Dispatch From New Orleans

Time to pour the wine in New Orleans

According to Ariane at 4 p.m. CST:

I just got the best news yet. A friend who stayed in New Orleans during Gustav sent me a text to report, and I quote, "Cooking crawfish pasta and drinking a lot of wine." Sounds like people on the ground feel confident that the worst has passed.

And at 7 p.m. CST, here's the final storm posting from Ariane:

As was reported on the local WWL-TV website: "Water was roughly six feet below the top of the floodwall on the west side of the Industrial Canal. Street flooding on and around Poland Avenue between the Claiborne Avenue and Florida Avenue bridges had receded completely."

Fearing that somehow I'd jinx our frazzled city, I've been afraid to say what I felt for the past hour or so: It appears that New Orleans has dodged Gustav. What we considered to be little more than a deck of cards -- the levees -- seem to have held.

I'm physically, emotionally and mentally exhausted. And I'm thirsty. I have a big bottle of red wine with my name on it. Time to rejoice!

Stay tuned for another posting in the next few days as Ariane comes back home to the Lower Ninth Ward and finds out how her house fared in the storm.

Mack, the Village, and the Lower 9th Ward

If you hang out long enough in the Lower Ninth Ward, you're bound to come into contact with Mack, who has created the Lower Ninth Ward Village, a gathering, community and workspace in the area.

Check out this piece with Jimmy Carter in the Lower Ninth Ward and New Orleans in general. You'll see Mack and the Village (green building) one minute and 15 seconds into the video. Mack's in the hat, thanking Carter for coming by. Then, read Ariane's thoughts below:

Ariane's thoughts:

As we sit glued to the TV, just like millions of Americans, my thoughts turn to a conversation I had with a neighbor late Saturday night.

Standing under the streetlight in front of my home in Holy Cross, my neighbor Mack and I tried to soothe each other's nerves. Like me, Mack was prepared to stay. He wanted to be able to help rescue our neighbors if the Lower Nine flooded again. But after hearing Mayor Ray Nagin say the storm had veered east, had grown to a Category 5 and was "The Mother of ALL Storms," Mack, and I, decided it best to leave.

We both figured the Mayor was exaggerating, and thank God he was, but we didn't want to stick around to find out first hand.

Even though Mack knew it was time to go, he didn't want to. He feared that he wouldn't be able to get back into the city, that we'd be prohibited from entering the Lower Nine for weeks or even months. (The
Lower Ninth Ward was the last area of New Orleans to reopen after Katrina. It wasn't until May 2006, a good nine months after the storm, that residents were allowed to do more than "look and leave.")

To help convince Mack to leave, and to ensure that he'd be able to return, I gave him a handful of plastic ID sleeves along with shirt-pocket clips to make any type of badge he deemed necessary to get past the road blocks and into the neighborhood.

Mack wasn't always a neighborhood leader. He has a past, a past that today gives him the fortitude and the authority to convince people that by working together, we can do more than survive. We can thrive.

He preaches unity in the Lower Nine. We must bridge the historical divide that has kept so many black and white residents divided. Lower Nine and Holy Cross must work together, he preaches, paraphrasing Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., otherwise we perish as fools.

Like so many other people, myself included, Mack was riddled with anger, frustration and depression in the months following Katrina. The lack of government response made him bitter. In the grips of this rage against the system, he had a vision: "Stop waiting on the government to help. They're not going to. Step up and do it yourself."

Today, Mack tells us, "We are the ones we've been waiting for."

For the past year or so, Mack has been working with neighbors and volunteers to rebuild a warehouse as a community center. He's named it the Village because, like Hillary Clinton's book proclaims, it takes a village.

Mack and I hugged about a dozen times before we parted ways. I was so afraid it'd be months before we meet again, I didn't want to let him go.

Standing under that streetlight, we made a pact: Whatever happens, we will return, and we will rebuild.

Update from Ariane

An update from Ariane at 1:05 p.m. CST:

Thank God for Gov. Bobby Jindal. He's clear, concise and calm, cool and collected. A true leader in a time of crisis.

According to his most-recent briefing, the levees are holding, but the Industrial Canal on the Upper Ninth Ward side is still over topping. The worst could come on the back end of the storm later this evening. So we're not out of harm's way yet.

