Pennsylavania

Wednesday morning, 9 am. Left Louisville with my sister, Jean, and my niece, Jessie. Drove to Cincinnati under gray skies, then on to Columbus under drizzle. In and out of raina and drizzle all the way to Corry PA where my Aunt Grace lives in the house I remember from childhood.

It is strange that I spent my entire childhood in La Grange Highlands, Illinois, but I feel a greater closeness, a stronger emotional connection to Corry, a place I spent time only sporadically as a

child. Jean feels the same way. My mother hated it.

We had mostly lazy times in Corry with one special event: a visit to the home my grandparents, Ray and Emilie Burr, lived in on Frederick Street.

Every time I'm in Corry, I drive by or walk by the Burr house. This time, Aunt Grace called and arranged for us to visit inside the house. Both Jean and I were nervous, excited. Will it look at all the same? Will they have ruined it?

This is the house where I did my first baking, standing on a stool beside my grandmother - a short, round woman who always wore a print dress covered by an apron. I stood beside her as she scooped flour and sugar from the bins with her hands. My job was to add little-girl pinches of soda, salt. Multiple pinches of cinnamon.

Grandma baked with fresh eggs, butter, and cream. With sky-high cholesterol, she died of her own cooking, most likely. I am only one year younger than she was when she died.

Jean, Jessie, Grace, and I toured that house. Some owner after my grandparents had tiled the entry way and carpeted the living room. The current owners have the good sense to want to put it all back to oak.

The coat tree at the entryway wis missing, as was Grandpa's desk and Grandma's piano. This is the entryway, the parlor, where my great-grandmother once lay in her casket for her wake. Although I never met the woman, I have "seen" that casket in the parlor many times, and I saw it once again on Wednesday.

The beautiful wood columns separating the parlor from the living room are intact. The living room and dining room fireplaces are as I remember. The kitchen, the place of my most visid memories, has been remodled, and though lovely, was not done to period (1902). No more butler's pantry or creaky back porch.

But standing in the kitchen, I could see that round woman sprinkling flour over pie dough.

Saturday - Heading North

There are times when traveling that the gods and the stars conspire to give the traveler a small treat. Today, they were on my side.

I left Ocean Springs regretfully, wishing the weather forecast were good enough to encourage me to try to charter a small boat and head out to the islands. No such luck. Gloomy skies and predictions of storms sent me north.

I also considered staying around to help pick up trash. My friend Clive was going out on his boat this morning along with many other boaters to pick up any trash and tree limbs from the marshy areas around the town. If the oil hits, everything contaminated would have to be specially disposed of. The goal for this morning was to rid the area as much as possible of anything that could become contaminated and have to go to a special landfill area.

I passed on that, too, and headed north, munching Cheez-Its for brunch. Along about 11:00 I decided to find a place to stop, maybe find some good Southern barbecue. The town of Scooba was coming up, and how could I resist stopping in a town with such a name?

Besides that, I was traveling Highway 45, a nice divided four lane highway, moving along at 65. However, there were stop signs on the highway at the crossroad into Scooba. To the west were two gas stations with mini markets, a Chevron and another. I chose the other. I went inside and asked a young attendant there if there was any really good barbecue in town. She grabbed me by the arm, pulled me outside, and pointed. "There. Just the other side of that Chevron."

I looked, and just beyond the gas station lay some trees (most of Mississippi is covered with trees). At the edge of the trees I could see a metal meat smoker, and above the trees, a wisp of smoke.

I headed right on over. Nine times out of ten, I'll take food in a roadside stand over any restaurant in the area. I have rarely gone wrong. I won't talk about that place in Imuris, Sonora.

Behind the trees I found a smoker about ten feet long and a small travel trailer with a tarp attached to create shade. Under the tarp was a long folding table, and behind the table was a large black man in a cowboy hat. I asked what he had, and the list was long, including chicken, brisket, and ribs. I finally chose a BBQ sandwich.

Leonardo (I get on first name basis with food people pretty fast) ambled over to the smoker, raised the lid, and inside were about a dozen packages of meat wrapped in foil. He opened one, carved off some meat, and then deftly diced it up and put, excuse me, piled the meat onto a hamburger bun. He pointed me toward the sauce, and asked for $5.50.

