A couple of my coworkers went up in a helicopter the other day, and one of them got sick.

No, not airsick.  Not queasy and lightheaded as some folks get on a rollercoaster ride.  But emotionally and physically ill at the sheer magnitude and totality of the devastation.

They flew over the mud-stained houses of Lakeview, the drowned, desolate neighborhoods of New Orleans East, the flood ravaged remains of the Ninth Ward, and the dirty remnants of St. Bernard Parish.  He saw it all, and it was too much.

Now this fellow I'm writing about, he was already pretty beat up by the events of the last three months.  His house took several feet of water from Katrina, and then his house was burglarized, "looted" as we commonly say.  His trust in government's ability to protect the city from nature completely washed away.  And then his faith in his fellow citizens was stolen by thieves who took advantage of the disaster.

His family evacuated to another state, and he is now making plans to join them.  Permanently.  We've talked about this a few times, and as he puts it, the bubble is burst and the dreamer awakened.  We have all heard about the widespread destruction, the tens of thousands of now uninhabitable homes.  But seeing it in person, spread out in front of him from the vantage point of a helicopter...

 "It made me ill," he said afterwards, and he looked drained and damaged for the rest of the day.

The other colleague of mine who went on this same helicopter ride came back with a different view.  She, too, suffered significant losses in this catastrophe.  Her house in St. Bernard was almost completely covered by the foul flood waters, where it soaked for two weeks.  The homes of many close friends and relatives were also lost in the merciless flood.  Weeks later, she literally had to shovel mud from her mother's house just to find a few salvageable items.

But she is ready to go back, and is eager to rebuild.  Her fondest wish right now is for FEMA to install a travel trailer in her brown and lifeless front yard.  She saw the same terrible scenes through the windscreen of the helicopter, but her reaction was totally different.

In the words of the poet, her head is bloody, but unbowed.  Sad, yes, but determined.  Sober, but resolved to triumph.

This is the story of New Orleans right now.  We're all on a wild ride, thanks to Katrina.  So many good people who have just reached their limits and are eager to get off.  And so many who will not give in, holding on until we finally land safely.

Author Aaron Levenstein famously noted, "Statistics are like bikinis. What they reveal is suggestive, but what they conceal is vital."

The City of New Orleans puts out a daily emergency management report that is loaded with statistics.  Some of the numbers they reported this past Friday are in bold below.  I think this gives an excellent snapshot on what's going on right now in the city.

On the subject of trash:

* 834 trucks hauling debris
* 76,463 cubic yards of woody waste and construction and demolition debris removed in the past 24 hours.
* 3,230,861 cubic yards of woody waste and C&D removed to date.
* 472 tons of refuse hauled in the past 24 hours; 21,538 tons of refuse hauled to date.
* 6,293 white goods collected in the past 24 hours; 147,512 units collected to date.
* Over 339,000 household hazardous waste containers collected to date.

This is just for New Orleans, mind you.  This does not include Jefferson Parish, which had widespread minor flooding of homes and businesses, and St. Bernard and Plaquemines Parishes, where there was significant destruction of whole communities.

What does 3.23 million cubic yards of waste and debris look like?  Well, put it this way: a regulation American football field measures 160 feet from sideline to sideline, and 360 feet from back of the end zone to back of the end zone, for a total footprint of 57,600 square feet.  That much waste and debris piled up on a football field would stand 1,514 feet tall, taller than the Empire State Building.

And that's just one part of the trash generated by the storm.  That category called "white goods" is a new one on me.  I think it refers to kitchen appliances, especially refrigerators which are notoriously nasty after power went out and the food incubated for several weeks while most of us were evacuated.  Almost 150,000 units--it's going to be a good year for Maytag and Kenmore stockholders!

More to come as the cleanup continues.

Emergency Medical Service:

* 26 units working 24 hours per day.
* 36 calls received within the past 24 hours.

How many people are living in New Orleans?  Very few.  So few that someone calls 911 for an ambulance an average of once every 40 minutes.  That won't even support one hospital emergency room.  Before Katrina, we had, what?, 6 or 8 fully staffed hospitals?

Restaurants and Food Services:

* 664 businesses approved to reopen by the Department of Health and Hospitals. This represents about 18 percent of pre-Katrina level businesses.

