Resilient Kids of Pearlington
Photo by Jon

Keep Hope Alive
Photo by Jon

In Harm's Way

We all have our own reasons for intentionally putting ourselves in harm's way. Some come because it is their job to do so and, like it or not, it has to be done. Some come from a sense of service and a willingness to do what they can, where they can. Some believe they were sent by God and some, like me, respond to a strong inner voice that invites them to the Dance. Perhaps it is the same thing. But all these kind come on faith - belief without evidence - that this is the right place at the right time, regardless of the danger and privation.

Harm's way also attracts the pirates and profiteers and the lowly thief. They, too, have their place - and their opportunity for profit and unfair gain bears an unfortunate price. The fruit of robbing the weak and defenceless is a bitter, and often hideous, reward. Without repentance and reparation, the consequences can be frightening - and brutal to one's soul.

We come to serve and in the end we break our own hearts on purpose. We come from all over, with only a common intention to bind us together: a need to contribute and a desire to help make a difference. We don't expect gratitude or credit and keep none for ourselves. In fact, we give it to each other. We do what we have to do to get what we need for the people we serve, and in this way we are Renegades. Many of us don't get ID badges, or shirts with our names on them. We also don't get spools of red tape, chains of command that bind our helping hands....or clipboards.

We come to know and love each other in a very short time, because we are sharing a common peril. We carry each other's hearts in our back pockets, along with our work gloves, our duct tape and our stethoscopes. We discover that to find ourselves we must first give ourselves away and that all our fears are manifest hour by hour and we are constantly in a state of choice. Do it or don't. Some of us compensate by smoking too many cigarettes or drinking too many beers. Some of us hide from time to time and some of us grow numb. But all of us cry - inside, where those we came to serve aren't put in the position of having to comfort us. And if we are wise, we comfort each other, then and afterward.

When we return home, we struggle to be present, to be in this moment. Some of us endured the funny looks and the confusion of those we thought we knew, who questioned why we would do such a thing. Some of these lived in our own homes. We return to those same people and feel lonely and disconnected, sometimes enduring seemingly dumb questions and trivial matters that spun along in our absence. Sometimes we feel angry at a careless comment, such as "That's what they get for building a city below sea level." How can they understand? They weren't there, they never saw the elephant. We lived a dream and those who would be dream stealers may erode our memories, trivialize them and dismiss them wholesale - but only if we let them. The world is so much bigger than where we live and we know that now. We hang on to it, lonely perhaps, but satisfied in our hearts that we did what we went there to do.

I remember my fellow Renegades; their faces, their spirit, their commitment and their humour. I cried with them and held them as they cried. I will not forget Steven and Anastasia, Anita and the boys; Jen the nurse, Angels Stacy and Sherri - and Walter the pirate; Shawn and Skylar, Mike and Jack, Portland Tom and Florida William. I especially remember West Coast Tom and hold him in my heart. I will continue to believe in them all, especially on the days they struggle to believe in themselves. We kicked some ass and took some names and I am proud of us all. I remember scorching days and mosquito nights. I remember kneeling humbly beneath the solar shower, the metaphor not lost on me, and praying for strength and the good folk of Pearlington. I remember missing my wife and once again finding gratitude for the beauty and joy of my home and my family, perfectly safe back in Canada. I remember Hailey and the other kids, resilient beyond belief in the face of the most horrific destruction.

And I remember me and what I learned and how clear things get when you are focussed on a single task.

Delayed Posting - Monday, Sept. 19

It was a sweet sleep, at last. The morning of my last day dawned clear and humid, the sound of the Porta-Pottie People bringing a new phalanx of units (finally) jarring me from my slumber. The day brought the promise of 100 generators....or none. It was always wait-and-see.

Material was now pouring in from all over the southern States. The firefighters, the FEMA guys, the Walton County guys - all chipped in to unload it quickly so we could distribute it in a timely manner. It was a moving sight, at one point, to see a dozen or so of them in a congo line handing off tents, tarps and boxes of clothing and food to each other as they snaked their way inside. Quite a contrast to a week earlier, when they were barely enough of us to keep up to the trickle. The minister from Minneapolis was back, this time with ten young Divinity students. In short order, the place came alive with sorting and stacking. One young man appraoched me and remarked that we needed shelves. I looked at him as if to say, "Yeah, we need a lot of things." Two hours later, he and a colleague had travelled to the Home Depot in Slidell, La. and had purchased 2x4's, plywood and a portable circular saw. Two hours after that, eight of the most beautiful shelves where sitting in the canned goods area and the others were sorting the food, just like in a regular store. It was awesome. But still, no generators....

A number of groups of “clipboards” had shown up in the past few days. The Air Force Colonel demanded a meeting of all the players, to coordinate that which was already perfectly coordinated. The meeting was set for noon on Saturday. He never showed up and I never saw him again. We all just went back to work. Then there was the man from the Hancock County Health Department. I ignored him. As I rushed past him, I overheard an innocent young Guardsman say: “And who are YOU, now?” I stopped dead and spun on my heel. I walked up and said to the young man: “Son, that’s the operative phrase of the week, isn’t it?” The Health guy was embarrassed. “If we had known how desperate it was down here, we would have done something about it.” Well, the part of Mississippi that borders the Gulf is narrow, perhaps a third the width of the state. What did he think was going on “down here?” “I’m going to get you guys proper showers, and make things more comfortable for y’all.” I almost lost it. “It’s not ME who needs a shower,” I told him, pointing toward the field full of residents. “IT’S THEM!!!!” Time to go home....I was getting cranky. Another “official clipboard” freaked when he saw a few of the big Rotary tents in the side room of Aid Mart, demanding they be distributed right away and suggesting we were hoarding them. When informed that they had only appeared five minutes earlier and would be gone five minutes hence, and that in fact we had already distributed or erected scores of them for the residents, he left and we never saw him again. Then, an older nurse came in and told me she had been 36 years with the Red Cross and had quit the day before. “What can I actually do to help,” she asked?

I was inside the Aid Mart, helping an old woman “shop” when Stacy approached me from behind. “They’re here,” she said. “I think you’d better come and look.” I could have kissed her, but still needed to see them with my own eyes before I committed my lips to the cause. She took me outside and there was an enormous tractor trailer packed to the gunwales. I couldn’t see the boxes of generators at first, because stacked in front were skids of desperately needed tents, huge tarps for covering the open roofs of houses and a skid of heavy duty extension cords for the generators. These were crucial, as three of the first 36 generators I handed out had burned - one to the ground - from folks using cheap cords to take power from them. The firefighters were alarmed and so these cords - hundreds of them with four-way-splitters and all - were just what the doctor ordered. I got more and more excited as Darren moved the stuff with the forklift off the tail end of the truck. There they were. Stacy and her crew had loaded the truck until they had exceeded its gross vehicle weight and, in the end, there were not 100 generators.

