11 September 2020: Back home

This is the first time I’ve had an ounce of enough mental and emotional bandwidth to sit here since I last wrote. It seems, in some way, oddly appropriate that it’s 9/11 which was, of course, a day of such destruction and loss. So much of Lake Charles looked or was so destroyed after Hurricane Laura; it was much worse than I expected, both at my parents’ home and throughout the city.

The tree loss was stunning. Live oaks that have survived countless storms were uprooted and split. Huge pines were keeled over everywhere with their root balls and still-attached circles of earth standing forlornly at attention. Mom and Dad lost all but 3 trees, including the stunning, 30+-year-old Live oak that my grandparents gave them before the house was even built. While Tom and I were in Lake Charles, there was no electricity, minimal cell service, and water was (and remains) boil-only. With the heat index, it was well over 100 every day; four people, that I knew of, died of heat exhaustion during my week in LC. None of us working to pack up and clear out the house ever peed during the day, despite guzzling gallons of water and Gatorade on a nearly-constant basis.

Some power and cellular service has been restored, but you still can’t drink the water and schools remain closed. Can you imagine trying to communicate and deal with insurance claims with only sporadic mobile access and on tiny phone screens while kids are hot, bored, and losing out on the educations they need and deserve and you or your loved ones may have lost everything?

I saw people living in tents along the roads. Mom and dad’s neighbors to the right had significant damage to their beautiful home, and after working for a full week to save, repair, and guard against further damage, their generator caught fire one morning and burned the house to the point that I don’t know if it’s salvageable. Loss upon loss upon loss. I am beyond thankful that the firemen thought to look in the garage and got the MANY full gas cans out in time. 

Helpers like those firefighters were incredible. World Central Kitchen set up meal service in the Walmart parking lot, churches shared meals and supplies from their lots, Oregon Products set up a free chainsaw-sharpening station, and Tide offered free laundry stations. The insurance adjuster looked shell-shocked as he wandered through the house; he graded it catastrophic and said he would do his best. And I can’t even begin to adequately thank all of our family and friends who came to help Mom and Dad.

We got most of the house packed up and shipped off to storage units in Houston and Baton Rouge by the time I left last Saturday. And soon enough it will all be heading this way.

I am not sure I’ve ever felt so depleted, and it’s unfamiliar and disconcerting, not at least in light of the fact of COVID-19 in America, everyone at home, and the most important election of our lifetimes in just 53 days. But, I am thankful Mom and Dad are safe, that Tom and I could go help, that we’ll soon all be nearer each other, and that both Jack and Ol have had great starts to their school years. Jack is so happy at his new school which is just beyond wonderful to see. It’s so clear that both schools and all the teachers over the summer put Herculean efforts into preparing for this odd year. Cheers and thanks to all of them!

A Louisiana corner, Part 2

The water in south Louisiana is always the color of a good roux: somewhere between milk and dark chocolate. And depending on where you are, whether the tide is in or out, and if a recent rainstorm has stirred up settled detritus -natural and manmade- from the bottom, it can resemble roux's thick consistency.

You can never see more than an inch deep, and the older I get, the less I trust what lies underneath. For as long as I can remember, mullets have flung themselves from the bayou over and over as they travel. It seems utterly exhausting and inefficient, but perhaps they too are suspicious of the murky depths. I mean, since the gators moved in, and ducks, geese and hunting dogs have gone missing, I'm sure uneasy. My mom sends pictures of the Louisiana Jaws she spots- sunning on the grass just across the bayou, in our boat slip, and so on. You couldn't pay me to jump in that water now.

We used to jump though, from high pilings that guarded the bridge posts. Don't you love the cross RIGHT next to our jump site. Safe. For so many reason. This is me and fire-out-my-butt Trish.

Early on, Mom taught my sister and me to crab. We'd tie chicken necks with kitchen string, affix these lures to wharf cleats and slowly let them sink into the opaque abyss. Patiently and quietly, net at the ready, we'd wait, looking for subtle tugs or outright jerks. When something seemed to bite, one of us would pull the line up as slowly as possible, for crabs are skittish and quick (and definitely what you hope is on the other end of the fleshy neck).

When a claw or those beady eyes came into view, the one with the net would deftly scoop our catch and hurriedly toss it into a bucket or ice chest. Anything other than crabs got tossed back in, released from death's grip until another day. 

Those poor crabs would skitter back and forth frantically, hard-shell legs clicking desperately against the prison. I felt so badly for them but I also knew just how delicious they'd taste later, freshly steamed. Gulf crabs are scrumptious. All Gulf seafood is, really, especially the shellfish. 

I could never throw the crabs in the pot of boiling water. Still can't. But I appreciated Mom's fortitude and loved the aftermath. She would cover our kitchen table with newspaper, and we'd sit down with nutcrackers and picks to pry open the key on the crabs' bellies and crack open their claws. Peeling crabs is an onerous task and I always found the gills and other innards fascinating in a disgusting way, but each bite of that delicate meat made all the work well worth it.

Each time I take Jack and Ol to Lake Charles, I am seized by a yen for a cupcake from Jo's Party House and so we make a quick pilgrimage across town. Jo's white cake simply cannot be beat, and despite the insane cupcake fever that's overtaken the country in recent years, Jo's cupcakes are still just $1 each. They know they have a perfect, beloved product but have stayed true and humble, and honestly, I think that makes their cakes taste that much better. 

Jo's has been in the same tiny building on the corner of Ethel and Sallier (pronounced Sal-yay) forever. There's an oak tree in the middle of the gravel parking lot, an AC unit is always humming from one window, and a large, three-tier, painted wooden cake serves as its sign.

Without fail, Jo's is busy. Freshly iced cakes decorated with John Deere tractors, Thomas trains and singing Elsas wait on shelves, ready to be picked up happily for parties later in the day. 

In four bites, I'm done. Perfectly sated. I am an avid baker, and I've made many cakes in my life, but despite my efforts, I can never figure out just what makes Jo's cakes so airy, delicate and flavorful. The consistency of both the cake itself and the quality over time are impeccable, and I am grateful for that. Nothing changes except for the color of the flower buds piped on top the main sugary cloud (and even that is rare; traditionally the buds are pale pink, baby blue and yellow).

On the way to the airport, we pass a yard in which, for as long as I can remember, have stood two decorative deer. As with much else in Louisiana, these deer are utterly dilapidated and we can never understand why their owners haven't replaced or removed them. Of the deer's original four ears, only one remains, an entire shin is missing, and their chipped paint makes them look as if they are mottled in a diseased way. 

But as with so much else, they are part of tradition of going and leaving home, and I love them for that.