Roughly 4 out of 5 restaurants are still closed in a city that loves food only slightly less than it loves music and alcohol.  There just aren't enough workers or patrons to open all but a few restaurants.

Building Inspections:

* 119 electrical inspections reported within a 24-hour period.
* 28 mechanical/gas inspections reported within a 24-hour period.
* Approximately 115,000 damage assessments inspections performed to date.

And yet, people are rebuilding.  This statistic doesn't say whether these are homes or businesses, or where they are located.  We do know that you only need an electrical inspection if the water was high enough to get into your outlets, typically 12 to 18 inches above the floor.  So more than 100 people per day who had more than a foot of flooding are moving forward.  This is not new construction at higher elevations; that hasn't started yet.  This is renovation of flooded buildings at the same elevation as before.

Crazy or brave?  You decide.

You can tell a lot about somebody from their garbage.

No, I have not been digging through anyone's trash cans.  I'm just making an armchair observation.

We are, after all, a consumer society.  That means we consume a lot.  And that means we throw away a lot of things, too.

Come on, admit it, you've noticed the boxes outside a neighbor's house a few days after Christmas.  You might even have pointed it out to the person with you at the time. "Oh, look.  I guess the Schwartz family got a new TV.  And an X-Box."

I've been doing that too, just casually noticing the trash.  And what I see here in Uptown New Orleans tells a sad story.

When I first returned to my battered city in late September, the curb and the neutral ground were filled with refrigerators.  As fast as they could be hauled away, new arrivals would place their pungent appliances on the curb, too.  It took about a month, but I think the trash collection folks are finally winning that battle.

Next came the construction debris.  It varied a lot by neighborhood.  Areas thoroughly soaked had very little construction debris.  Homeowners in those areas are, like me, planning to tear down what little remains.

Areas that had moderate flooding produced mountains of construction debris.  Doors, sheetrock, electrical wiring, cabinets, furniture and flooring all contributed to long ridges of refuse that lined many streets.

And areas that did not flood, such as Riverbend where I currently reside, generated the least amount of construction debris.  Here, the trash is almost exclusively roofing and sheetrock from wind-damaged roofs and rain-soaked walls.

Now we seem to have entered into the next phase of trash, and this is, in my opinion, the worst of all.

What I have been seeing now is furniture, mattresses, desks and clothes being put out for trash.  These things are not damaged by flood or soaked with rain.  These are the belongings of renters who have not returned.

With high demand (and subsequently high rent) for rental property in New Orleans, landlords are putting people out at a record pace.  Even people who are not here are getting put out.

No doubt some of these folks don't want to come back.  They might actually be doing better where they landed so that there's no reason to come back to New Orleans.  Not even to pick up a few hundred dollars worth of used furniture.  It might cost more to rent a truck, for instance, than the total worth of everything they could carry in it.

But I am just as sure that many can't come back.  They lack the money, the job, the transportation to come home.  Some are too far removed to make the trip to rescue their meager worldly possessions.  Or too ill, or too busy.  They have probably stopped paying rent, or if they lack a lease, they can't pay the increased rent now being demanded in the Post-Katrina economy.

The landlords, whatever the case may be, deal with it with cool efficiency.  They get permission either from their former tenants, or they get it in the form of an eviction notice at City Hall.  They clean out their properties and they put up the FOR RENT sign.

The only clue that someone lived there before Katrina lies at the curb.  The pathetic pile of discount furnishings sits as sad testimony for a few days, and then it is efficiently carried off to the dump with the rest of the weekly trash.

Those renters, those former citizens of New Orleans, where are they now?  Will they ever return?  Will they want to, once they find out how they have been treated?

We are, after all, a consumer society.

My daughter went to a birthday party the other night at a bead store.  This is the kind of thing girls are doing nowadays—they have a party at a place where everyone gets to make and take something.

She came home with a necklace.  It has a dime-sized silver flower in the middle, and glass beads all the way around.  The beads are a mixture of blues, whites and off-whites that appear to be placed at random.

Now, some children might want to make a pattern, lining up the beads in a regular, orderly arrangement.  But not my girl.

So I even said to her, “Hey, I like how you mixed up the beads in your necklace.”

And her response floored me.

She said, “Yes, I wanted it that way.  I like the colors to be all mixed.  It reminds me of New Orleans."

I was speechless, and proud. I don’t know how, but even at her age, she understands.