There were 111! One hundred and eleven brand new, life saving, perfect generators.

Kisses, hoots and pictures later, we were stacking them in the secure area of the compound and I was back on the laptop I’d borrowed transcribing the handmade waiting list onto a storage stick I’d also borrowed, from Minnesota Jack. Soon we were ready to go. But I needed the list printed. There were too many names to copy by hand as I had done with the first batch of generators that arrived. People had caught wind and they were lining up, silently pressuring me to find a solution. No one had a printer, at least one that worked.

On a hunch I approached the man that ran the Communications Mobile. He was a particularly distasteful man to me, one that sat in his air-conditioned coach, with the white plastic picket fence he’d erected around it with the KEEP OUT sign prominently posted - I suppose to keep we plebeians at bay. One of those who imagined himself running a small European country, rather than an RV with radios and phones in the parking lot of a little school in a little town on the bayou of Mississippi. Yet, they had provided satellite phone access for us and now had finally set up a table at the school so the locals could also make calls.

He was NOT amenable. Too busy. I appealed to his sense of destiny (as only I dramatically can!). No go. In the end, I had to bribe him with the use of one of our precious generators (probably to run his cappuccino maker, or something) and then I got some action.

Here was the drill. The main gate was manned by the National Guard. As I issued the generator and marked their name off the list, I would take their address and some form of official ID, if they had it. I would give them a handwritten chit to get them through that gate and over to the secure area where the generators were stacked. Once there, two men would unbox the machine, issue two 50-foot cords, gas, oil and instructions, then load the machine in their vehicle. If they had no vehicle, we would arrange delivery. The Guardsmen were concerned about someone forging my chit. Silly, but I thought that they deserved a little intrigue in return for standing, fully packed, locked and (almost) loaded in the broiling sun all day. So we designed a little code that satisfied them and was easy for me to do. The men issuing the generators would record the serial number on a copy of the list and only two cars at a time would be allowed into the secure area at a time. This, the Guardsmen jockeyed with incoming trucks to be unloaded and other traffic such as the two fire engines needing to go on calls. Mayhem, but orderly mayhem.

We began and it worked smoothly. My replacement Mike was handling daily business as I and a woman named Amy did our generator thing on the laptop. It was a great few hours and the relief on the faces of the people of Pearlington was palpable. I could leave now and know that I had contributed to the common good. But leaving was harder than I expected....

There has been a man, in his mid-thirties, coming to the Aid Mart every day and loading up. I thought at first he was hoarding, so I approched him carefully. He told me that he was a former employee of Stennis Aerospace, a NASA installation nearby that owned all the land around Pearlington as a security exclusion zone. It was at their installation that the FEMA people and others were billeted. He said his employer had allowed him and others from Pearlington who worked for them to stay there, but wanted $13.00 per person per day to feed them. None of them had the money, nor any access to their banks or credit cards. There were 40 or so of them, he explained, some with families that were old, sick and infirm. From then on I facilitated anything he needed to take care of them - cots, air mattresses, blankets and sleeping bags, food, juice, water and clothes. When one of the food service people pulled out and left a huge BBQ behind, I hid it and gave it to him, along with briquets and starter fluid. Things like that.

As I was getting ready to leave, he entered Aid Mart. He spoke to me, as he always did, in a low, quiet, intense voice, focussed solely on helping his neighbours and co-workers in a way only he could. He asked politely for some things. He thanked me politely and went about gathering things for his flock. That’s when I kind of lost it, at last. I was sobbing quietly at the generator table when I heard his low, concerned voice. “Are you OK, Jon? I stood up and told him what I thought of him, his dedication and grace under extreme conditions. He hugged me and I sucked it back up and helped him get the last of what he needed. I never caught his name, but I will find him again some day, I know.

The time came. There were many tears and hugs and the exchange of email addresses. I made a few heartfelt little speeches, as I am prone to do, then tore myself away and got in my rented Durango. Before I left, I posted a handwritten sign on the backboard of the basketball net in the gym that was the Aid Mart - just beside the former high water mark.

“CANADA LOVES CAMP RENEGADE.”

There is an old African myth about a magical beast, so unusual that if you were to ever behold it, the sight would explode your notion of what was possible to a point you would never be the same again. Of course it was the elephant and, once seen, can never be unseen. When we return home, if we try to live our lives the same way, if we try to suck it up and be who we were before, we will surely pay a price.

I sometimes use the metaphor of Seeing the Elephant when I lecture. I never told that story in Pearlington. Therefore I was stunned, as I was leaving town that last day, to encounter a man whose name I do not know. He is an eccentric character, something of a hillbilly scholar, who liked Canada and would sing the opening line to our anthem whenever he entered the Aid Mart. I stopped to say goodbye. His parting words, and the last thing I heard in Pearlington, Mississippi, was:

"You surely saw the elephant down here, din'ja, son?"

Indeed I did.

Pearlington, Miss.
Photo by Jon

The Road to Pearlington
Photo by Jon

Delayed Posting from Sunday, Sept. 18

Each day gets harder and harder. Each morning brings fresh challenges on very little sleep and each night I am more filled with emotion than the night before. It is time to go home and I know it. It’s the nature of Hurricane relief that burns people out quickly; an enormous effort has to be expended in a very short period of time, if any relief is to be achieved. I can only imagine how the people of Pearlington feel....

The truth of the matter is that the poor of Pearlington are the ones we are serving. These are the folks who had less options and resources for both evacuation prior to Katrina and recovery after. They seem to take their lot somewhat stoically, but it is inescapable that the majority of them are black Americans. Sometimes, a man will answer a question I’ve posed and I get that “yes, suh” response and a subservient smile and bowed head. But the eyes say something else and I try to communicate with my own that we are equal in my heart. Others are defiant and openly challenging....two ends of the black/white continuum. It is rooted in decades of history in the deep South and as a Canadian, while I understand it historically, is culturally foreign to me and somewhat disquieting. But there are also many who are self-possessed and confident and ride the middle rail, treating me with - and fully expecting - equality.

