City Hall
Initially, houses with blown out windows and damaged roofs, yards full of debris were interspersed with completely collapsed houses. A short distance closer to the beach, the walls of the houses were completely collapsed, frequently with the roof, relatively intact, lying a few yards away to the side. A few hundred yards closer to the ocean, there were only foundations and windrows of the detritus of shattered lives. There were no large pieces. The only identifiable items were toilets and sinks.
Ironies are everywhere. Town center a few miles back from the beach was a war zone. The only thing of substance still standing was a monument to the people of the town who rebuilt the town after Camille in 1969. Town hall was only a foundation. But over this foundation flew a blue tarp and a card table. It was now the center of relief distribution.
Early this morning I saw a middle aged woman whose chronic obstructive pulmonary disease was worse because she'd lost all of her medications. She told me an incredible story. "We thought we had it made when we survived the wind. But then the water began to rise. It rose so quick. My two daughters and I had to dive under water to go through a window and get out of the house. We pulled our two dogs with us. We all made it to the roof and survived, but we ain't got nothin' left.
She thanked me profusely when she left. It's almost always the same, incredible stories and profound gratitude.
Wes
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