The Gulf Will Rise Again - John Grisham

Subject: Fw: The Gulf Will Rise Again - John Grisham
Date: Sun, 2 Oct 2005 08:24:16 -0400






I thought this was worth sharing with all of you. I
think it says it all.


The Gulf Will Rise Again By JOHN GRISHAM
Published: September 25, 2005 Biloxi, Miss.

On Aug. 17, 1969, Hurricane Camille roared onto the
Gulf Coast with winds of more than 200 miles an hour,
only the second Category 5 storm to hit the
mainland United States. It killed 143 people in
Mississippi, and 201 more in flooding in central
Virginia. Over the years, Hurricane Camille's legend
grew, and it was not uncommon when I was a child and
student in Mississippi to hear horrific tales from
coast residents who had survived it. I myself was
sleeping in a Boy Scout pup tent 200 miles inland when
the storm swept through. Our losses were
minimal - the tents, sleeping bags, some food - but
over time I managed to spice up the adventure and add
a little danger to it.

For almost 40 years, it was a well-established belief
that the Gulf Coast had taken nature's mightiest blow,
picked itself up, learned some lessons and survived
rather well. There could simply never be another storm
like Hurricane Camille.

After walking the flattened streets of Biloxi, though,
I suspect that Hurricane Camille will soon be
downgraded to an April shower. The devastation from
Hurricane Katrina, a storm surge 80 miles wide and close to 30 feet high,
is incomprehensible. North from
the beach for a half a mile, virtually every house has
been reduced to kindling and debris. At
least 100,000 people in Jackson County - poor,
middle-class, wealthy - are homeless. I search for a
friend's home, a grand old place with a long wide
porch where we'd sit and gaze at the ocean, and find
nothing but rubble. Mary Mahoney's, the venerable
French restaurant and my favorite place to eat on
the coast, is standing, but gutted. It's built of
stone and survived many storms but had seen nothing
like Hurricane Katrina.

Even without Hurricane Rita chewing its way across the
region, the notion of starting again is nearly
impossible to grasp. Some areas will have no
electricity for months. The schools, churches,
libraries and offices lucky enough to be standing
can't open for weeks. Those not standing will be
scooped up in the rubble, then rebuilt. But where, and
at what cost?

So much has disappeared - highways, streets, bridges,
treatment plants, docks, ports. The next seafood
harvest is years away, and the shrimpers have lost
their boats. The bustling casino business - 14,000
jobs and $500,000 a day in tax revenues - will be
closed for months and may take years to recover.
Lawyer friends of mine lost not only their homes and
offices, but their records and their courthouses. At
least half of the homes and businesses destroyed were
not insured against flood losses. For decades,
developers, builders, real estate and insurance agents
have been telling people: "Don't worry, Camille didn't
touch this area. It'll never flood." This advice was
not ill intentioned; it simply reflected what most
people believed. Now, those who listened to it and
built anyway are facing bankruptcy.

As dark as these days are, though, there is hope. It
doesn't come from handouts or legislation, and it
certainly doesn't come from speeches promising rosy
days ahead. Folks dependent on donated groceries are
completely unmoved by campaign-style predictions of a
glorious future. It's much too early for such talk.
Hope here comes from the people and their remarkable
belief that, if we all stick together, we'll survive.
The residents of the Gulf Coast have an enormous pride
in their ability to take a punch, even a knockout
blow, and stagger gamely back into the center of the
ring. Their parents survived Camille, and Betsy and
Frederic, and they are determined to get the best of
this latest legend. Those who've lost everything have
nothing to give but their courage and sweat, and there
is an abundance of both along the coast these days. At
a school in the small town of De Lisle, the
superintendent, who's living in
the parking lot, gives a quick tour of the gymnasium,
which is now a makeshift food dispensary where
everything is free and volunteers hurriedly unpack
supplies. Two nearby schools have vanished, so in
three weeks she plans to open doors to any student who
can get to her school. Temporary trailers have been
ordered and she hopes they're on the way. Ninety-five
percent of her teachers are homeless but nonetheless
eager to return to the classrooms. Though she is
uncertain where she'll find the money to pay the
teachers, rent the trailers and buy gas for the buses,
she and her staff are excited about reopening. It's
important for her students to touch and feel
something normal. She's lost her home, but her primary
concern is for the children "Could you send us some
books?" she asks me. Choking back tears,
my wife and I say, "Yes, we certainly could." Normalcy
is the key, and the people cling to anything that's
familiar - the school, a church, a routine, but
especially to one another. Flying low in a Black Hawk
over the devastated beach towns, the National Guard
general who is our host says, "What this place needs
is a good football game." And he's right. It's Friday,
and a few lucky schools are gearing up for the big
games, all of which have been rescheduled out of town.
Signs of normal life are slowly emerging. The task of
rebuilding is monumental and disheartening to the
outsider. But to the battle-scarred survivors of the
Gulf Coast, today is better than yesterday, and
tomorrow something good will happen.

When William Faulkner accepted the Nobel Prize in
1950, he said, in part: "I believe that man will not
merely endu he will prevail. He is immortal, not
because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible
voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of
compassion, sacrifice and endurance." Today, Faulkner
would find in his native state a resilient spirit that
is amazing to behold. The people here will sacrifice
and give and give until one day this storm will be
behind them, and they will look back, like their
parents and grandparents, and quietly say, "We
prevailed."

John Grisham is the author, most recently, of "The
Broker."



Patricia K. Wilson, PHR
Personnel Director
Gulf Coast Mental Health Center
1600 Broad Avenue
Gulfport, MS 39501
Phone: 228-865-1716
Fax: 228-865-1780