She understands that New Orleans is different because the people are different.  She understands that the people who live next door, and down the street, are different from us, and different from each other.  And she knows that this is a good thing.

She sees the beauty in this colorful painting called the Crescent City, and understands why it is superior to a flat, monochromatic canvass.  And while she was stringing those colorful and different beads together, she recognized how each bead’s uniqueness contributed to the strength and beauty of the whole.

She’s a New Orleanian, no doubt of that.  I hope New Orleans in the future will meet or exceed her expectations.

One of our two cats went missing last week.

We have two cats right now. There were times we’ve had more, but two cats is probably all we can handle in this apartment right now anyway. We’ve been keeping them inside of course, so they can get acclimated to their new home. But last week, my wife thought they were ready to go outside.

We opened the front door, and they crept forward to look. Cautiously, hesitantly, they walked as if on tip-toes to peek out into the world. They made their way onto the porch, and then went down the 15 steps to the sidewalk. It took them about 20 minutes to do this, so you get the idea how carefully they were moving.

After a little while, I whistled a little tune I always whistle to call them, and they came running back.

Later, they went out again, but only one came back. My wife and I disagree as to how this happened—she says I told her the cats were both back in, while I say I only asked her if the cats were back before we locked up for the night. The result was the same in either event: Smudge was missing.

Yes, we called her Smudge. She’s a white and cream Siamese cat with beautiful blue eyes and a black tail. She also has a black mark across her face and nose that resembles a smear of dirt or paint. That's why we named her Smudge.

The next morning, a Sunday, we realized she was missing.

I went outside and began to whistle for her. I walked up and down the street looking. I began to circle the block, whistling and peering under cars and houses for any sign.

And I discovered that a lot of folks are out on Sunday morning in this neighborhood. A woman at the corner was sitting on her porch swing reading the paper. I didn’t have to tell her I what I doing. She immediately asked, “Did you lose a cat or a dog?”

As I was walking down the next street over, a man came out his front door to ask me. He heard me whistling, probably heard the sadness, too. "What does your cat look like? If I see her, where can I call you?”

A jovial middle-aged man was out for a bike ride. Even he stopped to ask me, “Hey mister, what’s your dog look like?” He looked almost exactly like James Earl Jones, wearing a t-shirt, suspenders and a friendly smile. He began to ride up and down the adjacent streets copying my whistle.

Two hours passed, and I gave up.

While I was out searching, my wife and daughter found a picture of Smudge on the computer and made a poster. That afternoon, my wife printed out several copies and began to walk around the neighborhood, handing out the poster and asking if anyone had seen Smudge.

Yes, one man told her, down the street there. My wife asked several more people, and another man pointed at a house. She whistled one more time, and Smudge appeared from under the house and greeted her with a happy meow.

In the end, not only did we find our cat, we also discovered that people care. We met several neighbors who showed genuine concern for us and our lost pet. They proved to us yet again that this city is full of good, caring people.

Safe in that knowledge, we all slept peacefully that night, especially Smudge.

I have a snow shovel, and I know how to use it.

Not too many life-long residents of New Orleans can say that.

It was about a year ago that I recieved this unusual tool.  Unusual for here, where snow comes slightly more often than two-term Democratic presidents.  And when it does snow, it's never more than an inch.

I was sweeping and raking leaves at my home near Lake Pontchartrain.  The slow build-up to what we call winter seems to confuse a lot of trees in New Orleans.  Some, like the Japanese Magnolia, bloom two or three times as fall weather comes and goes from October til January.  Other trees, like the Live Oak, drop a few leaves in November, a few more in December and January, but are not convinced to let loose on the bulk of them until March.

I was out in the street, working to keep my gutter clear and the all-important catch basin in front of my house unclogged and fully operational.  It was a year-round job.

Across the street, my dear neighbor originally from North Carolina, shouts out, "Hey, Tim, what you need is a snow shovel."  I laughed.  Yeah, wouldn't that be a sight.

A couple weeks later, she kocks on my door and presents me with a genuine snow shovel.  I marvel at it, like a bushman might look at a television.  A bright red handle tops the tubular aluminum shaft that leads to the wide, red plastic scoop at the bottom.  It was bigger than any conventional shovel, but lighter, too.

"Where did you get this?" I asked in amazement.

"Online." she said.