I had a run in with a black woman this morning. She is well-known in the community as a crack addict and the first time she came in the Aid Mart for a generator, she worked herself into a lather, but I was able to calm her down and communicate with her. Today, she was flying high and got into an argument with a young man, in front of whom she had butted in line. When I addressed her, she flew off the handle. Finally I had to tell her to leave or I would call in a Deputy or National Guardsman. As she stormed out, she fired over her shoulder: “It’s because you all just see us as NIGGERS!” It was interesting for me, because there is not a SINGLE place within me such a remark resonates. Her neighbours began to apologize for her behaviour and I got a chance to tell them that, as a Canadian - and as “Canada” Jon - I don’t care if you are black, white or flourescent orange, you’ll be treated the same at Aid Mart. I think all assembled were aware that it wasn’t the first time she had played THAT particular card.

Today I got in, blessedly, 38 brand new generators. As far as I knew, we had met all the critical needs, but I tucked two aside just in case. Then I took the first 36 names on a generator list approaching 180 and published them on the door of the Aid Mart, inviting those on the list to come and get it. We recorded the serial numbers as they picked them up, unpacked, oiled, gassed and started them, instructing the residents on their use. Gas is at a premium, but some resourceful soul managed to convince a small tanker truck to come and fill our cans for this purpose. I had to be flexible and allow myself to be convinced twice that the list must be in error and that a particular name should be closer to the top. It worked out, as a few people on the list had been able to get one with their own resources. There was some confusion for a while, but I had set up an iron-clad system to ensure an orderly transfer of the materiel and it worked well.

I met a man from Atlanta today, through my nurse friend Jen, who seems perfect to take over for me when I go. He “job-shadowed” me today and things look good for my departure. I am determined, however, to stay put for now because Stacy, from a Presbyterian church in Vicksburg, has promised the delivery of 100 generators in the morning. I’m not going anywhere until I see the “whites of their eyes.”

Tonight I am counting on the Perfect Sleep. I have double-checked my air mattress in Portland Tom’s RV and all seems well. My bed is made up and I spent the latter part of the evening re-grouping in the soccer field with my new friends and fellow Renegades. As I lie there, awaiting unconsciousness, I find myself in tears about leaving and about all that is still left to do. I understand fully how the young doctor felt when he left. It’s an odd sensation, regretting having to remove oneself from harm’s way. I chuckle to myself as I remember that great line from The Beverly Hillbillies:

Aunt Pearl: “Jed....you live in a one-room shack. Your bathroom is fifty feet from the house. You shoot or grow everything you eat. And you want to know if you should move to Beverly Hills!!?”

“Yea....you’re right Pearl,” says Jed, brightening slowly. “A man would be a danged fool to give up all that!”

Delayed Posting for Saturday, Sept. 17

Saturday, Sept. 17 - Pearlington, Mississippi

Another scorching hot and muggy day and things are hopping at Aid Mart. The Okies have gone home, but Anita has agreed to stay until Wednesday and Anastasia, Steven and their kids have agreed to drive all the way back from near Tulsa to retrieve her. Thank God, we really need her here to run the back while I organize and issue at the front. Trucks are coming more frequently now, from churches and groups all over the southern states. We are getting more tents - and good ones - flashlights, batteries, sorted clothes and food. There still is no fresh food; no meat, cheese, milk, eggs etc., but we are getting some fresh bread and a bit of fruit - apples, bananas and a few oranges. Dog and cat food arrives, as well, and we divert it to whatever group is on hand to deal with wandering pets and livestock that are starting to be found in town.

We have a good system now. Young Ben, from Walton County, takes up position in the small room at the front that originally contained the Clinic, which has been moved to a clean room in the other building, beside the Shelter. His job is to hand out the restricted materials at my request, restricted only in that we want to make sure they get in the appropriate hands. Tents of differing sizes must go to residents depending on the size of the group needing shelter. We don’t have enough, for instance, to put two people in a five-person tent. We got in some larger ones from China, that house about 10 people, some from Rotary International that are good for a family of five and some smaller ones for couples or individuals. We now have some air mattresses (which we keep for the elderly, children or infirm) and some pads that we give out more freely. Anita runs the back, organizing the sorting of food and clothes and helping people find what they need. More volunteers are showing up now and the unloading of trucks is easier. The guys from FEMA chip in, as do the firefighters who have come from all over.

The young doctor originally from Canada is leaving today. Three times he tells me how tough it is to leave this place. The last time, I embrace him and tell him I know exactly how he feels. He’s stood his watch with care and vigour and now it’s someone else’s turn. He’s crying as he leaves.

It’s a very busy day and each arriving truck is like Santa coming - we never know what we’re going to get, but need it all, whatever it is. I carry a roll of paper towel everywhere, as the sweat rolls freely and abundantly the entire day. I call many of the residents by name now, and they do the same with me. Calls for “Canada Jon” abound. In the evening, I take a much needed shower and join my nurse friend Jen, from the west coast, and Shawn, Skylar and Tom - renegades from the Red Cross - and a few others to regroup and support each other. It's an emotional evening and the release is healing. I can see how each of us is changing and impacting our deepest stuff on a very real and personal level. We draw close to each other as we share this common peril....and we become someone different; more real and naked.

Portland Tom has offered me the Perfect Sleep. He has a room in the back of his trailer that, if he leaves the inner door ajar, should provide some cool air from inside the mobile home. It's private and has its own entrance and I set up my air mattress on the metal floor, my pillows and light blanket. FINALLY, I will get a real night’s sleep. I retire from the get together and head for bed, knowing that dawn will come soon enough.

Exhausted, I sink down onto the air mattress, only to discover the air has all gone out of it. I spend the night on the hard metal sheeting and am thankful for the cool air that envelops me.

Delayed Posting for Friday, September 16

Pearlington, Mississippi
4:45 a.m.

I’m dying for coffee on the deck with Marian. But there’s no Marian and no deck – that’s for certain – so I settle for warm bottled water as I type by dome light. The sky is blessing Mississippi with a stunning display of stars and a blood-red moon is setting in the west, over the Gulf of Mexico.

It has to be my last day here and I’m wondering how it will go. These people are my friends now and I will miss them and their brave struggle to survive. But, survive they will. That is their nature. I’m tired, but excited about the day. My plan is to leave around 4 p.m. so I have strength left to drive far enough north to find a hotel room. I need to rest for the long journey home. Where’s a Tim Hortons when you need one?

8:45 p.m.