So far, no flooding in the Lower Nine. And yet, I can't stop thinking about my friends and neighbors there in the Holy Cross neighborhood. Over the past three years since I returned to New Orleans after Katrina, bought a house, and made the Lower Nine my home, these people have taught me what real courage and conviction looks like. They have worked from can't see morning to can't see night for three years straight, rebuilding their homes, their community, their beloved city. Many of them have had little more than their own hard work and heart to sustain them. And yet, they never wavier.

With the help of an army of volunteers from across the country and the world, they are determined to rebuild safer, stronger and smarter. They are true pioneers and true leaders. An inspiration.

We survived Katrina. We will survive Gustav.

For more info on the storm, check out Help Holy Cross.

(Photo: The Times-Picayune)

Dispatch from Ariane, taking refuge in Alabama

We've been following Ariane as she shores up her Lower Ninth Ward home before the hurricane season. It's here. It's now.

Here's what Ariane wrote this morning:

Hurricane Gustav is hitting New Orleans and South/Central Louisiana as I write. Like the vast majority of people living in the region, I evacuated. Hunkered down on the east bank of the Mobile Bay, watching the news, waiting for the storm to pass, and praying that the levees hold.

So far, so good. Gustav weakened and veered west just before hitting land, as so many other hurricanes have in New Orleans' history. Turned right or left at the last minute, sparing the city. It happens so often, people have come to expect it.

"It won't hit the city," they proclaim with the confidence of a prophet. "It's heading west" -- or east, anywhere but here.

Problem is, the city is so vulnerable, so weakened by Katrina, that we don't need a direct hit to cause havoc. You'd think we'd know that by now, after Katrina. Most do, but there's always a few who stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the threat.

My good friend Kelley just came in the room. "Did you see the news?"

(I don't have cable on the TV in the bedroom where I'm writing, so I can only see local, Alabama news.)

"No," I say with the kind of trepidation that you feel when the phone rings at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday. "What's wrong?"

"They're reporting water coming over the Industrial Canal levee in the Upper Ninth Ward near Claiborne Avenue."

F**k. Damn. S**t. NO!

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, please, please, please NO. Don't let the city flood again. Not this soon. We can't handle it. We're still on our knees from Katrina. Give us a little more time to catch our breath. Please."

I've been worried about the Upper Ninth since Thursday, when The Times-Picayune published a front-page story detailing weak spots in the levees surrounding the greater New Orleans area. They reported that an 1,800 foot stretch of levee on the Upper Nine side of the Canal was The Number One weak point in a levee system still not fully rebuilt in the three years since....

The paper reported that the Army Corps of Engineers were reinforcing the levee with 3,000 lb. sand bags.

"F**king sand bags?!" I remember thinking. "Really? You've got to be kidding me. Are they also using bubble gum and duct tape to seal the reported cracks on the Lower Nine side of the levee?!"

Both Kelley and Beau, along with the vast majority of my closest friends, live in the Upper Nine. If this breach is true, if water is pouring over the levee at Claiborne, it could be catastrophic for them, just as Katrina's breaches were catastrophic for the Lower Nine.

I guess it's time to venture downstairs to the cable news to find out.

No need. I just looked up at the tiny TV with the local news to see water flowing over a levee in New Orleans. God help us.

10:15 a.m. Just came upstairs from watching cable. Water is pouring into areas of the city. Looks like Upper Nine and an area near the lake.

I'm physically shaking. My stomach is churning. The anxiety is unbearable.

10:53 a.m.

I can't stay out of the bathroom. My nerves are terrible. Glued to the TV. Watching water spill over Industrial Canal. Praying the damn levee holds. Please God. Please.

CNN is reporting that the Lower Nine is flooding. But they may be wrong. The images looked like they are from the Upper Nine.

Kelley has turned away from the TV. "Oh, God, " she says holding her hands to her head. She opened a beer about an hour ago, as soon as we got the first reports about the levees.

I'm still on coffee, but the beer is looking better with every passing minute.

Why is the media focusing on the French Quarter?! the safest part of the city. What's happening with the Industrial Canal? On the west bank? Why can't we get some news?

Kelley's mom just got 870 AM on the radio. Gordan Roberts has a caller from Lakeview reporting power outages but no water, yet.