It was just one of many unusual, interesting, fun, wonderful, thoughtful, precious gifts that my neighbor gave me while we lived across the street from one another.  And I put it to good use, scooping up leaves and other debris that found its way into the gutter in front of my house.  It turned out to be quite useful even though it never snowed.

I used my snow shovel again just last week.  My house, and my neighbor's house, and all the houses on our pretty street are empty now, thanks to Katrina.  The street is covered with an inch or more of clay, silt and sand.  My patio and my driveway were also covered with a layer of mud.  After the floodwaters receded, the sun baked the sediment dry, leaving a cracked collection of mud chips for me to clean up.

I pulled my snow shovel out of what remains of my tool shed and put it to work.  I pushed and scooped and tossed the flaking dried mud to the sides of the driveway and off the back of the patio so that I could have a clear path to conduct salvage operations at my home.

As I scooped and tossed away this unwanted residue, I thought about how Katrina had scooped up my neighbors and tossed them away, too.  My wonderful neighbor from North Carolina went back there to stay with family.  As of this writing, they do not plan to return.  The flood and the destruction left them little choice.

I lost a lot in that flood, but I still have a snow shovel.  It's a rarity in New Orleans.  I hope good neighbors will not be as rare when I rebuild.

Updates on prior stories:

* New Orleans Police today reported finding the body of a woman who apparently died from multiple stab wounds.  The Times-Picayune reports this is the first homocide in the city that was not a part of a police action since just before Hurricane Katrina raped our good city.  I had earlier posted that I was, well, disappointed when I heard New Orleans was murder-free for so long.  Today's news does not make me feel any better.

* My friend with the refrigerator reports that he can smell a bad odor coming from it.  He also reports finding a few bugs in it recently and that his wife will find this totally unacceptable if they're still there when she returns in January.  His insurance agent says it's covered, so my friend plans to put it out soon.  Oh well.  I guess I will have to return the REFRIGERATOR badge I thought I had earned.

* We're getting almost daily mail delivery at the apartment, but I still go to the Post Office once a week to get mail sent to our house that hasn't yet been forwarded.  Today I picked up two pieces postmarked October, so I take that as progress.

* My daughter wanted pizza Sunday night, so I went to The Italian Pie on Magazine street.  Excellent food and service, however, no sign of my beloved amateur bartender.  Eh bien.

"Amateur" can be used to say something is good, or something is bad.

Amateur contractors, for instance, are bad.  but amateur politicians can be very good.  Amateur musicians can be painful, while amateur night at the improv is totally hit or miss.

In a city desperate for workers, desperate for so many trades and professions, amateurs abound.  So you've got to be on your guard in New Orleans nowadays.  Or not.

When I first got back to town, just four weeks after Katrina and right on the heels of Rita, I came to understand this first hand.

I was working long, late hours.  The family was still evacuated, so I was doing the bachelor thing, you know, eating canned food and drinking beer at every meal.  So when they reopened The Italian Pie on Magazine and Joseph, man what a beautiful sight that was!

One night, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my pizza, and the cute young bartender asked me what I wanted to drink.  "Jack and seven," I said, and was amazed at the reply.  "Jack Daniels?"

Okay, flashing lights and sirens could not have been more obvious.  It was as if a duck dropped from the ceiling with a placard that said, "AMATEUR."

I chuckled to myself and said yes.  I watched as she began to search the rows of bottles for the world-famous "Old No. 7."  She found it, and then began to search for the mixer.  After looking high and low, she consulted with the shift manager, a tall fellow with a 70's mop of brown hair parted right down the middle.  I saw Chandler shake his head to indicate the negative to her.

"We don't have any 7-up," she reported.  "Would you like it with Coke or lemonaide?"  I shuddered.  Lemonaide?  What Baptist town did you escape from, I wondered.  "Just give it to me on the rocks," I said.

She smiled sweetly, and then returned to the bottle of Jack.  With a few cubes in the glass, she started to pour.  And pour.  And pour.

She delivered the full glass and charged me $4.  Suddenly, she was in my estimation the best bartender in the city of New Orleans.  I tipped her generously.

Chandler wandered by a couple minutes later, glanced at my drink, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise.  "Is that all Jack?" he asked.

"Not only that, she charged me for a regular drink," I said.

He shook his head, "She's new," he said.  "This is her first day."

"Well, she's FABULOUS," I said, and we both laughed.

