I spent much of today at work imagining the total destruction of my hometown, so I announce with great relief that most of New Orleans has been spared the worst.
It’s not yet known how much our neighborhood flooded, and it likely won’t be known for at least a couple more days. Authorities are advising people to wait at least a week before returning home, lest they encounter all sorts of water‐loving wildlife like poisonous snakes and fire ants. The mind reels.
But based on photos and footage I’ve seen of the surrounding area, and the knowledge that a levee near our house was breached, I’d guess we had anywhere from four inches to four feet of flooding. The aftermath will be a hassle, but it’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before.
Meanwhile, I’ve got a plane ticket home for Thursday, one which I’m beginning to think I won’t use. I’d be surprised if the airport were fully functional by Thursday; even if it were, I doubt my parents would be back in town yet. I was flying home for my cousin’s wedding, which will almost certainly be postponed. (If it were my wedding, and if I believed in divine imprimatur, right about now I’d be viewing bachelorhood as a safer route.)
Our family’s house on the Mississippi gulf coast was most likely destroyed. Again. Which means it’ll have to be rebuilt again — for the third time, only seven years after Georges flattened it the previous time. If I were in charge I’d grow weary right about now.
I’m weary enough as it is. Destruction and death dropped on a city that didn’t deserve it. Looking back on this entry I notice how I referred to my parents’ house as “our” house, something I don’t think I’d be doing if yesterday had been partly cloudy.