CNN reports the Corps says the levees are holding. But we're watching water overtop the IC levee. We know from Katrina this is how it starts. First the water overtops. Then the levee breaches. I fear the worse is yet to come.

11:26 a.m.

We just lost power in Mobile, but Kelley's parents have a generator, so hopefully I won't loose the Internet connection.

Ariane's home: Did she get it secure enough to survive Gustav?

As you may know, we've been following the work of Ariane Wiltse as she rehabilitates a Katrina-damaged home in the Lower Ninth Ward. Here you see her dad, who flew out to help her a few months ago, inspecting a sill.

While fixing up the inside of the home will be the most fun, Ariane's overriding goal has been to get the 1800s home structurally sound before the bad part of the hurricane season, which is happening now.

I asked Ariane to send us an update, and she hopes to send one later today. For now, she has shopped for emergency supplies and is boarding up her home and helping her neighbors board up theirs. She will make a decision today at noon CST whether or not to evacuate.

Stay tuned for a possible update on her progress.

See all posts about Ariane's home here and keep track of storm news here.

Scene from the Street: Tour around town

We are each called to duty by our passions.

Some people I know are called to help homeless animals, homeless kids, the dying, the wrongly accused, and so many other good causes. I feel for all those. But it's houses in need of help that stir my passions.

And New Orleans, where you see block after block of charming houses that need help, is the mother lode for someone like me.

Here are scenes I saw last week:

A row of "double shotguns" in the Mid-City area. This area was hard-hit by flooding and is coming back.

Here's what these houses look like before they've come back. The spray-painted symbols told rescuers if the house had been searched after the storm in 2005 and what was found there. A haunting book by Times-Picayune reporter Chris Rose is named after the writing on one house: "1 Dead in Attic."

This the saddest scene, when a school has not come back. And so very many of them have not. A beautifully reported and written article in the New York Times Magazine explains why.

Over in the Lower 9th Ward, many of the homes were totally destroyed by the breech in the nearby levees. Some neighborhoods look like this.

Just up the street from the desolation, new homes are being built on piers to withstand the next flooding event. Mike Holmes, of the popular Holmes on Homes TV show, is building one of them. You can see him here, just to the left of the pole.

Elsewhere in the Lower 9th Ward, Ariane Wiltse is still trying to get her home structurally sound before the bad part of the hurricane season is upon her. The going is slow, and she has taken a construction job with a local builder to learn more. That gives her knowledge, but less time to work on the house. She gets set back when too many people stop by to visit.

Just around the corner from Ariane is a beautifully restored cottage. I saw a woman and baby on the front porch, and that was a good sign. The Times-Picayune reported recently that the steady stream of people moving back to New Orleans is slowing down, and some say people with kids don't find it a good place to raise those kids. So whenever you see kids and babies, that's a good thing.

For those who do come back, though, there is a welcoming.

While the return of permanent residents may be slowing, the volunteers keep on coming. Here you see volunteers from a group called Common Ground mowing some razed lots.

And here are volunteers from AmeriCorps putting a new roof on a Lower 9th Ward home.

So this is what I see: a city that was already full of heart and beauty (and struggles, to be sure) that is coming back, helped along by a flood of volunteers and good-hearted people.

In terms of my passions, this is paradise.

And finally, after all my hard work, I stopped by a street fair in the Lower 9 and enjoyed this female drum and horn band. That's me in the hat on the orange chair. I was tired when I sat down and energized when I got up. That's what New Orleans does for me.

Second guessing herself

By Guest Blogger Ariane Wiltse

Every now and then, some story in the local press forces me to reevaluate my decision to move back to New Orleans and buy a house in the Lower 9th Ward. Sometimes the story that jolts me from my idyllic rebuilding spirit focuses on leaks in levees and the recycled newspaper found to be stuffed inside of them. Other times it’s stories about the condition of the swamps to the south and west of the city, stories that describe how the land out there is literally falling into open water, and in doing so allowing the Gulf of Mexico to creep closer and closer to our fragile city.

But today, I’m not fretting over the potential environmental disaster lurking behind the next hurricane. Today, it’s the city’s rampant violence that makes me question my decision not only to move back here after the storm but to sprout roots.

