Divine InnerBitchin’

Lately I’ve had the feeling that the walls are caving in around me: My house is a shambles due to too many half-completed projects. I’m new to my job and, at the moment, direction is sorely lacking. I’m am now, and for years to come will be, helping to support my mother. My daughter, at 22, is no where near being prepared for moving out on her own. And, I’m experiencing extreme guilt over baling out on the Red Cross after leading the local director to be so excited about having me speak locally about emergency preparation. etc, etc,…

So, this past weekend, after long feeling the urge to run screaming from everything, I headed out for a long overdue solo roadtrip.

This was not my first time heading out on my own, and I actually prefer a roadtrip by myself. When alone, you turn where you want, eat where and what you want, stay where you want, and there’s none of the “When are we going to get there?” or “I don’t really want seafood tonight”. So, eager to get on the road, I rented an SUV (the only way to roadtrip), threw a map and a bag of clothes in the car, and off I went.

But where? I started south, through central Florida, but when I heard that a Nor’easter was on its way, I decided to turn around. I headed north to the I-10 / I-75 junction and turned west…and just kept driving. I-10, as anyone who’s ever driven it will tell you, is one hell of a boring ride, but was made more interesting by the jackass who insisted on cutting me off in traffic, several times, as he could never actually seem to keep up the pace. I sped west, at more than 80mph, determined to get as far away from Jax as I could, and it was at 11:00 pm when I decided to pull over to rest for the night. I turned south on I-110.

I had driven through Biloxi years before while returning from a trip to Nawlins, and remembered that it had been a hullabalu of activity. Heading down I-110, elevated above the rooftops, I could see that a little damage remained from the storms of the past, but was relieved to see that there were several massive casino hotels open for business. I landed on 90, and after witnessing the mad dash of folks at the casinos, turned south to look for a more peaceful nights stay.

I drove along 90, just a mile or so, when everything grew dark and eerie. I could make out shadows along the roadside that hinted that things were not as they might first have seemed. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I remembered that Biloxi had been hit by Katrina. Hard. I thought to myself, however, “but that was more than nine months ago.” I soon found a couple of small hotels, a Best Western with a blinking ‘No Vacancy’ sign and a Hampton Inn. I plopped down $140 for a room at the Hampton and then headed out to find something to eat. I drove for what seemed like miles without ever finding a restaurant or grocery store, and after developing a sudden sense of claustrophobia, I turned back to the hotel to make-do with vending machine fare. In the morning I awoke, ready as ever to hit the road in my quest to escape my ordinary life. I opened the curtains and looked out upon the Gulf. There was nary a ripple in evidence and the water shone like a pool of emeralds under a clear blue sky. “Beautiful!” I thought, “I must have been so tired last night that I wasn’t seeing things clearly.” With that, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the lobby and headed out the back door to my car. I pulled around to the front of the hotel, and while pausing to turn out of the parking lot, I looked to the left, and then to the right, and I was overcome. I had stayed in the only building within several blocks that was whole.

I-110 in Biloxi ends at the beach…well actually, over the beach. It runs out over the Gulf of Mexico a few yards before turning back in a tight circle which sends you in the direction of the casinos. There is no option to turn south, and it is clear that it is by design. The casinos will be the source of tax money that will help to rebuild the town. I turned north, towards the casinos, where trucks and tractors and cranes worked furiously to demolish the remains of a few huge hotels on the beach, and others worked to build new ones. I drove several blocks away from the beach back into the residential neighborhoods and could see the water lines up to the eaves of the homes. Most had tiny travel trailers parked in the yard as the owners worked to repair the damage. There were Red Cross and Salvation Army tents helping those who came calling. And, there were signs of volunteers re-building homes. I turned around and headed south, passing buliding after building which showed clear evidence of the force of the water that had passed through the town. Of those buildings that stood, most provided a clear view through the first and second floors to what remained on the blocks behind them. I felt embarrassed to be driving through, gawking at the destruction, and I felt angry at the sea. I realized that I had yet to even glance at the Gulf since early that morning.

My drive took me past a cemetary alongside the road which had been completely upturned: headstones lay everywhere and crypts were open. A tiny headstone reading ‘Our Little May’ lay next to the sidewalk which ran alongside the road. I stopped the car when I realized that no one would ever believe what I had seen and with certain unease, took a photo. At about that time, a woman pulled up and honked the horn. My car was parked near the entrance to her battered driveway, and she yelled that there was no parking in her driveway. My first impulse was to yell back at her that there was at least twenty feet of clearance by which she could have passed around my car, but instead I found myself meekly responding with “Yes, Ma’am” as I headed toward my car. I continued driving south and saw homes, hotels, businesses, entire shopping malls that had been reduced to ruin. All the while that I drove I felt the urge to cry but could not because I had been holding my breath so often that I soon had a severe headache. Each mile was a new horror as I drove through Long Beach and Pass Christian all the way to the still closed Bay St. Louis Bridge that we’ve all seen on television at least a hundred times. In Pass Christian there was a Wal Mart, across the road, set back away from the beach, and on a bit of an incline. The entire bottom half of the store had been passed through by the surge and as I drove the block that ran along the side of it I could see where the water had continued through the store and for a full quarter of a mile behind it had destroyed everything in its path.

The force of nature was appalling…and awe-inspiring.

I passed what was once a community of brick homes in a subdivision named “Destiny Oaks”. How cruel a destiny it had been. Another gated subdivision of huge homes was fronted by a series of small ponds which were filled with garbage and sinks and household appliances. One bright spot occurred in one small community where they were holding a carnival. It was inspiring to see the number of people who showed up to enjoy a day in the sun away from the devastation that had become an every day part of their lives, and I realized at that point that except for the sound of construction equipment, and despite the number of cars on he road, that there had been near silence through all of the towns I had passed. I began to notice how everyone else, like me, stood roadside with their cameras, heads held down, void of any gesticulation, wanting to capture the moment, but also wanting to be respectful of those we would leave behind upon our own journeys home.

It was late afternoon, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten the entire day. I had spent nearly the entire day driving that one strip of beach when it hit me…this was not ground zero.

To see that, I would need to continue further west along I-10.