Standing inside our Slidell, Louisiana, house, feet buried in slick gray bottom mud from the marshy waters of the Pontchartrain Basin, my husband, Jim, and I agreed to head for Texas. We knew Vicki, Jim’s sister, would welcome us if we could get there.
A few days before, on August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina had devastated coastal Mississippi and Louisiana, with us in the midst. It had been hard, yet we knew we were lucky. We eventually learned that 1,833 people died in the storm.
Uninhabitable, except by the minnows swimming in the bathtub, our house was sludgy. But it was still standing, and so were we. A tree had smashed our truck, but it worked. Gas, distressfully, was scarce. The 482-mile journey to Alba, Texas, 80 miles east of Dallas, would be iffy if we couldn’t find more fuel. We chanced it.
After tense highway miles, Lady Luck met us at fume level, and we refilled. Once in Alba, Vicki offered electricity, hot food, warm showers and clean sheets—luxuries I’ve never taken for granted since. Her home became our command center to rally insurance adjusters and source supplies.
Our truck entered an East Texas body shop. Meanwhile, Vicki loaned us hers for our drive back to Slidell to rebuild. Galahad, our German shepherd, stayed behind. We lived in limbo for months, back and forth, rebuilding in Louisiana and resupplying in Texas.
In St. Tammany Parish, it was disheartening. Goods and services were absent, and friends and neighbors were scattered across the country. Whenever we crossed the Texas threshold, peace and calm enfolded us. On the trips home, we bolstered for hardship.
We burned our candles low as we managed subsistence living along with our jobs and house rebuilding. As able, we’d roll west to visit Vicki and Galahad, and contentment would settle us. That was the balm we needed.
Before Katrina, I was a Louisiana-Mississippi hybrid and glad for it. Living in Texas was never part of my plan. But subtly, Texas burrows under a person’s skin to build a cozy den.
In September 2006, we claimed citizenship. Our house is just a pasture away from Vicki’s place.
That first night in our new home, I stood in the backyard, listening to crickets and stargazing. I saw lights shimmering at Vicki’s, so I phoned her. She grabbed a flashlight and went to her front yard as we talked. There, she winked her light on and off. In turn, I grabbed a flashlight and signaled back. We both giggled.
At that moment, the red Texas dirt felt like solid ground upon which to build a new life. Twenty years later, I wholly confirm that it has been.