It’s been an eventful day, to say the least. It became apparent pretty quickly that almost all who knew our operation here at Aid Mart were scheduled to rotate out today. People began to fall apart at the prospect. We have taken a school that was still 6 ft. under mud and in a few short days turned it into an Aid Centre and a Shelter, clean enough to be approved by the Mississippi Dept. of Health and the E.P.A. this morning. We now house 80 homeless souls and I can provide you almost anything you need to camp and survive – except those damned generators. I don’t let anything out the door that’s a flammable heat or cooking source. There is so much deadfall in town that a careless fire would burn this burg to the ground. My new neighbours don’t need that on top of everything else.

When Paula left there were tears all around. She almost stayed, terrified it would all fall apart when everyone who had been here so long, finally pulled out. There were pictures all around and the exchange of email addresses. She’ll be back, but her husband’s insisted on a two-week break. I called Marian on the new satellite phone that got hooked up by some volunteer engineers from Seattle and cried like a child the minute I heard her voice. She already knew what I was going to say. She would take care of it all and I will stay the weekend so I can keep it all going until we get some more bodies I can train. Besides, there are 100 generators threatening to show up Monday morning and I am the only one left that the locals trust and know well enough to hand them out judiciously. There may be a riot otherwise. A man from Minnesota dropped in this afternoon and promises me five employees to begin training on Sunday. Another renegade here is bringing me five more new people tomorrow. One of them will replace me eventually.

We have an operation here now. I got in some solar showers and we got them hooked up with tarp curtains and everything. It’s kind of like Bag ‘o Shower, but it gets the job done – for the workers and the locals in the Shelter. We have a big enough generator for compound lights and the National Guard and cops from all over are here to keep the peace. We have a mobile communications centre and even a movie theatre, projected against the wall of a trailer. We’re a community now and we take care of each other.

The Red Cross finally showed up today and tried to take over. A contract doctor, who had waited at the state line until his fees were confirmed, showed up and began issuing orders. There’s a retired New York fire fighter here, several in fact, but this particular man is a survivor of 9/11 who bought and restored a fire truck. He calls it Fire Co. 343, to commemorate the 343 brave men and women who died that day in the line of duty for FDNY. Their pictures adorn the side of the engine. He had to be restrained when the doctor started his pompous thing, because we all know that what got done here was accomplished by men and women who hopped in their cars and trucks and just showed up. No bureaucracy, no three-day requisition procedure, just good ole grass roots get-it-done.

Doctor Big Stuff lasted ten minutes. As he stormed off, he ordered the medical staff here to close down their operation, or he would make sure their licenses got pulled. Three of them, volunteers for the Red Cross who had left their practices and lives behind to help, promptly resigned from the Red Cross and agreed to stay on. He’ll have to make some money somewhere else. The Red Cross pulled out then. It took them 14 or 15 days to get here and they lasted 14 or 15 minutes. The shelter is now being operated by a church group who operates shelters for a living and things started getting done right away. People are sleeping in there tonight. God bless ‘em all.

Patty (Patrick), the crazy retired fireman from New York, dashes everywhere. He was putting out structure fires by himself for a time, because we all thought the small local fleet had been destroyed. Turns out the local fire Chief and his son had it all figured out. Knowing Katrina was coming, they stashed their newest vehicle in another town farther north and after the flood, put in a claim to FEMA for $185,000.00 for it. They would get the money, pass off the hidden engine as the new one and in the confusion, pocket the cash. They didn’t count on Patty. Known in his trade as a free-lancer, and enraged that the Chief and his staff just stood and watched while he risked his life, did some checking and put Florida William, the state trooper, on the case. Like many here, they are the kind authority hates, because they wait for no one. They just jump in and get the job done, while everyone else is still standing around getting “organized.” Patty is a true hero of 9/11 and that truck, with his brother’s and sister’s pictures on it, protects him from those who would try to slow him down. Then, of course, there’s his mouth….and his temper….

The Chief was exposed, the engine located and brought here to help Patty, staffed by other firefighters and paramedics from FDNY. The Chief was carted off yesterday by the FBI, under federal indictment. You don’t wanna mess with the FDNY, nor with Florida William. Many lined up yesterday, amid some very colourful prose from Patty, to wave the Chief off with a certain finger.

I’m sitting on a huge ball of emotion. I let some go when no one’s looking – no one who lives here, at least. I find myself tearing up when telling someone of the heroism of Renegade Tom, or Portland Tim and his father Tim Sr. I know I’m getting fried, but there’s job left to do and I have to do it. I will fall apart in my family’s arms when I return. Dream School must be here when things are in better shape. The children are so cute and confused, but I got a shipment of Mickey Mouse dolls in today and we’re making them smile.

I have a great set-up tonight. I pitched a tent right in the back of the “Aid Mart.” My irreverence helps keep things from getting too intense and the local women giggle and call me Sugar and go get baby food and diapers. I’m definitely talking like a local now and it will probably annoy everyone for a few days after I return. Oh well. I have my tent and my air mattress, a cooler with ice and water (and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi) and even found a small fan I can hook into the generator to keep the heat and the mosquitoes at bay. I’m a happy guy, sleeping in my Aid Mart, waiting for the dawn of another day.

“Welcome to Aid Mart. May I take your order, please?”

Sleep well and pray for Pearlington. We need all the help we can get.

Delayed posting from September 15

It was incredibly hot last night. I awoke to scores of mosquito bites on my feet and back, just from cracking a window in the truck for air, from time to time. The “two-man” tent I liberated turned out to be maybe 4 feet square, so it was the truck once again for me. Damn! I handed out three of those stupid things yesterday. I’ll have to try and fix that today. Day four without a shower and the Okies and I smell nasty. We head out early and find hot Sally Ann coffee. We rejoice. We enter the Centre and discover a late shipment blocking the access area. An hour later the sweat is pouring off us all and the day has just begun. We drink maybe 5 or 6 litres of water each day and pee maybe twice. I have a Moon Pie for breakfast and take my diabetes meds. It’s all I have time for.

Florida Amy and her sisters are back from Talahassee with my wish list in tow. It’s gone in an hour. More people are starting to return and we are busier than ever before. Some tools come in and I have to ration them. There are 200 names on a list for generators. We have none as yet. People are friendly and lots of new faces appear. Many are children with trembling lower lips. I park a big tub of bubble gum on my table and chat ‘em up. Most leave grinnin’ and a-chewin’. We finally get to open some boxes that came in earlier and hug each other when we find laundry detergent - a hot item, even though everything must be washed in bottled water. We also find some shoe-shine kits. Uh-huh.

