One of the great things about living here in the south of France is that we have four clear seasons. I can already see buds peaking out in promise of spring. Some things got caught in the freeze and frost before I could get to them and other trees and shrubs need to be pruned. But, at least I know that they will return. I used to have a similar ritual in New Orleans.
The people I had purchased Columbus Street from had concreted everything in sight. The driveway (that could park up to 12 cars during the Jazz and Heritage Festival) was surrounded by cinder block walls in the back with a wooden fence running the length of the drive. I had one big tree and a flower box that ran half the fence full of Red Cannas and Pink Trumpet Plants. My tree didn't look quite as bad as this ancient oak in City Park, but after the storm all of the cinder blocks fell down, some of the tree fell on the fence and it had also collapsed and dislodged in other places. Everything else in the garden was gone except the tree and the ghosts of the trumpet plants. It was difficult being in the flooded house and apartment, so I spent a lot of time out in the yard. One Sunday morning I had gone out into the yard and kicked into my normal routine. I'd unrolled the hose and began watering. Half-way down the flower box, I looked at the tall, white, hollow skeletons of my trumpet plants and stopped. "I'm watering dead things-I screamed!" I put down the hose and wondered what had possessed me to water at all. By Sunday afternoon I had single-handedly pulled every dead shrub and tree out of the flower box and carried it to the debris pile in the triangle in front of my house. 
I must have pulled at least a dozen trees as big as 15 feet high out to the street. I just couldn't look at dead things anymore. On the last trip, my neighbors raised a beer and I went over to join them. We got closer after the storm. Those of us who owned our homes in our little triangle were back at the beginning of October and were quite proud to be in the first 65,000 or so people who had returned. We were excited and felt like pioneers in a whole new world. Seeing this familiar tiny purple flower peeking through a broken slat in my fence gave me hope. It may have been just a weed, but it was an old friend from my old life. I went out later that week and bought some new flowers and shrubs to try to cheer up the yard a little further. The yard was my haven and sanity during those horrific times. By January 2006, everyone was exhausted. I still had my lights up on the fence from trying to decorate for Christmas when my friend Michael came over to sit out in the yard and enjoy the lights. He pointed out the darkness all around except for us. I looked at him and said: "I miss the gold old days, and I don't mean the days before the storm. I mean the days when we first came back. We were excited. We were going to make a difference and get things back on track." He agreed. It was getting difficult to hold on to hope.
Bonjour, Laury! I love your writing -- and your photos (this little purple flower peeking out of the fence is a favorite). Off you add you to my links page. I'll be back! :-)
Posted by: Kristin Espinasse | February 20, 2009 at 01:37 PM