One recent morning, around 2 a.m., a man in my neighborhood was found dead in his home. He had been shot in the head. The man lived a few blocks away from the house I’m restoring, the trailer I’m living in, me.

Although the police have released the barest of details, it appears that the man was murdered in either a drug deal gone wrong or for some retaliatory reason. Typical tit for tat street justice meets the cheapness of human life.

My neighbor is merely the city’s most recent murder victim. By the time the summer finally draws to an end, dozens of other people will be dead. In a city long known for its incessant and often random violence, summertime is the scariest time of year. It’s the time when the murders become so common that the city guarantees itself the morbid distinction of becoming the nation’s murder capital for yet another year. I call this time of year the killing season. The killings are a fact of life down here, or better put a cycle of death.

After two of my friends were murdered last year in separate incidents, and my car was surrounded by drug dealers on a sunny Saturday afternoon – three blocks from my house, I decided to get involved in anti-crime efforts. I started asking questions at my weekly neighborhood association meetings, and the next thing I knew, I became co-chair of the crime committee. Ask questions? Get the responsibility. It was that simple and that unpopular of a job.

Since then, the other co-chair and I teamed up with local grassroots organizations and launched a petition to keep the Louisiana National Guard in New Orleans. Former governor Kathleen Blanco deployed the guard in June 2006 after five teenagers were found gunned down. During the past two years, however, the economic strain of paying, feeding and housing the nearly 300 soldiers stationed here has become extremely unpopular in the rest of the state, placing political pressure on our current governor Bobby Jindal to pull the guard out of New Orleans.

But for some of New Orleans’ most vulnerable residents, true pioneers rebuilding in a post-apocalyptic atmosphere littered with block after block of abandoned houses, the guard provides their only protection. Dressed in fatigues and riding in military Humvees, the soldiers patrol the areas of the city that took the most water, and therefore have been the slowest to recover, neighborhoods like eastern New Orleans, Gentilly, Lakeview and the Lower 9th Ward. These patrols allow the undermanned and over-worked police force to focus their patrols in the more populated areas of the city. Without the guard patrols in the sparsely populated areas, either NOPD would be forced to pull officers from administrative and intelligence departments, effectively bringing investigations to a halt, or large tracts of the city would be left to fend for themselves.

Sensing the post-Katrina political tide in Baton Rouge was shifting, and not in New Orleans’ favor, Jeffery and I along with volunteers from Citizens for 1 Greater New Orleans collected nearly 5,000 signatures asking the governor to keep the guard in the city. Mayor Ray Nagin, Supt. of Police Warren Riley and City Councilwoman Cynthia Willard-Lewis endorsed our efforts and made personal requests to the governor.

A few weeks ago, Jindal announced that the guard will stay through the end of 2008. It’s a temporary success that helps me and a lot of other people working hard to rebuild our homes and community rest easier, for now.

But it doesn’t quiet the cacophony of second guessing in my head. That still comes in loud and clear.

Contact Ariane Wiltse

(Photos: Kathy Price-Robinson)

The foundation saga, continued

By Ariane Wiltse

My mom arrived last week with the best of intentions. Like other relatives who have come before her, she came to help with my house in the Lower 9th Ward of New Orleans. She also came knowing that we’d be working in temperatures hovering around 95 degrees with 95% humidity. And, the air conditioner in the trailer is busted.

Mentally, she had prepared for the heat. But she hadn’t prepared for the mosquitoes and fire ants. They made a buffet of her, leaving her arms and legs a red, swollen mess. After her first night here, she had 50 bites. (Yes, she counted.) I’m sure she’s up to hundreds by now. I, on the other hand, have about five. I don’t know if being better acclimated to summer in New Orleans makes my blood sour to the little suckers. But they sure find hers sweet.

Heat and bug bites aside, we weren’t able to get much done on the house this week. I had hoped that between my mom (“Mama Lin"), my friend Beau, myself and another worker recommended by a friend, we’d be able to knock out the rest of the foundation. But the worker decided that he didn’t want to work this week, leaving me scrambling for another set of hands, and I found those with Andy.

