Janet's Gift

I told the story some time ago of “Sally,” the woman whose brother was killed helping her clean out from under Hurricane Katrina.

Her real name is Susie Sharp and I ended up staying for the last three weeks of my tour in a trailer on her property. She told me then that she had a new phone line, as she rented land out for a microwave station on her spread. She told me that there was unlimited long distance calling available and that I should use the phone in the trailer anytime I wanted.

So, I did. I called Marian for coffee in the morning and a chat before bed. I e-mailed and posted and did research on the internet. After I returned home, Eileen Powers used Susie’s trailer and went to use the phone one night. It had been cut off. Apparently, that free long distance was for calls within the US only! They wanted more than $1000 for the bill....

Susie spoke with them and worked a fee per call deal that lowered the bill to $200. I called her and told her I would look after it. She told me to wait until she actually got the bill. In the meantime, a local woman caught wind of this, and on Susie’s and my behalf, paid it in full.

Here is a bit of her story:

“I know Susie. She is one of the hardest working women that you will ever meet. She has had a rough year. Lost her husband, then her brother, now her business and her home. I can't tell you how much HOPE that you give to Pearlington. Every time someone comes into town to help it shows that someone does care and that we can move ahead. It is so hard to sit in the muck and the mire day after day and try to dig ourselves out of this destruction.

I stayed for the storm with my father, husband and 14 year old son. We got on my father’s shrimp boat by jet ski and flat boat, in the eye of the storm - quite an experience. We lost my parent’s newly rebuilt home, originally destroyed in a fire in 2003, and the home that my husband and I were building. It's not a total loss. We can gut and rebuild. The frame is good, but no insurance. We have had a lot of help from individuals and private Christian groups. We could never have done what we have without their help. I don't have a lot of money and can never pay forward all of the help that has been given.

I am blessed to have a government job (I am just a peon here but I have a job). I also now have a car and because I work for the Navy, they have rented me a 32 foot travel trailer for $1.00 a day, which I get reimbursed for at the end of each month. I also have HOPE from individuals who show that they care. I will never be able to repay or pay forward all that has been given to me and my family. If you think of anything else that I can do, please contact me.

Janet Dawson
Resident of Pearlington, MS”


Thank you, Janet. Those calls saved my sanity and helped me do what I do. Thank you for caring, in the midst of your own challenges.

Dancing with Katrina

I am never sure who actually reads this blog, but I have decided to continue nonetheless. In fact, I have decided to turn my experiences and observations into a book.

The working title is: Dancing with Katrina and I have begun.

It will be a chronicle of my adventures in Pearlington, as well as a personal study of how such a thing affects the people caught up in it, the volunteers who come to serve them and the wisdom of providing relief and recovery from a non-governmental perspective.

There will be stories and pictures, survivor accounts that represent the experiences of the community and an inside look at what really happened in Pearlington in the time I was there.

I write this as a tribute to the resilience of Survivors everywhere and as an encouragement to all who serve, and who help such people become Thrivers.

I'll keep you posted.

Why we do those things we do....

Reports continue to flow in from Pearlington, a situation in constant flux as the town struggles to recover after Katrina.

I find remarkable the calibre of volunteers this disaster has attracted and what they are willing to do to help. So many have put their own lives on hold and have reached deep into their personal pockets to find the resources to come and help. Very few of them are free of the burden of earning their own living, yet have been willing to put their careers and their income on hold while they lend a hand. Some have risked their personal safety; some have left their families and their children behind to deal with the loneliness of being far from home in a somewhat foreign land.

We all have our own reasons for doing so. There is a common thread however, and in my observation the majority of us do it because it’s the right thing to do and because we have faith that we can and will make a difference: a difference to those we serve and a difference to ourselves. We want to know we mattered and that our lives counted in a way that’s meaningful to us. We want to lay upon our final bed and scan our lives, looking for bright spots and moments that mattered. We want to have adventure and challenge in our lives, not because most of us are too intense for normal living, but because we know that when our minds and hearts narrow to a single beam of light focussed on a simple outcome, we can create miracles.

And we like each other. We serve together in a trench of our own making and we rise above our differences and find what’s common to us all. We love and protect each other because we have to and want to and because we recognize that same spark in each other. When we fail, we are picked up. When we win, we share the celebration. The wisest among us concentrate solely on the mission and put all other considerations aside. We try our best to subvert our egos and work well with others. We rise quickly to our proper spot in the scheme of things that is a reflection of our skills and talents and we flourish there as the days unfold.

When we go home, and as we scramble to rebuild what our adventure cost us, we are changed. We remember how fast we worked and wish we had done more. We miss the excitement and the working together and know, deep in our hearts, we may never see each other again. We are sad it’s over - and glad we’re home - and wondering what comes next. We have “seen the elephant” and it will not be unseen. We are angry that the whole world wasn’t there with us, even as we fully understand why they couldn’t and shouldn’t be. We stitch ourselves together again, squeezing back into the spot in time we left, or wisely staying expanded and creating a new spot. We mourn for what we saw and heard and for the companionship we felt for Perfect Strangers.