I squeezed on some sauce, and took my first bite. I think I moaned. Actually, I think I moaned with every bite. This was absolutely the finest barbecue I've ever had, and boy have I had some good barbecue. It was tasty. It was tender. The sauce was perfect. It was probably the most tender meat I've ever encountered. It was heaven.

I ate every last bit and sopped up the leftover sauce with the bread. Didn't eat all the bread - why waste the room in my stomach with white bread (even though it was perfect under all that beef)? I wanted every last possible bit of that delicious meat and every lick of sauce.

I had to go back and take a picture of Leonardo at work. I"ll send him a copy when I get home and can print one - Leonardo doesn't cotton to email. I didn't even try to explain my blog to him.

There is one other amazing part to this story, and that was the young woman who pointed me toward the barbecue. She was young, and she was black. Clearly, I am neither. What made it interesting to me is the way she was so comfortable grabbing me by the arm and hauling me out the door.

On my last trip through the south - the late 1970s, blacks and whites still didn't mingle. At all. I even witnessed a white man beating a black man with a stick. I started to intervene, but a woman (white), wiser than me, grabbed me back and said I'd get beat too if I tried to do anything. When I first attempted to intervene, I yelled something smart like, "Hey!" which distracted the white man for a moment and allowed the black man to escape.

This image of one man beating another, a crowd looking on, still haunts me.

The point is, the South has changed. In both Louisiana and Mississippi, I witnessed blacks and whites together, talking, eating, laughing. This is so not the South I saw thirty-some years ago. I saw a billboard advertising an insurance company, and it contained a huge photo of the agents - a black, a white, and an Hispanic. All together and smiling.

I was repeatedly, and pleasantly, surprised by the racial interactions I saw. I also walked through integrated neighborhoods - something that was out of the question my last time in the South.

So, things do change. I have had days of frustration, disappointment, and terrible sadness. But I have also had the magic of what may have been the world's finest barbecue, and I have witnessed the New South.

Friday - on the road again

Up early and took one of the trolleys downtown so I could pay a visit to Cafe du Monde for cafe con leche and an order of beignet. Oh, sigh. Many of you know how much I love soapapillas. Beignet is basically a soapapilla with a French accent.

No they are doughier than soapapapillas. Thankfully I don't have to choose between the two. Just have to travel a LOT farther for the beignet.

I left New Orleans, passing the Superdome, where so many lived and died during Katrina. It was a jolt to see it, as my only experience with it is the photos from that time. It was unnerving.

But no time to dwell. I had to do some fancy lane switching and merge onto I-10. My friend in Ocean Springs MS called a short time later and suggested I take Highway 90 instead of I-10 as it goes through the Mississippi River Delta and along the ocean. I immediately hopped off the interstate and eased onto the slower paced highway.

I was on a stretch of road the other day that I should have photographed. It was paved over, but along the edges I could see the remains of the old road - tar and seashells. Imagine driving on seashells! I pulled over and poked at the shells a bit, astounded that some were intact.

I found a nature preserve just east of New Orleans and managed to photograph a small alligator. I have no idea if he is a small breed or a young one. But all I could think of is him encased in oil. Nature preserve or no, this place will soon be full of oil and toxins. My stomach churned, and I left.

In far eastern Louisiana, workers were stringing snakes of absorbent tubing along the edges of the marshes. If there are no hurricanes or heavy storms, this may help.

I saw one of Katrina's odd and beautiful benefits on this drive. Live oak trees are protected in Mississippi, so when the hurricane killed a number of the trees, the state was hesitant to let clean up crews cut them down.

Enter local chainsaw artists. These dead trees have been chainsaw-carved into dancing dolphins, pelicans, turtles, and more. The huge carvings now grace the roadway and city parks in western Mississippi. Such a far better use than for beach firewood!

