I’m used to hearing these stories and actually really enjoy them. Some people love to tell about the relative that built the piece, how long it’s been in the family, or simply what a great deal they got when they bought it. For the past couple of years there’s been an added chapter to those stories. It usually begins with, “When we got back after the storm (Katrina)…”
Everyone has their own story about the whole Katrina experience. It’s become part of every day existence in New Orleans; it’s unavoidable. I should clarify that: it’s unavoidable for those of us who live here. I suppose if you’re in town for a convention and never make it past the French Quarter and Warehouse District that you’d never give the storm a second thought. After over two years, though, there have only been a handful of days when it didn’t come up in any given conversation. People need to tell their story. I used to schedule my appointments a half hour apart, but now allow a full hour (at least). The first 5 minutes is the furniture evaluation and the rest is hearing the stories.
For the longest time, I thought I didn’t really have a story. We were lucky in that we only had a little roof damage to the house and three trees that crashed into my workshop. In comparison to what so many others went through, we were lucky. My story, as it’s turned out, is what has happened since then as a result of the work I do. Even though there is no storm damage evidence around my home or workshop, I’m entrenched in it almost every day. I keep thinking it will get easier, but it doesn’t. It just gets smellier. Just when I think maybe I (and those doing what I do) have gotten through all the flooded furniture that wasn’t thrown out, a whole new wave comes in. For some people, I know it’s just not a priority until all other repairs have been done. For others, they’re waiting for that insurance settlement. Regardless of the reasons, the end result is that I’m the one faced with the challenge of resurrecting their treasures. That is my story.
Last Saturday I went out to the Lakeview neighborhood. I’ve been in and around that area many times, but hadn’t been back to this particular street since a year ago January. I’m happy to report that there has been amazing progress there. A lot of people are rebuilding and others have had their homes demolished. Keep in mind that this area got anywhere from 6 to 9 feet of water depending on the block. The last time I did an estimate in a home on this street, the items were so damaged that it was difficult to tell what they were before the storm. I anticipated the same thing this time and I wasn’t too far off. The armoire I evaluated was a jigsaw puzzle of faded, dirty parts. It was clearly well made; few parts had warped significantly and it wasn’t covered with stains from rusted screws holding it together. Next to the armoire were a bunch of dining room chairs – also in pieces – that looked more like a pile of old driftwood. None of this particularly surprised me, though. It’s become part of the job. I suppose if I hadn’t just finished rebuilding and restoring another armoire over the past month, I would have had a different outlook on this one. But the thought of going through all of that again (already) was not nice.
When I was driving away, I decided to take the long way to my next estimate instead of hopping on the interstate. I weaved my way through neighborhood after neighborhood full of gutted, empty houses. Every now and then, there would be evidence of one determined soul who had returned. I saw one of them, and it struck me.
Now, if you haven’t been to New Orleans in the past couple of years, you probably wouldn’t even think about the waterline that decorates every building in an area that flooded. At this point a lot of them have been washed off or painted over, but not all. I didn’t realize for awhile how much it had become a habit to look for the waterline every time I was driving around town. There’s something about those waterlines that can gnaw at you and remind you of Katrina’s wrath. So getting rid of the waterline is a big step forward for many people. Sometimes, however, it isn’t that easy.
I was driving through mid-city New Orleans when I passed a house with a distinct waterline tattoo. There was a guy with a pressure washer out front. He had that nozzle going full blast on that waterline and he wasn’t winning. I watched as he moved the stream back and forth across that line trying to power it off. As he was doing that, he looked out at me when I was driving by. The look on his face was something I’ll never forget: beaten down, desperate, and exhausted. It was as if that waterline was the last thing in a series of battles he has fought. I bet he stayed there all day until he won.