Then, we take a deep breath and pray for the chance to do it all again.

Faith - Chapter Three - Holly's Library

When Holly entered the Pearl*Mart that morning, I could tell she was on a mission. She had a determined look on her face which surprised me; she usually tended to act shyly and would try to get her mother to ask me questions for her. Anyone who knows me knows that doesn’t work with me and that I always encourage children to speak for themselves. This day, she was accompanied by another young girl and needed to talk to me right away.

“Canada Jon,” she said, “what are you going to do with those books Frank cleaned out of the school and with those other books that have come in?” I hadn’t thought about it at all. I told her we would probably save them until the school board figured out what they would do with the Library that had been destroyed and was now our Shelter.

“Why,” I asked?

“Because the library was my life and I spent all my time there. It meant everything to me.” She looked like she was going to cry.

“How about we make a special shelf in the Pearl*Mart and put the books there?” I suggested lamely. Not good enough. She looked around at the shelves dubiously.

“And how would we lend them out?” she asked quietly.

OK, this was getting complicated. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe we could find a place to put them and create a little library?” I was stretching now.

“That might work,” she said. “But who would be the librarian?”

I looked in her eyes and she looked right back. “Why do I get the impression that you think that person should be you?” I asked.

She smiled.

I told her I would see what I could do. She’d been followed into the Pearl*Mart by John Olsakovsky, the current Shelter Manager. He’d overhead the whole exchange. “Your wings are showing,” he said, or something like that. Great, I thought. Now I’m an Angel and I just made a promise to a little girl. I had no idea how I was going to pull it off, but I had faith that something would come up for her.

I held Holly’s wish in the back of my mind for many days. As the month wore on I would think of it from time to time and wonder how I could do it. From time to time Holly would come in the Pearl*Mart and look at me with expectant eyes and I would smile, give her a little hug and remind her to have faith. But, my time in Pearlington was coming to an end. On Thanksgiving, as I was driving into the field to park my car for the day, I spied Konrad and his team, building sheds for the people of the town. I stopped and asked him if I could buy one from him for Holly. “Sounds like a worthy cause to me,” he said. “Leave it with me.” His team had already been joined by Eileen Powers, a fellow Canadian and friend who had driven down the day before to join the effort. Eileen had just given me a Tim Hortons coffee cup to use as a “homing beacon” (wry Canadian humour).

By Friday morning, the day I was leaving, the shed was well under way. They decided to build it completely from wood, instead of corrugated on the sides and roof as the other sheds had been built. They wrapped the inside carefully with Tyvek to keep the books dry. They built shelves inside and Eileen painted the whole thing white, one of the few colours of paint we had. On the door, she and Dallas and the others painted, in curving red letters: “Holly’s Library.”

As it approached completion and as I readied to leave, I called Holly at home. I got her mother’s cell phone and was disappointed to find they were in Louisiana for the day. I asked to speak with Holly.

“Holly, when you return home, please come to the school. I have a surprise for you. Ask for Miss Powers.”

“OK,” she responded in a confused voice.

“And Holly,” I said quietly, “always remember that Dreams DO come true.”

By all accounts, Holly was stunned into silence when she arrived at the school Saturday morning. When she got over her shock, she began moving the books out of storage and into her new library. She posted a sign saying that the lending library would soon be open. She would let no one help her, handling the dolly and lifting the boxes herself. Holly was now The Librarian.

In 1996, while living in the former Soviet Union lecturing and developing my Dream School program, the Soviet press labelled me, in Russian, “... nothing but a Big Dreamer.” The name stuck and those who know me very well know how much I love that handle. If a Big Dreamer can’t help make a young girl’s Dream come true, then what kind of a Dreamer is he, anyway? Holly’s Library is a symbol to the town of Pearlington:

Never give up. Have faith in the timing and rightness of all things. Hold on tight to your Dreams.

Thanks Conrad, Tim and crew. Thanks Eileen and Dallas. Cheers, Holly. I hope you light up the world with your smile and your faith.

Thanks for helping this Big Dreamer be 3 for 3.

Faith - Chapter Two - Ricki Crowe

We all cope with disappointment and frustration in our own ways. Faith transcends this and calls us to believe, without evidence, that the Universe is unfolding as it should. Sometimes, that feels like cold porridge on a wet morning and we struggle to hang on. Sometimes we just give in, give up, and move inside ourselves to a very dangerous place.