I settled into my beautiful B&B (actually, it's just a B - Marian doesn't serve breakfast any longer) in Ocean Springs and wandered downtown. It's a small town and I am so wishing I could just stay awhile. A gallery owner checked out the island tours for me, and they're still running, but going to clean beaches. I could maybe track down a small craft to take me out, but the island I'd want to go to is about 14 miles out. And there's another storm coming in. I have seen enough of these storms to know there's no way I want to be out on a small craft if those waves begin.

Met up with my friend Clive last night. We hadn't seen each other in 34 years! Had the best dinner I've had on this trip, for sure, and maybe the best in a few years. Ocean Springs is on my list of places to recommend!

So, sadly, I leave in the morning, heading north. If I had the money, I'd stay for many weeks and really dig into this somehow.

A Brief Reflection

Awoke before dawn. Soon the sky lightened and I could tell there would be some blue today. But the western sky is already full of those puffy clouds that will turn on you in an instant.

A number of people have asked or said something about me contacting BP. First, I am a pretty small fish here. I suppose I could get close to someone, but what would I even ask? What would I say? I could simply record, but I don't want to hear their words first hand. It is disgusting enough to see their faces on TV. Rich, rich men who don't really have a clue what the 4th generation fishermen are so upset about. "They can fish somewhere else," is their attitude.

These rich men will walk away from here one day. So will I. The difference is they will be out at some $200 a plate restaurant complaining about how people didn't understand how hard they were trying. I will be in a $5 taqueria weeping for the dead wildlife.

In effect, I will never walk away. Though I haven't seen the destruction first hand, I have seen the misery in people's faces, the rage that is barely under control, the terror of what is to come. And I am a changed woman. New Orleans will be a part of me fore the rest of my life.

And not just New Orleans. When I say the name of this city, I mean this whole coastal area that is under siege by oil and men and cameras once again. I think the people here got sick of those big TV trucks during Katrina, and they are not a welcome sight again. They only mean a new disaster has struck.

So, I will not talk to anyone at BP. I don't want to spend my energy that way. The "drill baby drill" mentality is so far from who I am that I don't want to be very close to the people who live that life. I don't want to be close to the people who pay lobbyists to keep a tight hold on federal regulations so they can have more profit.

I know, you think I'm not much of a reporter. I could do it, though. I could come up with the questions. I could nod appropriately. Or scowl, more likely. But being here with this immense paid is difficult enough, and I don't choose to make it worse by having to look those people in the face.

Around half a million dollars would have paid for automatic shutoff devices that would have prevented this disaster. BP (and other companies) had their lobbyists work Congress to keep those devices from becoming regulation. You have to sleep with the devil to think that was the right thing to do.

Thuesday - Day of the Pendulum

All day, the pendulum swung: good news, bad news. Good, bad. Sometimes good became bad, which became good.

I awoke a little after six and stepped outside to look skyward. Too dark to see much, but I decided to pack up for a trip to Venice and see what happened. Around seven I stepped out to see quite a bit of blue in the sky, and there was little wind. Good news! I finished getting myself together, and a few minutes later stepped out again to gray. Bad news. How can a sky change so fast?

I spoke to the woman behind the desk at the hotel who encouraged me to go, but quickly, as afternoon storms were due again. After a hurried breakfast, I hit the road.

Great instructions and clear maps got me across the Mississippi and headed south. Good news!

I headed south on Louisiana 23 toward Venice. Green along the sides of the roadway, and when I got a little further south, large berms a few hundred feet back on each side. The berm on my left blocked my view of the Mighty Mississippi, and the berm along my right blocked my view of the marshlands of the Gulf. I know the berms are there to protect the area from flooding. I wonder if either one were breached during Katrina. Even if not, just the amount of water tossed into the area must have been massive. With the berms - about 20-25 feet high - how did the waters recede?

I saw one road over the berm to the Gulf and crossed to the other side to find a small marina, complete with an Ohio cameraman trying to get some footage of non-existent oil. According to one man I spoke to, the area has no oil because of the force of the Mississippi as it enters the Gulf. If the river slows, or when hurricanes come, this could change. A massive hurricane could change it all overnight.