I’m also partly at fault for the delay. When Beau and I and Mama Lin poured the concrete footings and set the piers in the front of the house last week, I hyper-focused on making sure the damn things were level. And in my obsessing, I missed the small detail that the piers weren’t in line with the house. In fact, they set a good six inches too far back, clearly missing the sills.

I didn’t notice this little problem until we were about to install the sills, after the concrete had had a long weekend to cure. Seeing the distance between sill and piers, Beau grabbed the sledgehammer. He said he was preparing for the inevitable. (He’s become an expert, of sorts, at breaking rocks in the hot sun.) I figured there must be some kind of way to fix the piers without going to such extremes. But Beau said to do so would only be doing a “Peanut job.” (See what we mean by a "Peanut job" below.) The piers had to go.

Andy stepped in and found a middle ground. A post-Katrina volunteer and graduate student from the University of Wisconsin, Andy moved here after finishing up at school. I called him the day before, pleading for help after my scheduled worker decided to take the week off. Andy has worked on lots of crews, so he brought a degree of expertise and rationality that was missing from the trifecta of ignorance among me, Mama Lin and Beau.

Speaking with the authority of the anointed, Andy suggested that we wedge a pick (his favorite tool) and a crow bar under the concrete slabs to finagle them forward. This sounded like a fine idea to me, so I grabbed my camera to document the Moving of the Slabs. Beau kept the sledgehammer close. He knew he’d be vindicated.

The first one moved quickly and easily, so quickly that I almost missed the shot. The second one didn’t work out so well. I tried to encourage Beau and Andy from behind the camera: “Heave! Ho!” But it was no use. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. And even if it had, it probably wasn’t the best-made concrete pier. It was our first attempt at pier-building without experienced supervision. And it looked like it too. It might as well have been duct-taped and bubble-gummed together. A real Peanut job. So after much deliberation, I sacrificed the pier to Beau and his sledgehammer.

Because the concrete footings and piers need at least three days to cure before we can put weight on them, losing one pier to the sledgehammer put us back several days. We’ll get the foundation in the front of the house finished this week, but the remaining 24 feet of sill and half a dozen piers on the side of the house will have to wait until I return from vacation. Bummer.

From the ground up

By Ariane Wiltse

As the big day approached, the day when we'd jack up the house, cut out the old sills and rebuild the piers, I began to take great joy in watching my good friend Beau squirm (he's standing while watching my dad Joe).

"What's the matter Beau?" I asked as he paced incessantly, stealing peeks at my crumbling brick piers. "Afraid we'll drop the house and squash you?"

Now, I don't want to come across as too bold, and Lord knows I don't want to jinx the job -- we still have a good little bit to do. But so far, we've replaced all the sills and piers along one long side of the house without so much as a stubbed toe, let alone a squashed Beau.

And for that, I have my dad and cousin to thank. My 60-year-old "Papa Joe" and 50-year-old cousin Markey spent five hot, humid and hard days here recently working from dawn to Miller time (4:30ish) rebuilding my disintegrating foundation.

In that short period, they replaced 46 feet of 6-inch-by-6-inch sills, poured 24-inch-by-24-inch footings with 4,000 pounds of concrete and rebuilt 22 concrete block piers, setting footlong steel rebar and pouring more concrete inside each cavity. Then we added termite shields, shims where necessary, and leveled the old gal.

Had I been forced to hire a contractor to do the same work, it would have cost, according to estimates, from $10,875 to $13,400.

While my family and I worked on the foundation, Beau busted up the front concrete porch. (Visions of his feet jutting out from underneath a flattened house, Wicked Witch of the East-style, had become problematic.)

Sledgehammer in hand, Beau chipped away at the solid, steel-reinforced structure for a solid two days. (You heard me -- Beau the computer geek was breaking rocks in the hot sun.) I asked him to sing us a little ditty while he swung the sledgehammer, perhaps a Woody Guthrie chain-gang tune, or at least "I've been working on the railroad, all the live-long day," but he refused. Instead he stuck iPod plugs in his ears and turned up the volume to some political podcast. He didn't seem amused, but he never complained.

On their last night in town, and as a small gesture of my gratitude for all their help and hard work, I treated Papa Joe and Markey (Beau didn't return my call in time) to dinner at Commander's Palace, one of the best and most highfalutin' restaurants in New Orleans.