This is the story of Ricki Crowe, a resident of Pearlington. Ricki is about my age, with grandchildren and no home. He came into the Pearl*Mart one day to check his standing on the trailer kit list. I looked and told him I believed there were 50 coming the following Monday and that he was number 48. When Monday came and tornadoes were sweeping the midwest, I reasoned with him that they were probably delayed. Tuesday came and went and no trailer kits. On Wednesday, he came in for the last time and I told him they were still not in but expected them the following day. He turned abruptly on his heel to leave. I tried to lighten the moment. “Ricki,” I said, “If you want to yell at someone, yell at me.” He quietly replied, “Just forget the whole thing,” and left the store. That’s when I knew Ricki was in trouble.

Later that day I saw him eating alone in the food tent. I went to his table and apologized if it seemed I had been flippant and that I was just trying to defuse the moment. He told me, “I didn’t appreciate your words. I don’t really care anymore. No one is helping and no one cares.” I asked him if he had received his FEMA trailer yet. “No one has done anything for me or my family,” he said, quietly. “I’m done. I’m fed up. I don’t want anything from anybody.”

I knelt in the sand beside his table. I found I was more emotional than I should have been. I cried a little as I told him that I knew how he felt, that once I had lost everything and how powerless that had felt. I asked him if he would come with me to the FEMA tent and talk to these new guys, that things were getting done and I would help him in any way I could. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll see.”

The next morning, Ricki showed up at my door and I took him over to the Disaster Recovery Center. I explained how difficult the situation was and I left it in their hands. I told him that the trailer packages had arrived and I had one with his name on it. He said he would finish with the FEMA folks and bring his truck on Monday to get his package. What I didn’t tell him was that only 45 kits had arrived and, in fact, he had missed the cut. I didn’t have the heart for it.

Later that day, Mark from FEMA told me that he was getting right on Ricki’s trailer. I asked him, as a personal favour to me, to work as fast as he could. I knew they were pulling strings and skirting whatever they had to, trying to get the rest of the people off the ground. It was Day 81 out from the storm. That Saturday I helped organize a big meeting of the community in the food tent. All the government players were there and there was a lot of emotion and unanswered questions. Earlier that day, I had been accused by the Emergency Operation Center of racism, favouring whites over blacks in the distribution of goods. Apparently, someone didn’t get something they thought they should get and out came the race card. It was merely my turn. Others had been similarly accused - blacks about whites AND whites about blacks. I had deflected it all and borne it with irony that in a state infamous for racism, the Canadian guy - who had never once in his life ever gone there - was being branded a racist.

The director of the EOC was present at the meeting and I asked the very last question. I turned to the people in the tent and explained that I had been accused. I told them how hurt I was and that if they believed that to be true about me, and that the EOC was right, I was prepared to get in my car and go home. If they did NOT believe it to be true, then I would just get back to work. There was an uproar, people leaping to their feet in support of me. Ricki was one of them and yelled out loudly: “Canada Jon has done more for us than any of YOU!”

As I left the tent, I was jumped by the director of the EOC and his sidekick. I had embarrassed them, which was, of course, my intention. They demanded a meeting to get it straight and I agreed, knowing that it would take them weeks to organize such a simple thing, if at all. In the end, I was right, of course. Ricki saw them badgering me, even as other residents were coming up to me as I was being screamed at and offering their loyalty and support - blacks and whites. This further infuriated the EOC guys. When they were done completing my sentences for me and huffed off self-importantly, I sat on the bench outside the Pearl*Mart to catch my breath. Ricki appeared beside me. “I’m sorry that happened to you. What can I do for you?”

I almost broke down again. “Ricki,” I said, “I am the one charged with doing for you, not the other way around.” “I know,” he said, “but I want you to know how we all feel.” I was very touched. “Ricki,” I told him, “I already knew how you all felt. That wasn’t for me, that was for them.”

On Monday, he came for his trailer kit, the one he wasn’t supposed to get. But the Americorps kids and I had looked up the list of what was supposed to be in one of them and made up the goods from stock and other sources. We even added a few things. It was a kick-ass kit and I was thrilled to give it to him. He thanked me over and over and gave me a hug; a real hug, not a man-hug. But there was still the issue of his trailer.

As my last day approached, Ricki showed up with a steak he had cooked for me, complete with a baked potato and peas - cooked over a BBQ at his camp site. I asked him for word of his trailer; I knew it was coming but had learned to say nothing until it was in my hand. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It will come when it comes. It’s alright now.”

The day before yesterday, home just a few hours, I was having a luxurious shower when Mark from FEMA called. Marian handed me the phone through the curtain and I dried my ear enough to listen. “Ricki Crowe is in his trailer,” Mark said. I thanked him for his diligence and he thanked me for mine and we promised to stay in touch. I was two-for-three and a very happy wet guy.

Ricki, if you ever read this, please know that it was the finest steak I ever ate, marinated as it was with so much affection and mutual admiration. As we say in bayou country, I hope you got the biggest-ass trailer on the coast! Journey well, friend, and I won’t forget you promised me another steak when next we meet.