Stormy weather never frightened me until I lived in Louisiana and finally realized it could be lethal. You get a lot closer to God during a hurricane and/or its close companion, the tornado, both we’ve lived through. Bad weather is especially frightening in a trailer, often euphemistically called a “mobile home” but literal in the sense that these things will become mobile quickly given the right circumstances that have nothing to do with truck transport. I’ve grown to believe only idiots voluntarily ride out hurricanes if they have any other option, which we had but failed to capitalize on after two false alarms and most uncomfortable nights sleeping on what we called “the railroad tracks.”
The railroad tracks were in reality a sofa bed long past its prime, one where the mattress and springs had given out so that you could uncomfortably feel two hard steel rods supporting the folding bed. We had a standing offer from my cousin Eddie and his wife to shelter from any storm in their nice brick home in Houma, but after taking them up on it twice that year, both false alarms as the storms veered in a different direction as they often do, on a third storm warning I told Mary I rather get wet than attempt sleep on a torture device a third time, but grew to deeply regret my decision. I seriously expected this storm would also not threaten us, but it did, and changed course so rapidly it was too late to do anything but hold on and pray.
Hurricane Juan in 1985 smacked us dead bullseye, the eye of the storm passing right over the top of us. We were fortunate it was only a Category 1 hurricane with winds ranging between 74-95 mph, but at that speed every good wind gust rocked our anchored trailer, and I could hear the wood holding the thin aluminum walls crack each time a hard gust hit. Juan also did a delightful loop de loop and came back a second time to hover just off the coast so that the storm water didn’t recede for days.
I had just finished building a 20X30 shop open on one side, the roof built with 2X6 rafters and corrugated steel. During one part of the storm that evening I watched the roof hop up and down a few times and then flip like a coin to land 50 yards away. (Most amazing, I had a light bulb fixture clamped on one of the rafters. After the storm I found it still attached and the bulb unbroken. Even more amazing, when I plugged it in, the light still worked!) The roof flip brought home the realization our trailer might be next, but it wasn’t the wind that did the most damage, this came later with the storm surge caused mostly by extreme low pressure found with any hurricane. Essentially, the Gulf of Mexico stopped by for a visit.
All night the crashing, bashing, howling and torrential rain stoked our fear levels two steps past terror, but come daybreak the real monster arrived, the water rising in our front yard from about six inches to five feet in a little more than an hour. This is when I noticed every living thing that couldn’t breath underwater climbing trees for higher ground, a mass migration of small insects and animals making the tree bark appear to move.
When the eye passed over us in the morning, the sky became a clear blue, but we knew this was only temporary. I waded out to my small jo boat to pull it closer to the house and begin evacuation the only way we could. About halfway out I heard Mary scream inside the trailer, a water moccasin, well known for both its poison and aggressive nature, decided to make his acquaintance, but was apparently startled by Mary’s scream and swam off our now submerged porch. Still, I loaded my shotgun and gave it to Mary should the snake or a close relative return. I was also moderately concerned about alligators quite common in our neighborhood.
It was when I waded back again through chest deep water I discovered how fire ants, as despicable as they are hard to kill, coped with a flood. These ants all link together to form a gigantic floating mass that from casual observation looked like an oil slick, one of dozens around me. Not seeing the floating ant pile for what it was I waded into it and suddenly my entire body caught fire. Instinctively, I dove under water, and while the ants did let go it was soon apparent my new pool was dirtier than the average septic tank, full of more pollution than I could possibly describe. It was about then I noticed something most common during floods here but I was not at all prepared to see, a floating coffin.
Better off Louisiana folk bury their dead in ornate mausoleums, many in New Orleans are now famous tourist attractions. Commoners in these parts can’t afford such luxury and instead the coffin is interred just below ground level in a cement box capped off with another concrete slab. However, when flood water rises, wood coffins become so buoyant they push off the cement cap and the dear departed go for another last ride. Later, I saw several strings of coffins tied together in macabre chain gangs lashed to big trees. I have no idea how or if the silent boaters were ever returned to what was supposed to be their final resting places.
I maneuvered my little boat with live passengers past our mailbox just barely above the water line and turned north, eventually crossing over what I assumed was the bayou based on the boats tied up high on many tress as is the custom for hurricane floods. I then navigated by the exposed tops of street signs and other land marks I recognized. About three miles north, we finally met dry ground right by the Bon Ton, a local bar I’ll weave a story about later.
I saw a green truck in the middle of Grand Callou Road where it finally came out dry. A deuce and a half, what the military call their big double axle trucks, was being loaded with flood refugees by the National Guard, who helped us get into the tall truck bed after I tied my boat to a nearby street sign.
I wasn’t looking forward to another night on the railroad tracks, but grateful to be around things like flush toilets one takes for granted until this isn’t an option. Many much less fortunate relied on buckets for weeks. Compared to many still stranded, the railroad tracks were luxurious accommodation.
The next morning warm and dry I watched the TV news and learned that school was scheduled to open the following day, at least for staff, and we were to report with our roll books as the storm coincided with the end of a marking period when report cards would be prepared and issued. I might have ignored that and just taken the day off, but a friend who lived just a mile up the road from us said he needed to feed a dog he was forced to leave behind, my friend’s home being dry inside but his yard about two feet underwater.
We went down the bayou in my boat and into into a driving rainstorm, both of us teachers now cursing the superintendent but knowing too we had to do something about a pet that needed care. After providing food and water to the dog, we sailed around our trailer where I retrieved my roll book and protected it with with a plastic garbage bag.
On the way back, I hit some underwater obstruction and the propeller sheer pin snapped, leaving us to paddle for a final, very long mile with an old oar I kept in the boat for emergencies.
Since the entire lower part of our school district was still under water the following day, the superintendent reversed his mandate. I don’t remember when school actually started again, but do remember months and months of repair work and cleaning filth to make our trailer at least marginally livable. The flooring was built with particle board, a cheap substitute for plywood, and this warped so badly we walked and frequently tripped over swollen mounds of flooring to go with the muck and mire any flood brings.
I know of only one good aspect of this disaster, but it’s a goldmine. Everyone we knew did all they could to help us get back to a semblance of normalcy. My cousins and many friends spent countless hours pulling up destroyed flooring and nailing down new plywood. Gifts of carpet and hundreds of other necessities came from all directions. Appliances were repaired and junk hauled away. When you’re down hard like this you find out how rich you really are.