The day moves quickly for the six of us. A man enters and asks if I can use 10 good men. In minutes they are sorting clothes and arranging cleaning supplies. Three Army guys are deployed for our service. Let me tell you: if you ever need your baby food, formula and nipples organized, there’s nobody better at it than the American Army! Everyone works hard and sweats profusely and not a single soul complains.

I’m beginning to see signs of Secondary Trauma in some of those who have been here for a more than a week. Paula, a first response nurse from Houston, was helicoptered in about 10 days ago. She’s been tireless in turning a school and gymnasium filled with mud into our Aid Centre and an 80-bed shelter. Yesterday the Health Board approved the main school as suitable for human habitation - all accomplished within four days. We’ve whipped the Aid Centre into more of a store than a big room with piles of aid dumped in it. Paula’s been the driving force; sometimes begging, sometimes yelling, always indignant at what these people have to endure. She’s bullied FEMA, dismissed the Red Cross when they showed up finally on Tuesday to “take over” and we did the same when they tried to horn in on our Aid Centre. Apparently Paula’s husband is coming to get her tomorrow whether she wants to go or not.

One young man and his colleague here work for the Red Cross. “West Coast Tom” shows up a couple of times a day with the most amazing stuff. He tells me that he just goes to the Mobile, Alabama warehouse of the American Red Cross, without a requisition, and the fellows there just turn their backs while he loots the place for what we need. He has to. Requisitions take three days to be approved. He’s an angel of mercy in the truest tradition of that organization.

The doctor here was born in Canada and has invited me to his RV for tea and talk. I’d like to go, I just haven’t found the time. Occasionally I bump into others with some tie to Canada, or folks from Buffalo or Detroit that have a fondness for our country. Americans are wonderful people and they shine the brightest when they’re helping others. Tomorrow is my last day here and we are all going to exchange email addresses and stay in touch. Ophelia is battering the Carolina coast and my thoughts go to my sister- and brother-in-law Maggie and Dennis, who live in the western part of North Carolina. I pray for their safety and many of the “nickels” I came here to resolve finally “drop.”

Part of me was worried I had gotten too old, too tired to serve like this anymore. I was afraid. Diabetes has taken about a third of my energy from me and I was frightened I was not up to the task. But, there are places in the world that need a man like me, and women and men like you, because compassion makes the limbs stand taller and hard work for a good cause brings sweetness back to my life. Some would say it’s a hopeless cause to a certain degree, but there’s nothing more satisfying than giving your all to even a hopeless cause. I may not be as good as I once was, but that’s OK. I was too hyper when I was young, anyway.

The Okies and I are determined to find a shower tonight. We hear that the State of Florida is hosting some out at the NASA Aerospace installation down the road toward New Orleans. After work, we head out. It takes a bit to find it, but we do and they let us in. My shower comes in a large toilet stall with a hole in the floor and a garden hose with a sprayer head hung over the door. It’s rustic, but I have one of the finest showers of my life. After, we follow the FEMA crowd to the mess hall. After waiting in line (and chancing we’ll miss the curfew) we are rewarded with Prime Rib and baked taters, Caesar Salad and real Diet Coke. It was just fine. We look around as we leave. There are air-conditioned tents and huge transports with bathrooms and showers in them. I think it’s necessary. If these men and women are going to be able to endure this for any length of time, they will need this to root them in some semblance of homey comfort. The Okies also understand; they have served as a family in several disasters like this and they are one of the few I’ve met who truly understand the unconditional nature of this work. We’re not attached to any official group, just people wanting to serve. We have no status here save for that which is given us by the victims of
Katrina. That’s more than enough for us.

I was finally able to borrow a real tent and I am looking forward to sleeping under the Mississippi moon tonight. I am clean and fed and safe for the moment. What could be better than that?

Sleep well.

CNN

Greetings,

I just received an email from one of the nurses I worked with in Pearlington. She found a CNN article on the Internet which may interest you. It's at:

www.cnn.com/2005/US/09/20/forgotten.town.ap/index.html

Thanks,
Jon

Delayed posting from September 14

Things are shaping up at the Aid Centre. By noon I was put fully in charge
and it was an extremely hectic day. Stuff was arriving as word of the
plight of Pearlington spread and trucks had to be unloaded, things sorted
and some items even protected. My job is to coordinate all this, as well
as all of the people coming in every day to have their basic needs met. It
is generally "slightly-organized-chaos" and at one point I had to put a
Sheriff's Deputy in charge of holding back the residents whenever a truck
arrived, to give us time to see what we had and where we were going to put
it.

Some aid was extra precious - tents, lanterns, gloves, boots, as well as
underwear and socks. These I cordoned off behind Police tape, to ensure
that they were distributed evenly and to the families most in need -
which, of course, I had to adjudicate on the spot. The residents are
mostly pleasant, even though most of them have just the clothes on their
backs. Children are starting to return to their families and one little
girl made a point of telling me that "my house broke."

The stories are coming too now. The cars on the highways were parked
there, to keep them safe. Pearlington is three miles from the Gulf, but a
15-foot surge came inland an unprecedented 4.5 miles. Everything was
submerged in a toxic stew of sea water, sewage and mud. Nothing is
salvageable. I was told stories of folks climbing higher and higher in
their homes, until they were forced to climb pecan and oak trees to escape
the flood. Many were there for five or six hours, until the water receded.
Many are being treated now for serious chafe wounds on the insides of
their thighs, where they had to shimmer quickly to safety, sometimes
pushing their children ahead of them.

Some cry as they tell me. One man teared up behind his sunglasses, as he
explained over and over to me that he'd been quite self-sufficient before
Katrina. He HAD a generator and a chain saw - brand new - now he had
nothing. It's a hard thing for a Mississippi man to be unable to provide
for his wife and babies. I filled his arms with the things I had, rubbed
his shoulder and watched him leave. I went and cried myself then, alone in
the portable toilet. They have to be so strong for a while yet and now is
not the time for them to fall apart. That will come later and I hope I can
come back and help..

A few are clearly despondent, moving already into that phase of the grief
cycle. Anger is coming and already I have had to carry some of it on my
own broad shoulders because I had no generator to give them, no word of
their future, no mops or shovels to muck out the mud. Most are being stoic
and I tell them that Canada is sending them love. They cry with me, then
move along to fill their boxes with canned stew or rice.

