FEATURE

From a letter written by Matt Touchard to friends during the days after Hurricane Katrina:

It is now six days past Hurricane Katrina's landfall, and I am finally in a safe place.

With the assistance of a very good friend, I made it out of my house with Val, Bec, Francois, Truffles (my dogs) and Taffy (my brother Brandon's dog) yesterday at noon. Tracy fled last Saturday to Baton Rouge in a car filled with clothes and personal belongings, hoping that this storm would only postpone a day or two of all our lives here in south Louisiana. I stayed behind with the four dogs simply because I have lived here my entire life, never left home because of a storm, and was faced with the fact that most U.S. hotels will not let you have entry with pets. In addition, Brandon works for our area's Emergency Preparedness Division, and I wanted to be sure he had at least one family member he could be in contact with. That would be me, since everyone I know in my hometown — everyone — fled the path of this monster.

While my house is very strong and elevated (even surrounded by a "wall" of 100 year old trees). I could not have prepared myself for the impending onslaught of 120 m.p.h. winds, destruction and utter despair that would soon lay to waste my city's life. To say that I was "scared" would be the understatement of the year. The sound of the storm has been likened to a freight train running through your house. That I can attest to. And it is a train that runs for six hours at a deafening volume with torrential rains and horrible winds. My big, beautiful trees snapped like pencils in the hands of an angry fifth grade student, tormented further by the howling winds, which seemed to never stop and came from all directions. Holed up in the central-most, safest room of my house with the dogs, covered by a mattress from the bedroom and armed with a flashlight and First Aid Kit, I was genuinely worried that we, in fact, might not survive.

After the storm passed, I peeked outside and viewed the wasteland that was once a lovely two-acre yard filled with old-growth trees, plants, birds and butterflies. Yet the only thing in the air that afternoon was the horrid stench of stagnant, salty seawater that held the smell of death. My heart sank and my mind raced to a million conclusions of impending uncertainty.

"What do we do now?"
"Where is the end of this destruction?"
"Who can I call?"
"Will the phones work?"
"What will I do for work?"
"How will I earn a living this month — no, wait... this year?"
"Is my future forever destroyed along with my today?"
"Is it really over?"

My answer to the last question was soon to come.

This is only the beginning of the gloom.

This has been a surreal, mind-numbing, heartbreaking and life-changing experience that has already altered my way of life forever — as well as the lives of millions. It is catastrophic; a disaster of Biblical proportions and a world event that will mark itself indelibly in history's Book of Inequitable Horrors. Last night, after surviving five days and nights in my home in complete darkness with no electricity, marginally-safe water, 93 degree ambient temperatures and 100 percent humidity, I was finally able to watch 30 minutes of television broadcasts of Katrina's aftermath. What I watched was my city, my town, my culture, my home's history being torn apart — piece by piece, heart by heart, life by life. I am in complete shock at this moment, and words cannot explain my sorrow. Napoleon once said, "A picture is worth a thousand words." The pictures I saw last night only brought one word to my lips:

"Help."

From the smallest amount of structural damage to an outlying home 100 miles away to the complete loss of life and property at the storm's epicenter, our Ground Zero — New Orleans and the Gulf South will need some sort of help from those of you on the "outside."

What is help?

It could be a kind word, a telephone call, a donation of any type, or an offer to let someone stay at your residence (wherever that may be), just as I was offered yesterday. I am staying at some dear friends' home: Lisa and Lennen Madere. They already have five adults, three kids and three dogs in their home north of New Orleans. They have electricity, food, potable water and toilet facilities — simple things that we all take for granted on a daily basis. Simple things that during these times seem almost vulgarly grand. My dogs and I are now living in the garage, amongst the lawn mowers, paint cans and garden supplies. What may sound like Third World conditions to you seems like Heaven to my dogs and me. Because for now, after 96 hours in hell, we have a safe place away from the destruction and despair.

Lennen arrived at my house yesterday at noon, after being stopped by armed police at entry checkpoints along the way. He told them he was coming to evacuate me and the dogs. He came with a van to take three of the dogs, all the canned food and water I still had in my possession, my studio's small refrigerator and some essentials. I followed in my car with Bec, Val, clothes and dogfood. Funny how few of your possessions actually fit into two vehicles. What I left behind, at least for the moment, are a lifetime of memories and accumulated things — some important and irreplaceable, others merely a temporary indulgence to our over-excessive way of the "good life."