However the gasoline is necessary for me to get back and forth. Hammond is the last stop for the harder hit areas further east. So the stores that have it are rationing it. Baton Rouge is limited due to all the people using it. So I'm still in Lafayette.
September 7, 2005: I didn't realize how long I was staying quiet. It's hard to pull the computer away--my boyfriend in particular--plus with the flux in usability, it was easier just to stay out of the way. Sorry if I alarmed you unneccessarily.
University classes resume on Thursday, and I'll have to sleep at my house tomorrow and see how things are. I talked to my mother on the phone and she says things are looking better. Ponchatoula is nearly impossible to navigate with people trying to go back to New Orleans area. Hammond is more energizied, and news says there is at least three companies relocating to the city. Pumpkin Center is still 90% without power, but we're rural. That's going to take a while.
I don't think staying in Lafayette going to be long term, but I can't really plan until more gas stations are up and I see what the price is going to be. Over $3 dollars a gallon is going to hurt hard when I have 10 gallon fuel tank in my car and empty it in two days of normal traffic driving. And since a good portion of the population has shifted west, traffic is a far cry from normal. Baton Rouge is hurting. The Road infrustucture couldn't handle the previous local traffic and the city now has somewhere from 800,000 to 1 million. Previously 400,000 b.k. (Before Katrina. Thought about going with Before Storm but those initials are already in use.)
Do You Know What It Means to Lose New Orleans by Anne Rice, the op-ed peice published in the New York Times. We will come back from this. Some things will change but some things never will. And the things that never will are parts of the souls of us crazy people known as South Louisianians.
This article was written by Chris Rose and sent via email.
Dear America,
I suppose we should introduce ourselves: We're South Louisiana.
We have arrived on your doorstep on short notice and we apologize for
that, but we never were much for waiting around for invitations.
We're not much on formalities like that.
And we might be staying around your town for a while, enrolling in
your schools and looking for jobs, so we wanted to tell you a few
things about us. We know you didn't ask for this and neither did we,
so we're just going to have to make the best of it.
First of all, we thank you. For your money, your water, your food,
your prayers, your boats and buses and the men and women of your
National Guards, fire departments, hospitals and everyone else who
has come to our rescue.
We're a fiercely proud and independent people, and we don't cotton
much to outside interference, but we're not ashamed to accept help
when we need it. And right now, we need it.
Just don't get carried away. For instance, once we get around to
fishing again, don't try to tell us what kind of lures work best in
your waters.
We're not going to listen. We're stubborn that way.
You probably already know that we talk funny and listen to strange
music and eat things you'd probably hire an exterminator to get out
of your yard.
We dance even if there's no radio. We drink at funerals. We talk too
much and laugh too loud and live too large and, frankly, we're
suspicious of others who don't.
But we'll try not to judge you while we're in your town.
Everybody loves their home, we know that. But we love South Louisiana
with a ferocity that borders on the pathological. Sometimes we bury
our dead in LSU sweatshirts.
Often we don't make sense. You may wonder why, for instance - if we
could only carry one small bag of belongings with us on our journey
to your state - why in God's name did we bring a pair of shrimp boots?
We can't really explain that. It is what it is.
You've probably heard that many of us stayed behind. As bad as it is,
many of us cannot fathom a life outside of our border, out in that
place we call Elsewhere.
The only way you could understand that is if you have been there, and
so many of you have. So you realize that when you strip away all the
craziness and bars and parades and music and architecture and all
that hooey, really, the best thing about where we come from is us.
We are what made this place a national treasure. We're good people.
And don't be afraid to ask us how to pronounce our names. It happens
all the time.
When you meet us now and you look into our eyes, you will see the
saddest story ever told. Our hearts are broken into a thousand pieces.
But don't pity us. We're gonna make it. We're resilient. After all,
we've been rooting for the Saints for 35 years. That's got to count
for something.
OK, maybe something else you should know is that we make jokes at
inappropriate times.
But what the hell.
And one more thing: In our part of the country, we're used to having
visitors. It's our way of life.
So when all this is over and we move back home, we will repay to you
the hospitality and generosity of spirit you offer to us in this
season of our despair.
That is our promise. That is our faith.
Well said, brother. Well, said.
Read Free!
The BookWorm
1 comment:
Glad to hear from you :) Was getting worried after the extended period of silence.
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