Wonderful people from all over the country show up at our doors. Most
bring worthwhile things and take my list to go back for more. One small
Florida church collected $300,000.00 after they were mentioned on national
TV. Suddenly three housewives were in the relief business and doing a
remarkable job. They promise to return tomorrow with what we need. I
believe them. Occasionally we get a box of junk from someone's basement. We shake our heads and throw the dirty clothes or useless trinkets in the
trash pile. What were they thinking? Occasionally, we get one of those
kind that demand to know when and who will send them a letter of
gratitude. I take their names, smile and thank them. After they leave with
their chests puffed out, that piece of paper goes in the trash pile as
well. This is unconditional or nuthin'. Young "Nibletts" from Talahassee
chats me up for as long as I'll let her, which isn't long, with judgements
about "those people" and how much they smell. I hand her a box and tell
her to put it in the back. We never see her again.

Men are going door to door in their trucks, bringing aid to those who
can't get out to the Centre. We find the old and infirm, young Moms with
babies and hurt people. Nothing is too hard for this team. We even build a
man a bed for his crippled legs, out of wood that used to be his
neighbour's house. I hide tents for the old and for groups of families
huddling together to survive. The Sally Ann and others feed everyone
wonderful hot meals and we call each other by where we're from. William
the state trooper is called Florida; my colleagues at the Centre: Steven
(Chain Saw Man), Anastasia, their two teenage sons and family friend Anita are the Okies from
Oklahoma, while I am "Canada Jon." Residents now know our names and we
know theirs. Smelly hugs abound and I'm afraid I'm starting to drawl and
call people "Hon", "Sugar" and "Baby". It must be the incredible heat;
over 98 degrees outside today. Fifteen degrees hotter inside.

I feel like I live here, helping my neighbours; my life, my bed, my shower
all but forgotten. But not my Marian Rose. She is my life and I stand in a
rare quiet moment to consider how WE would fare, if our beautiful home
were suddenly drowned and destroyed. As long as we had each other, we
would survive, I think. In the end that's all we ever really have: each
other. When they thank me for helping them, I only say that I'm sure they
would do the same for us. And they would. If you want to know if North
Americans are hard working and generous, just have a crisis and you'll
find out soon enough.

Tonight I have been invited to camp with the Okies at a mobile RV park
they found. Steven and the boys cleared the fallen trees enough to pitch
our tents and the company will be a welcome thing for me. It's the third
day without a shower and it's so hot at night I get maybe three hours real
sleep. The mosquito problem is growing in the wake of all this muck and
carnage, but we liberate some bug spray and off we go.

More tomorrow..sleep safely and well. Hug your loved ones closely. Don't
waste food and do something nice for a neighbour. We're all in this
together.

Good morning, Friends

This morning I arose, clear as a bell. I will begin new postings of what I recorded daily in Mississippi. I just need to retrieve them from the portable. Expect one shortly and another this afternoon. I have a slate full of clients, but I'll get it in there somewhere.

Thank you, Anonymous. Your comments have highlighted several important issues. The reason I went alone this time was because I didn't need to be responsible or even solicitous of the needs or safety of others. I've done this before. I know how to not be a burden on an already over-taxed system. I was there to contribute, not to draw on. I also know how to take care of my own needs and I am very resourceful. Secondly, my prediction is that the Red Cross will have a GREAT deal to account for, and all of you will see this in the upcoming postings. I have seen this everywhere. I call it the Politics of Humanitarianism. Every large group or corporation gets itself to a place where it takes much more of its money (donations) and resources to support its structure than to deliver its mission. 85% of all the goods we received in Pearlington didn't come from "official" sources. It came from people hopping in their cars and trucks (or renting trailers, U-Hauls and tractor trailers) to just show up and do some good. They had to. Many had tried to hook up with the Red Cross and others and it would have taken WEEKS. People of good conscience cannot tolerate this. Review the track record of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees during the Bosnian war and you will see what I mean.

The thing we needed most in the Gulf was HANDS. People willing to unload and sort, comfort and fetch, deliver generators and tents and blankets to those who could not get out, movers, shakers, ass-kickers and name-takers. People who weren't afraid of taking risks and just getting the damn job done. Renegades. Only at the end of my tour there did we get enough of these. It was a sight to behold. People I came to love, admire and respect in the few days that would have taken a lifetime in the "real" world. This IS the real world. As real as it gets. They are my brothers and sisters now and we have each other's back. Always.

It's not for everyone. It's lonely and we all know that when we return home, no one who wasn't there will truly understand what we saw and did and how we felt. How could they? Young Tom from LA was getting daily text messages on his cell phone from his wife about how the dog was pooping on the carpet back home. I watched Tom put all he had on the line, face every fear he ever had, and cry in my arms as I tried to help him understand that it's not her fault. She wasn't there, didn't know.

That's why we will stay in touch with each other. We saw the elephant and now it can't be unseen. Your comments hurt - not because they were true or balanced - but because you weren't there.

I invite you, Anonymous, to step out of the shadows and join me the next time I go. It will be soon. If I were wealthy enough to not have to come back to earn the bill money, I would be gone again this morning. 9/11 affected 12 city blocks. Katrina devastated 90,000 square miles and now Rita, the third largest hurricane in history, is about to slam them again.

I'll watch your back and entrust mine to you. Avoid groups like the American Red Cross - you will leave more hollow than when you arrived. Step up to the plate and let Rita throw you a curve ball. I know you can do it. You obviously care. That's all I need to convert you from a clipboard to a renegade.

As they say on the bayou: "God bless ya, son."

Hi Honey....I'm HOME!

Greetings, Friends:

I am finally home, after a brutal 17 hours on the road. I am glad to be back in the arms of my wonderful wife, but much of me is still in Pearlington, as they brace for Rita. Had I known she would be heading their way for sure, I would have stayed.

My, my, my. I am too tired to deal with Dream stealers tonight, so I will do it in the morning. Let me just say this: I sincerely doubt that there is anyone, anywhere in the world - including the homeless of Ontario - who are in challenging situations tonight that:

a) KNOWS this energy-sucking business is going on
b) CARES
c) is being BENEFITTED by it.

So, in the morning it will stop. Please give no further energy to it. He or she is free to create their own blog, stand on their clean little soapbox and fill their boots. I, for one, believe we reap what we sow. I wouldn't want to be this particular clipboard when the karmic bill comes due.

Thanks for all your love, prayers and support. It was a long drive and I have more postings to make.

And a new Dream. A big one....

P.S. P.J.: Thanks, my son.


Sleep well.