After dropping my family off at the airport, I got to thinking: I don't know many people with as large and close-knit a family as mine. Although we have our disagreements (we are a passionate and proud people prone to stubborn arguments), I know I can count on a crew of kinfolk, as they can count on me. Few people in our fast-paced, cross-country modern world can pick up a phone and ask parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles (living thousands of miles away) to put their lives on hold and come help with a big, nasty and hard job, especially in the New Orleans summer heat.

For that, and so much more, I am truly blessed.

See the whole story in pictures below:

Papa Joe inspects a termite-infested sill. Markey and Pereaux (my dog) supervise while Papa Joe makes The First Cut. Markey rips out the old sill while jacks hold her steady. After cutting the lap joints, Markey, Beau and Papa Joe, from right, carry a new 6-inch-by-6-inch treated sill. The gang carries the sill to the house. With Russel the contractor watching from inside my house, the gang fits the new sill under my house. I take a much-earned break from the back-breaking work of documenting the job to mix a little concrete. Markey takes the tirst whack at my former, and very ugly, 1940s concrete porch. Beau busting rocks in the hot sun, and refusing to sing about it. A posed photo of me pretending to be braking rocks in the hot sun. Miller time with contractor Michael Gomez and his crew. Middle-aged Mighty Men flex in front of my house. Papa Joe and Markey pose in front of some of their handy work, as well as their Lazy Y brand made in the freshly poured concrete. (Markey uses the historic and prestigious Lazy Y brand to mark his horses in Montana.) Markey, me and my dad in front of my house, sans porch, on their last day in town.

The sweet sound of progress

By Ariane Wiltse

Oh, what beautiful music power tools make -- the steady hum of a compressor crooning like a late-night jazz singer in a smoky haunt, the staccato beat of a nail gun, the trumpet of a power saw. At last, the ubiquitous sounds of New Orleans’ recovery have come home.

After eight months spent prepping and planning -- of chopping down the 15-foot-high jungle that consumed the yard, gutting 1,800 square feet of house to the studs, finagling insurance coverage that costs less than a mortgage, scouting for a reasonably priced yet highly recommended contractor and fighting with City Hall for a building permit -- I finally broke ground on rebuilding my house. Can I get a hallelujah?

Now that I’ve come this far, I hope to get the house structurally secure and waterproof before the scary part of hurricane season arrives in August. It’s ambitious but oh so necessary.

Starting from the ground up, Michael Gomez and his crew are shoring and leveling the original 1830s back section of the house, which is made of bargeboards (see a definition of bargeboards).

Structurally, it’s a wreck. Most of the sills have gone soft from decades of water rot and feasting Formosans. Others are cobbled together from mix-matched pieces of lumber. Several lack lap joints. Sill ends sit precariously on ancient, crumbling brick piers. Walls lean. Floor joists float several inches from the sills. And the ends of the structure aren’t square.

It’s a big, nasty and complicated job. I figured it best to let the experts tackle it. By the time they finish, they will have replaced about 60 feet of sills, rebuilt two dozen concrete block and steel-reinforced piers and racked the walls into their proper place.

As Mike and his crew work, they also are teaching me and a couple friends I’ve hired for the summer how to finish the sill and pier work on the main portion of the house.

Although the back of the house is in the worst shape, many of the sills and piers along the relatively newer front section also need replacing. And because I don’t have the budget to hire a contractor to complete the job, I’ve hired friends to help. Furthermore, because I have only two friends available to work, one with a good bit of experience, the other with zilch, my dad and a cousin arrive later this week to help us jack up the house, cut out the old sills, fit new ones, pour concrete footings, build new cement block piers and level the monster.

People say it’s not a complicated job, replacing sills and piers, just labor-intensive. They add, however, that if we screw up, walls or even the entire house could fall. Kinda scary. To avoid such a disaster, my friends Sam and Beau are working hard to secure sagging ceiling joists, sister up wobbly studs and brace leaning walls before we even look at a jack, let alone hoist up the house.

Wish us luck. Say a prayer. Light a candle, do a dance, whatever. I have a feeling we’re gonna need it.

(Photos: Ariane Wiltse)

History salvaged from the side of the road

There are two basic ways of thinking about old windows in post-Katrina New Orleans. On one hand, old windows are rich with history and architectural detail. On the other hand, they can be cracked, broken, rotten and leaking.