When I got to Venice, one entire field was set up as an emergency center. The field had a huge mobile sheriff's office, a medical unit, and numerous assorted cars and trucks. Big sign: No Solicitations. I asked and found out that questions were considered solicitations (of answers). No help there.

Two more emergency spots had been set up, each with guards posted in front. I was warned off by frowns and hands waving me on. Showing my press pass did not make them look at me more favorably.

Only two people at the marina would speak to me - neither would disclose a name, and neither would talk for more than about a minute. Others said things like, "No comment," or "Can't talk."
So I spent a few hours finding out very little. It seems BP has found a way to ensure no one will talk to the press about operations at the clean up bases.

One thing I found out, however, is BP has contracted with most of the tour boat owners to take volunteers and other clean up people out on the Gulf. Although most boats were contracted, a few of the contracted ones sat at the marina. Hundreds of people milled about, many doing nothing but milling.

One man told me a few boatloads were going out looking for turtles. But when the people see a turtle, they usually can't get to him. Turtles emerge from the water, breathe, and go back under. What are the chances of being right next to an emerging turtle and being able to net him? Especially if you've never tried to net a turtle before? The man snorted, saying it was all for show, so BP could say how much they're doing.

This seemed to be the general sentiment, though that man was the only one who verbalized it. Other sort of gazed off, smiled, or looked at their feet. The man who spoke to me said BP had contracted so many boats for two reasons: to be able to say they'd done so, and to keep others, like me and all the press, from going out on the water.

True enough. I couldn't find a boat to take me out. Couldn't have gone anyway. The storm was already beginning to roll in, so it was too late to head out to sea (to see sea). Boats were already being called in. Also, I found the going cost was around $800. Cash preferred. Dang! Why didn't I get someone to give me an expense account?

Not being able to get out on a boat was bad news, but it was good news. I wouldn't be able to get to the damaged area. But I wouldn't have to witness dying birds, dying marsh, dying fish, dying turtles. BP, limited funds, and an incoming storm conspired to keep me from what I had hoped to see.

Turns out it would have been much the same at Grand Isle. I would have had to hire a boat to get me to the areas I wanted to see, and I couldn't have done so.

I headed back, disappointed once again, but a bit relieved. I really don't know how I would have handled being in the middle of the destruction.

So now my big question is what to do. There is no real reason to hang out here, except the President will be here Saturday. Wild guess, but I think my chances of getting close to Barack are pretty low.

Tomorrow I guess I'll head to Biloxi and points east. Oil has hit the islands there. Most of the press is here, and with the President coming, there will be even more. Perhaps someone will want to earn a little money tomorrow and take me on out to an island. Unless there's a storm (and more are predicted), that's the plan.

Wednesday - Done In by a Storm!

Hours on the road this morning. I watched the soft puffy white clouds over the Gulf slowly turn blue, then gray, then black. Thirty minutes from Grand Isle, it hit. Just like an Arizona monsoon. Rain came at me almost sideways, pouring so hard I had to pull off onto a side road and stop.

Unrelenting.

When the rain slowed a bit, I started south again. Water roared across the highway. Cars were stopped everywhere. I finally pulled into a little market, dashed inside, and asked about the storm. "Supposed to do this all day, lady. At least it's not raining oil. Yet."

I waited awhile longer. Cars headed to the island were turning back. The only vehicles going on were big trucks.

I'd just driven for three days to be hit by a monster storm. I almost went anyway but figured, what would I do in driving rain once I got there? Swim around on the beach? I finally turned around, heading toward New Orleans.

About twenty minutes south of the city, I pulled into an area of fish markets. Half were closed. I spoke to one woman about the situation. She wouldn't give me her name and asked that I not mention the name of the market. Her biggest fear right now is that fish will eat the toxic oil and chemical dispersant cocktail and become poisoned and ill. "What if fishermen catch those fish? What if we sell them? We won't even know. What will happen to the people who eat those fish?"

She acknowledged that the market, and most of the others, may not be around for very long. She's already looking around a bit for another job.

