Before the Storm: The Improbable Day of August 28, 2005

[Third in a series of memories of Hurricane Katrina; for earlier posts, scroll down]

I am in the Winn-Dixie a few blocks from home, and I overhear a conversation:
“You buyin’ the beer?”
“Nah, Mama told me to get the water.”
“Well, who’s bringin’ the beer?”

It is Saturday, August 28, 2005, and a storm with the inappropriate name of Katrina has everybody a little on edge.  Should we go or stay?  That question has been asked thousands of times by thousands of people this morning.   We remember the fiasco of 2004 when a mass evacuation in the face of Hurricane Ivan had us trapped for hours on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway (24 long miles to the north shore), with a dog who got carsick and folks all around us running out of gasoline.  We do not relish the thought of another evacuation.  And who knows where this storm is going?  She seems to be a wandering woman, first targeting Mexico, then Biloxi, now New Orleans.

Back home I unload my groceries and begin to cook.  I justify my distracted activity by thinking if we decide to stay in our home we will need plenty of food.  I boil a dozen eggs while I stow away the bottled water, canned goods, and protein bars in the pantry.

Ted calls to tell us that we can probably get a room at the Renaissance Arts Hotel where he works.  But what to do with Dana, our dog?  Ted expects to be told by the hotel management that he has to stay in town and work.  Our daughter Amanda polls her friends to find out who is staying, who is leaving.

The mayor’s voice on the radio speaks with as much uncertainty as we all feel.  “The City of New Orleans and I strongly encourage you to leave town now.  This is a dangerous hurricane and although it is still predicted to move toward the east before making landfall, it is currently taking direct aim at the city.”  His message is clear but we all hear the question mark at the end of his statement.  Even the mayor knows that it will be impossible for some residents to leave, and he does not want to be in the position of declaring a mandatory evacuation.  It is mid-afternoon and we still can’t decide.

Ted calls and asks me to drive to his apartment uptown to pick up Dayana, his wife of one month.  On the way, eastbound, I notice that most cars are getting on I-10 traveling westbound.  Finally people are deciding to evacuate.  When I get to their apartment, Ted comes out to the car.  He tells me that his manager told him to leave early.  He and Dayana are packing suitcases with enough clothes for a few days.  They don’t know if they will stay at our house or on the road but at least we will all decide as a family what to do.

By the time we get back to our house the roads are jammed.  Steve says emphatically that we are not going to leave, primarily because of the dog.  However, he does agree that Ted should check the Marriott website for any available rooms in the Houston area.

I turn on the oven and put in a large ham and potatoes to bake, thinking that we will want to eat dinner no matter what, and I can store the ham in our large cooler with ice if the power goes off.

The weather report is more ominous than ever:  Katrina is still headed directly for New Orleans.  How can this be?  Don’t hurricanes always steer east or west of the city at the last moment?  I begin to feel more panic, and Amanda catches the mood too.  She has been talking again with her friends and nearly everyone is evacuating, even the Imbornones who have always before stayed in the city.  It is 5:30 p.m.

Ted has found two rooms available at a Residence Inn in Houston for two nights.  In unison, Amanda and I say “Book them now!”  I hand him my credit card.  Steve is still worried about Dana in the car but he can see our very real fear.  Amanda is the one who propels us to action.  “You all, we have to leave now!”

I have the presence of mind to turn off the oven and I carefully wrap the ham in foil and place it in the refrigerator.  When we return in three days after the usual hurricane drill it will be waiting for us.  The boiled eggs are there too.

Now my legs quiver as I run around the house, tossing my clothes into a small suitcase and toiletries into my travel bag.  So much nervous energy and yet my mind is calm, thinking methodically, surveying my house and what I need to do to secure it.  I enlist everyone in carrying in my potted plants and the antique rocking chair from our back porch.

We carry the suitcases and small cooler to the car.  Dana has become morose and nervous at our preparations, thinking that she will be left behind.  At the last minute, out comes the red leash and she runs to the door, tail wagging, sure that this will be fun.  We have decided to drive just one car—our Highlander—with all five of us quite cozy and the dog tucked around our feet.  I have a twinge of sorrow at leaving behind our Solara in the garage and Amanda finds it hard to leave her pretty blue Infiniti in the driveway.

The engine is running and Steve is ready to reverse when I cry “Wait!”  I throw open the car door and run into the house, remembering the laptop upstairs.  It has my entire life in its memory or so it seems.  In my last dash through the house I take a few extra seconds to scan each room and freeze the image into my brain cells.  How will it look when we return?

It is 6:30 p.m., a mere thirty minutes since we started packing, and the interstate is crowded but moving at a steady pace.  The sky is already darkening and Steve will not be able to drive for long.  We are not hungry.  Various cell phones ring as we each hear from friends.  “Where are you going?  How’s the traffic?  Do you have a reservation?”

After many contortions and attempts to jump up on the car seat, Dana is finally calm on the floor and glad to be with us no matter what.  I check the back end to be sure that her food and dish have been packed.

Just west of Baton Rouge we pull off at a crowded truck stop to fill up and get some food.  Even in the impersonal setting of a gas station, people draw together to commiserate and worry.  The instant conversations, the shared experiences of Katrina people, have begun.  This long, bewildering August day, filled with much purposeless motion and anxious debate, ends far differently than it began.

Amanda takes over the driving and a tired silence descends into the darkness.  Headlights surround us as thousands of New Orleanians move steadily westward out of harm’s way.  Amanda drives through the maze of highways around Houston, her confidence bolstering my courage for whatever lies ahead.  We arrive at our hotel, check in, unpack, and settle in bed in record time.  By 3 a.m. we are all asleep.