It's the latter category that causes the contractors, workers, homeowners and volunteers who are rebuilding New Orleans to toss old windows out and replace them with new ones that are watertight and weather resistive.

But it's the former way of thinking — with reverence for century-old handiwork — that causes people like Ariane Wiltse to salvage old windows from the piles of demolition materials tossed alongside so many storm-ravaged streets.

Above, on the left, you see some of the windows Ariane has collected to use in the 1870s cottage she bought and is restoring in the Holy Cross neighborhood of the Lower 9th Ward. Anywhere Ariane can preserve history in this house, she is determined to do so.

Also, see the stacks of old bricks Ariane has collected for future projects.

(Photos: Kathy Price-Robinson)

An altar for the missing

Ariane Wiltse is restoring a Katrina-damaged 1870s home in the Lower 9th Ward of New Orleans, and she is sharing her journey with us. Here's her latest installment:

The Altar

In the front room of my house, the room I tell visitors will one day serve as my library, sits a wood-burning fireplace with an Arts & Crafts-engraved slate face. It's quite fancy. A real eye-catcher, that fireplace. So much so that I figured it for just the right spot to place an altar.

I hadn't planned on putting an altar on my fireplace mantel, although no one in New Orleans would question my judgment. It's a fairly natural thing to do here. But I'm not from New Orleans. Michigan by birth. Virginia from there on out. And up North, people don't put altars on their fireplace mantels; they put fancy candles and knickknacks, family photos in fine silver frames, and during the Christmas season they cover 'em in all manner of evergreens. This doesn't leave much space for the dead and gone.

I don't know if the people who were living in my house when the Storm struck are dead. But I do know that they are gone. Gone so far and for so long that the neighbors don't know where to find them. We've tried. They don't return calls to their pre-Katrina phone numbers. City Hall says they still live at my house, but they don't come around anymore.

The banker has no answers. Foreclosures have a way of dehumanizing people, treating them as if they never existed. Even Google can't locate them. It's as if they disappeared.

Seeing as I can't find them to return the items they left behind, I decided to show my respects by placing their smallest belongings on the fireplace mantel. It seemed only right. I couldn't bring myself to throw away the common remnants of past lives. So I put them on display to remind myself and any visitors that a family once lived here, a family which likely lost all they had in the flood.

I catalogued the items I found. They include:

• A Zippo lighter
• A CD of the movie "The Wedding Singer"
• A 2-lb. hand weight
• Several large, primary-colored Legos, the kind used by toddlers
• A stick of women's concealer, just like the one I use to hide dark circles under my eyes
• A black barber's comb
• A plastic figurine of the cowboy from the Disney movie "Toy Story"
• A bottle of peach-flavored Cisco, the same "liquid crack" we used to drink in high school once we'd graduated from Boone's Farm wine coolers
• A 9mm bullet
• Little girl hair ties with large red balls on the tips used to hold ponytails in place
• A sugar dish made in Japan
• A tarnished silver spoon
• A prescription bottle of Orphenadrine, used to treat the painful muscle spasms so common with Parkinson's disease
• A rusted set of keys
• A boomerang
• A form letter from a class-action lawsuit for "clients who sustained a stroke, heart attack, or any other cardiovascular or heart-related injury while, or soon after, taking Bextra or its generic equivalent, Valdecoxib"
• A plastic green tiger
• Two spools of thread, one blue, the other pink
• A Hibernia bank card
• A pitchfork-looking utensil used for barbecuing
• A golf ball
• Comedy & tragedy masks, just like the kind my aunt used to give me every Christmas when I was a little girl

I pulled down bigger, perhaps, more significant items from the attic. There was furniture, all kinds of wall treatments, a cream-colored and beaded mother-of-the-bride wedding dress, reams of upholstery fabric and boxes. Boxes and more boxes. Overstuffed with paperwork and family photos, Christmas ornaments and toys. I had to put those boxes out for the trash.

A woman can only look at Easy-Bake Ovens and remote-control race cars for so long. Soon enough they begin to they make her crazy wondering what happened to the children to whom they belonged. Maybe one day they'll pass by for a visit and tell me.

(Photo: Ariane Wiltse)