I spoke also to a man, Alan LeMoine, who moved to the area from northern Louisana shortly after the hurricane. He cleans up destroyed oil rigs for a living. Can you imagine? Making a living just picking up pieces of destroyed oil rigs? He said there was a lot of work after Katrina, but it had slowed down until the oil disaster. He's been working twelve hour days since then and says they've now gotten most of the trash out of the Gulf. He said the fishing industry would soon be gone.

"What will they do? It's all they know. It's all their parents knew, and all their grandparents knew. They'll never be able to fish here again."

I told him where I'm from and he asked if I saw a lot of Mexicans coming across the border. This good old boy said, "They just want to work. Mexico can't give 'em work, and we got plenty for 'em. They oughta be able to work."

So. Now I sit in my room at the Prytania Hotel. A tiny room in the "historic" part of the building (aka - the old part). Old brick walls and wide planked flooring. Second floor, no elevator, outside stairs. Made it in before it starts raining here.

I'm headed out soon for the Quarter. I have to think about trying to head back to Grand Isle tomorrow. It's about 2-1/2 hours of driving, each way. Perhaps, if it's a glorious clear day, but I'm not doing that whole drive again just to be turned back by a storm.

I look back to the south now, and the sky is no longer black. But it's dark, very dark. Likely still raining.

Louisiana

Made it to Louisiana, Lake Charles, to be exact.

At the Caverns of Sonora campground, there were only three guests - two big RVs and me. I met a couple who were walking their dog. They noticed my Bisbee Farmers Market bumper sticker and stopped to chat a bit because they'd been to Bisbee and had loved it.

I slept so well there. I heard nothing after about 8 pm other than a few owls. I awoke around 6:30 local time to hoots, chirps, trills, and other bird music. At least a dozen different bird tunes. I made my coffee and while I drank it, watched deer grazing in the meadow. I left the sweet little campground around 7:30 local time and headed into the beautiful hill country of Texas.

I'd planned to breakfast on the Riverwalk in San Antonio, but all nearby parking was out in the hot sun, three to four blocks from the river area, and cost $10. I didn't want to leave my laptop and cameras in the heat for so long, so begrudgingly, I headed back to the interstate and stopped a little ways down the highway for my huevos rancheros.

On to Houston, where I hit eight lanes of traffic, one way! Too much for this two lane driver who loves to take the one lane bridge. But I made it through and stopped for gas on the far east end of town - $2.49 a gallon (as compared to Ft. Stockton where it was $3.05).

The irony of this trip isn't lost on me. I'm driving solo, cross country, to visit an oil disaster, consuming gallons and gallons of this precious commodity along the way. Sometimes I think it should be illegal to drive so far unless your car gets over 50 mpg. Hey. It should be illegal to produce a car that gets less than 50 mpg!

One strange thing. Numerous semis blasted past me as I drove the 70 mph speed limit. Many towed long flat beds that held absolutely nothing. What, nothing has to be delivered east? I felt as though one should drop a ramp, allow me to drive up on the bed, and haul me. It is almost criminal to have these big rigs going down the highways empty.

I recently saw a chart of what it costs, energy-wise, to get a bottle of wine from point A to point B, and west coast wine going to Chicago is more energy expensive than European wine going to Chicago because of the amount of gas it takes to transport the bottle. So, Chicago, go for the French stuff! The real lesson is to buy local wine when at all possible. Made me wonder how it is I could buy a bottle of wine at Trader Joe's in Tucson for just $2.

I knew I was far, far from the desert when I began to see street names like Bayou and Magnolia. I zipped past water of all sorts and had to keep myself from rubbernecking to look at it all. It's such a rare commodity in Arizona that I wanted to take it all in.

When I crossed the line into Louisiana, I cheered. After all, the last milepost I'd noticed in Texas was 875, and that's just too many miles to drive just to get across one state. At the Louisiana Welcome Center, there was a sweet little pond - with an alligator warning.

In Lake Charles, the first thing I did was head into town and sit by the lake. Right downtown, busy around me, peaceful at the lakefront. It may be the last peaceful water I sit by for a few days.

I ended up checking into a motel. It's hot, it's humid, and the mosquitoes are fierce. I need a decent night's sleep before I head into the disaster.