asking those of us from the Gulf Coast how things are going these days is like asking someone who recently lost a loved one how they’re doing. You ask because it’s the polite thing to do, but you’re inwardly that the person is going to smile and nod and tell you they’re “hanging in there,” or some other such trite nonsense, so you won't feel uncomfortable. You’re hoping that they won’t awkwardly tell you how they’re really doing—that they cry every day, that they can’t sleep at night, that all they can do is concentrate on making it through the day.