I suppose if I had ordered a Long Island Ice Tea or a Bloody Mary, she'd have made a bloody mess of it and I would not be writing so kindly of her.  Any bartender that tips the Jack longer than the 7 is a good mixologist in my book.  But one that pours double or more is worthy of worship in my world.

I returned to The Italian Pie several times over the next month, but sadly my amateur bartender was not to be found.

Web page: http://www.italianpierestaurants.com/Locations/NOLA/5538mag/5538mag.html

I attended the Louisiana Recovery & Rebuilding Conference here in New Orleans on Thursday, Friday and Saturday.  An amazing collection of highly committed, community-minded people were there.  I was invited to represent the American Society of Civil Engineers.

The goal of the conference was twofold: brainstorm and collaborate on a new vision for the new New Orleans and Southeast Louisiana, and, take that message to the streets via the diverse network of conference attendees.

It was an invigorating experience to say the least.  So many good hearts all beating in unison in a big room--I couldn't help but be inspired.

There was one unusual moment, one very ironic moment that stands out as I replay the days in my mind.

Saturday morning before the proceedings got under way, I was milling around in the lobby.  We did this every day, we got our coffee and just chatted with whoever was standing around with coffee waiting for things to start.

I got into a  conversation with a local activist friend and two other locals who work for a preservation organization here.  Just friendly chatting and banter.  Then one person made this really incredible statement: Since Hurricane Katrina, there have been no murders in the city of New Orleans.

Zero.

It took about 10 seconds for that to sink in.  I just stared straight ahead, absorbing what that means.  No murders. Ten weeks.  New Orleans.

My friends in the city no doubt understand the power of that statement.  New Orleans has habitually been one of the top murder cities in the US.  Over the years, per capita, New Orleans has the dubious honor of being the murder captial of America.

But now that is totally over.  Now we can boast that we have had zero murders, which puts us on par with Mayberry and Pleasantville.  Wow.

At the end of that contemplative moment, I felt the blush of one strong emotion pass through me.

Disappointment.

And as soon as I realized what my reaction was, my reaction changed to embarassment.  How could I be disappointed that no one had their life taken prematurely?

I don't know.  I can only say that it has something to do with calling attention once again to the scale of this disaster.

Aparently, there are just so few of us in New Oleans.  So few that nobody got into anyone else's face for more than two months.

We were losing about 300 souls per year of late.  Now that problem is gone.  Wiped out, along with the stroried neighborhoods and citizens.

Or perhaps my disappointment comes from the knowledge, the statistical factoid, that more than 1,000 Louisiana residents are dead in Katrina's wake, may they rest in peace.

Not a good trade.

More on the LRRC at: http://www.louisianarecoveryandrebuilding.org/

The first time you see your flooded house, you surrender.

You simply give up.  You say things like, "It's all ruined," and, "There's nothing to save."  It's just too much to comprehend.  You think if you just close your eyes, all will be back to normal when you look again.  It doesn't work.

The second time you see your flooded house, you think, perhaps there are a few things I can get.  Things of special, sentimental value.  Things that are either waterproof, or even if not, would be worth having even if damaged.  Things that are emotionally worth the effort of moving furniture, digging through sludge and debris, climbing over and around rotting food and stinking, mildew covered clothes and bedding.  Jewelry, awards and pins, little baubles that have value beyond the material.

The third time you see your flooded house, you start to believe that there's a lot of things in there that are actually in pretty good shape, considering.  Dishes and classware, for instance, can be salvaged with a little scrubbing and a bleach bath.  Stainless silverware is likewise good to go, provided the metal is not pitted.  Coffee mugs, that odd assortment that could almost tell your family's history of vacations, schools and professional meetings, might not be worth more than 50 cents, but you just can't leave them behind.

The fourth time you see your flooded house, you pull out your CDs and DVDs.  Sure, the boxes are trash, but the discs might still work.  Some of them are brown and tarnished, or pitted and peeling.  You know those won't play.  But a lot of them are still shiny and silver.  You give them a good cleaning, and are surprised to find that although they will play and they surely look clean, they still stink.  That's okay for the James Brown CDs, but Patsy Cline should not be funky.  You look around for other things, but there is very little that the soaking waters have not permanently ruined.

The fifth time you see your flooded house, you surrender.  You close you eyes and keep them shut.