Jon

Delayed posting from September 13

Pearlington, Mississippi
September 13, 2005

The road off the freeway leading to Pearlington is littered with the shattered vehicles and broken dreams of the people of this bayou town. Hundreds of cars and trucks lie akimbo in the ditches; some nose down in the water, some on their roofs, all broken and abandoned. One can only wonder about the fate of their passengers. When Katrina hit this Gulf coast town, only some of its citizens had already been evacuated. When they returned a week later, there was nothing to return to. Everything had been destroyed. Not one building had been left undamaged, not one tree still stood tall.

All along the Gulf, Katrina hit with a force unimaginable. The damage is so extensive that it has forever changed the face of this part of the world. Hundreds of thousands of trees, maybe millions, are destroyed. The Army Corps of Engineers has pushed the deadfall off the roads, but many still teeter threateningly over the traffic below. Highway and street signs are either gone, or twisted and bent beyond repair. Entire buildings are missing from their footings. There are boats on the shoulders of the roads and cars in the bayou. I even saw a sailboat wrapped almost intact around a tree, like a living mast.

The winds and rains were bad enough. When the surge came, it filled Pearlington with twelve feet of water. Anything still salvageable was now lost. The high water mark can easily be seen on the backboard behind the basketball net and around the edges of the block gymnasium in which an Aid Centre has been set up. It’s the only building still standing, that and the attached elementary school, The windows were broken and all the desks and lockers washed back out to sea with the retreating tide.

When I arrived early this morning, everything was complete pandemonium. FEMA and the Walton County Works Department (from Florida) had only made it to this little town on Sunday and aid was starting to arrive by the truckload from all over the south. All 600 residents desperately needed food, clothing, baby supplies and water. Nothing is working in the town; no water, toilets, power, phones nor gas. Nothing except a few volunteer aid workers, Sheriffs Deputies, Police officers and fire fighters from four states, Red Cross people who have defected from an organization clearly not working as it should….and one crazy Canadian.

By noon we were getting organized. I had already been promoted several times and now ran the check-in desk to ensure everyone got what they needed. I made lists of people wanting generators and chain saws – should they ever arrive. But there are plenty of Coleman cots, a few tents (which go quickly), some tarps and plastic and skids of canned goods and sundries that will have to see these people through for a while yet. There is no word of their future, just rumours….a tent town….a trailer town….relocation. No one knows. FEMA and others are busy mucking a foot of residual mud and mould out of the main school into a shelter for 100 or so of the luckier ones. There simply is nowhere else at the moment to put the rest.

Angel Monroe is filling a box with the things her family needs. She sees her neighbour and they hug each other. She had invited her neighbour over the week before the storm hit. Gussie “came over” all right – her house currently rests atop Angel’s. The neighbour’s house across the street is in their back yard. Angel’s 10-year-old daughter Amber tells me their deck is about a mile away, in the bayou. Four-year-old Haley is letting me take her around, a Barbie baby in a carrier firmly attached to her back. She sees a small My Little Pony plastic tricycle and her face lights up. We finish filling her pockets with gum and donated suckers, me pushing her Pony. I give her my Eagle Wishing Stone from the Kokopelli Trail Quest last summer. I tell her to hold it close and it will make her feel better. She makes a wish, but doesn’t share it. A good thing for me, I’m sure. When she leaves with her Grandma, she shoots me a radiant smile, her little fist wrapped around the wishing stone in the pocket of her donated jean shorts.

The Salvation Army is here with a big trailer and are feeding all, including me. It’s 101 degrees outside, hotter by far in the Aid Centre. Finally, a team of men from the Walton County Public Works Dept. in Florida rigs our only generator and gets a big fan moving some air. Angel is back, looking for a tent big enough for her family. There aren’t any. A lady who shattered her leg escaping is waiting for the only doctor and crying softly. She refuses my offer to help. So I go about the business of doing what I can, until I am so tired I can barely stand.

There are no hotel rooms for a radius of 200 miles. They are all booked by aid workers and their organizations and most for the next six months. I make the mistake of leaving the grounds to get gas and to look for a non-existent room. When I return, it is after 8:00 p.m. and I am stopped at a checkpoint by State troopers, who refuse me entry to the area. There is a curfew I didn’t know about. My plan to camp beside the school crashes. I drive up the road apiece and find a National Guard bivouac. They invite me to pitch my tent in the field beside their motor pool. As I am doing so, two Sergeants come over to tell me there are copperhead rattlers in the area, but only a few hundred yards down the field, not here.

I make my bed up in the back of the truck. It’s past midnight and its still 82 degrees outside, hotter in the truck. If I roll down the windows, I am devoured by mosquitos. So here I am, the portable on my lap in the front seat, recording my day. The computer is plugged into the inverter I brought and the engine is running with the air conditioning on. I hope I sleep somehow. Tomorrow is another day….

If my heart had wings, I would fly out over the Gulf of Mexico and stir up a storm of hope and compassion for the resilient people of Pearlington, Mississippi. Especially for Haley.

Good night.

I'm back in the world....

Good Morning,

As Rita builds in the Gulf of Mexico, I am over-nighting in Kentucky as I head home. I am tired and beginning to feel very sad. I did what I could, but my heart is still there, as my new friends in Pearlington brace for what may come....again.

I will begin now to post the daily logs I was unable to send. Thank you for all the comments, especially the ones from the individual criticising my work. Down here, we call such people "clipboards." I've met them all over the world; people who criticise from the safety of their armchairs, but who would never stand a watch or drop their clipboards long enough to fill their hands with a hammer, or some food or a stethoscope and actually DO something. Oh well. Talk's cheap when you're safe at home.

Please pray for the people of the Gulf. Their resilience is remarkable and they deserve a break. Especially Pearlington, forgotten in the shadow of New Orleans, 15 miles across the Bay. Thanks for the prayers you HAVE made - "Camp Renegade" is a going concern and now they may stand a chance, as you will see....

God bless,
Jon

Another hurried call....

Jon called this afternoon - in the few minutes that I was home for a washroom break. How perfect is that?!

The call was rushed and Jon was breathless - though more emotionally than physically so. He spoke so fast, I couldn't take notes that made any sense. They just got a mobile line hooked up to a generator, so he had to talk over that.

He was extremely clear that the situation is still in "emergency" state. He commented that supplies arrive, however they don't go far enough. They finally have chlorine, though not sufficient quantities. They can't find enough tents. Mops arrived, though they were dispersed in a minute and hardly made a difference. Clothes have to be sorted, because a lot of it is garbage (other people's rags, so to speak). Some people even sent nice things to hang on the wall - THERE ARE NO WALLS!!

Jon is staying in Mississippi until at least Sunday. All the other volunteers who have worked together with him this week and created some semblance of order in the relief efforts had also planned to leave today. Jon couldn't bear the thought of leaving the residents stranded (again!), so he will be the one to hand off when a new group of volunteers arrives.

"Ask them to pray for these people. They have nothing left. Tell them to ask God to send more hands! We need more help," he said.

Jon was emotional on the phone, and admitted to needing a good cry. However, he said there was no time for that, there was still so much work to do. He promised he would cry tonight - he needs the release.

While he works night and day in a destroyed town that has been mostly ignored by larger agencies; while he tries to support people whose lives will never be the same again; while he hides his own anguish at their losses, so that he can put their needs first; he apologized for spending two more days away and asking me to make some phone calls to cancel half of his work week.

I am so proud of Jon that I can hardly contain it. He certainly knows how to walk his talk.

Pearlington, Mississippi ... a war zone

a phone message from Jon.....

Jon spent the day at a Relief Centre in Pearlington, Mississippi. He says the town is like a war zone - and he has seen a war zone, so I trust his description. A ten foot surge hit the town and took out every home. Only the school, made of bricks, was still standing, though it was gutted. I think he said that 600 people are homeless.

Jon assisted in the collection of generators, tarps and supplies for those who need them. They have given him a small tent so that he can stay close. They are delighted that a Canadian would come to help them.

It is possible that we won't hear too much more from him for a few days, as he lives and works in the most affected area where there is no telephone service. He asks you to direct your prayers and light for those who live there - and all of those affected adversely by this trauma. They need so much support and, from our comfortable homes, we can work miracles through our connectedness of Spirit.

Let us pray.......

Just outside Mobile, Alabama ... by phone

I am on the coast and gathering my strength for the morning. The motel is swollen with refugees. This, in a community still recovering from Hurricane Ivan last year. Tomorrow, I head into the thick of things, to Pearlington and Waveland, both right on the Gulf, across Lake Borgne from New Orleans. At this point, I will be in the farthest south west corner of Mississippi. Both communities are pleading for help and feeling forgotten, that close to New Orleans. I think I am ready, but not knowing what I am actually walking into.

Gas is scant this close to the Gulf, although I have managed to fill up. Ironically, gas is 25 cents a gallon cheaper than it was in upstate New York. I have heard that the long distance phone lines are down on the coast, however, I have my portable and I will write the stories, but may have to post them later. For now, I am falling into bed to be ready for the morning.

An idea is brewing in my head. One for the children, that could do something to restore some hope and to prepare their parents for the effects of post traumatic stress in their children that will come later.

Good night for now,
Jon

In the arms of the angels - 9/11

Good morning, Dreamers:

I have over-nighted in Sheppardsville, Kentucky, south of Louisville, after an uneventful 11 hour drive toward the Gulf coast. The border crossing at Fort Erie took under 20 seconds and the agent didn’t even take my proffered passport. This is in contrast to the 90 minutes we endured at Detroit last summer, being grilled like cheese sandwiches.

The day was bright and warm, hitting 33 degrees at one point – comfortable, though, without our patented humidity. Gas prices, so far, are just under $3.00 a gallon. People are friendly and many cars are festooned with ribbons, commemorating either the men and women serving overseas or 9/11.

The Ford Explorer I rented was unavailable (big surprise) so I ended up with a Dodge Durango – fully loaded. It’s so bright a red, I feel like I’m driving a fire truck. Mmmm….maybe I can use that to my advantage…. It reminds me of my first trip to Croatia and Bosnia. I was able to rent a white Volkswagen Golf in Zagreb and I headed into the war zone. I didn’t understand why I was waved through so easily at all the checkpoints until I realized that the UN vehicles were all white Volkswagen Golfs, just with big UN sticker on the doors! Worked for me….

Upon further quiet reflection, and inspired by a conversation Saturday with my way-too-bright daughter Lindsay, I have decided that ALL donations received for Project: Katrina will be set aside in a special account. We will use these funds to facilitate whatever action is chosen as a result of what I find down south. All of the expenses for the trip itself will be borne by Marian and myself.

Speaking of Marian….what a wonderful woman and partner. I miss her already. As we were dancing at the wedding Saturday night in Burlington - to Elton John’s “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” - I realized how challenging it might be for my wife to love such a “wild-eyed wanderer” as me, but she does, with all her heart. It took me half a lifetime, but I thank God every day we found each other.

Shower time. It may be my last for a while. I don’t know. Stay tuned and please know that I feel your prayers. Everything has gone so smoothly. I am, most certainly “in the arms of the Angels.”

Stay tuned….

Mostly all set....

Well, things are shaping up for the start of Project: Katrina. A hundred details have mostly been addressed and I am very close to being ready. I am excited and frankly, a bit nervous, but Faith isn't Faith until it's ALL you're holding onto.

I would like to thank:

Larry Radko, Executive Director of the North Simcoe Catholic Family Life Centre for the generous use of an internet-ready laptop that I can take with me. My hope is to update this blog daily, but who knows if that will even be possible? Keep checking though, because you never know....Thanks, Larry. Larry and the Centre have been underwriting children's Dream School here in North Simcoe for years and have always supported me and my work.
catholicfamilylifecentre.com

Also, Saeed Rouhani for the suggestion of, and assistance with, setting up this blog. Saeed is a talented web designer and his work may be viewed at::
rouhaniwebdesign.com

I would also like to thank the well-wishers, supporters and Dreamers who have been in touch with me so far. I carry all of the caring in your hearts with me and I promise to share it with others as best I can. Some have even made donations and I am grateful. I will make sure that the funds are well and responsibly spent. Each dollar makes a big difference in the life of a child who has lost everything. Donations may still be made by mail or by phone, even after I'm gone. Call Marian at 705-445-8713 or mail a cheque to 262 Batteaux Rd., R.R.2, Collingwood, ON L9Y 3Z1.

More importantly, I take your prayers and intentions with me. Thank you to all who have rallied in this way.

"Big Dreamer"

This is a test....

Good morning!

It's 5:00 a.m. I've been up since 4:00 - things swirling through my head about my upcoming trip. I need to sleep - it will be a long drive and I still have two very full days to finish and a wedding out of town.

If this works as well as it promises to, hopefully I can keep everyone posted as I travel.

Stay well.

Jon