Although the community had survived the ferocity of Katrina, the storm unleashed forces that could finish off the community's soul for good. - by Ellis Anderson Part 11 in a series of excerpts from the award-winning book that follows Bay St. Louis through the very heart of Hurricane Katrina – and three years of grinding aftermath. The Shoofly Magazine is publishing one excerpt from the book each week through the storm's 20th anniversary on August 29.  Augusta Acker in front of her Citizen Street house, post-Katrina. The historic house was later deemed unsalvageable and demolished. photo by Ellis Anderson
Millions of other trees had fallen in south Mississippi, but the tall trees growing on Citizen Street, not far from my house, were going to make it. The patch of woods spread across a large marshy parcel bordering the lot where my neighbor Augusta’s house had once stood. To my knowledge, no house had ever been built on the site. The lush thicket served the neighborhood well, providing shade, a wildlife refuge, and improved drainage.  The wooded parcel by Augusta's house on Citizen Street looked dead post-Katrina but later came to life - only to be bulldozed down. Photo by Ellis Anderson As I biked toward the beach one warm spring afternoon, I noticed a sign had recently been posted on the property. Painted on a rough piece of plywood and nailed to a tree trunk, it had apparently been left as a directive to the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers crews who were beginning to clear debris from lots across the city. The sign read: Take it all. My face flamed with anger. I didn’t know who owned the property, but they were clearly ignorant jerks. If they wanted to sell the land, barren lots would bring less money. Should they want to build there eventually, they’d have no shade and serious drainage problems. I tried to imagine what the block would look like denuded of the woods. It was a depressing vision, especially since we’d already lost so many other trees in the neighborhood. I rode back to my house and returned to the lot with a fat black Magic Marker. No cars were coming, no witnesses walked the streets. I parked the bike, jumped across a ditch, and reached up to add an amendment to the sign. “Take small trees only. Live oaks and magnolias are protected by law.” I counted the large trees I could see—at least twenty sizeable ones soared above the undergrowth, and I identified several live oaks and magnolias among them. A week later, I biked by and noticed that my amendment had been crossed out. Three more signs had been posted for emphasis. Take it ALL, each one said. I called Augusta and we shared concerns. She was hoping to eventually rebuild her home on Citizen and had always loved the shade the woods had provided. We thought that perhaps the city would be able to prevent the slaughter. A few nights later at the city council meeting, I mentioned my worries during the public forum. I was relieved to learn that the Corps of Engineers were not allowed to cut down any trees that weren’t leaning at least 30 percent. Federal tax dollars were earmarked to take care of “leaners” and “hangers”—trees that presented threats to residents—not to clear property for future development. Augusta and I were reassured, and I took the black Magic Marker out of my bike basket. The owners of the property could demand anything they wished, but obviously they weren’t going to get it. A few weeks later, I biked down the street. Only two trees remained where the woods had been. The rest had been pushed over and hacked to pieces in the course of a single day. The wood wasn’t even granted the dignity of being used in some way. The remains had been bulldozed into a pile near the street where the logs would be hauled to a hole in the ground, buried and left to rot. As I stared in horror at the massacre, another neighbor driving by stopped to comment. I used several expletives to express my dismay, wondering how the corps could have gone against directives. My neighbor reasoned that a private contractor may have been the culprit and reminded me that trying to assign blame now would be a waste of time. It’d take at least half a century to recover the loss. Then, leaning out of his car window, he brought up an excellent point. “The property belongs to the owner,” he said. “They have the right to do what they want with it.” In a flash, I saw that the fundamental issue went far beyond the slaughtered trees before me. The debate had been raging for centuries. Do personal freedoms and an individual’s pursuit of profit have priority over the well-being of the community as a whole? Our town had lost so much in the storm itself, yet we faced innumerable new threats. I’d seen damaged historic buildings, part of our town’s legacy, torn down for the sake of convenience. I’d witnessed the invasion of thieves and conmen who preyed on our desperation, thriving in the turmoil. I knew of short-sighted development schemes that proposed to fill wetlands, the very resource that would help protect us from future storm surges. The Rolodex file in my head spun out of control, revealing an abundance of perils that I’d never considered. I understood at last that although the community had survived the ferocity of Katrina, the storm had unleashed forces that could finish us off for good. And with an extremely compromised immune system, Bay St. Louis was incredibly vulnerable to any virus that might attack, from within or without. I bid farewell to my neighbor and pointed my bike towards home, suddenly feeling very, very tired. —Notes from my journal, March 2006 While the coast thrashed in pain, Katrina’s bloodletting attracted speculators and opportunists from afar. Disguised as sweet-talking do-gooders, some counterfeit contractors preyed on homeowners desperate to rebuild. They’d insist on a handsome deposit—often withdrawn from depleted life savings—and then disappear. Community chaos and fractured communications worked to the advantage of these vermin; sometimes they’d have the gall to scurry into an adjacent neighborhood and pull the same con. Some stole from us outright, looting the last surviving keepsakes of survivors or pilfering building materials from construction sites. My friend Jan lived in Pittsburgh while she tried to oversee an extensive restoration of her Bay St. Louis house. She’d return to the Bay on occasion to check on the painstakingly slow progress. During one inspection, she discovered that thieves, in the span of a night, had totally stripped her house of the new copper plumbing. Completely dispirited, she posted a “For Sale” sign in front of the cottage. In other cases, our resolve to persevere was undermined by carelessness or ignorance. Two weeks after the storm, a contractor for the state highway department bulldozed dozens of ancient oak trees from a median in Gulfport. Stan Tiner, executive editor of the Biloxi Sun Herald, blasted the carnage. He called the trees “living cultural connectors to our past” and wrote that their destruction was “insensitive and insulting to the people who live here.” Tiner pointed to a disturbing trend. “None of that seems to matter to those, most notably developers, who represent a second wave of destruction and who are reducing South Mississippi’s tree population at an unbelievable pace. “They are bulldozing untold acreage, marching across the landscape like an army of carpenter ants clearing every piece of vegetation, as if on a mission.” That mission often seemed driven by a motive of profit. Razor teeth flashed behind earnest smiles as profiteers repeated phrases like “shot in the arm” and “clean slate.” One California planning firm working with the city of Biloxi quit in 2006. According to the Sun Herald, the planners charged in their resignation letter that “city leaders are letting developers drive the rebuilding process and also are allowing the destruction of the community traditions.” Biloxi wasn’t the only coastal area facing extraordinary developmental pressures. In more sparsely populated Hancock County, the onslaught had begun even before the storm. A few miles west of Bay St. Louis lay Clermont Harbor, the home of my friend Lori Gordon. In Lori’s neighborhood, raised fishing camps and simple homes lined the streets where generations of families had enjoyed a serene lifestyle in a place that seemed untouched by contemporary concerns. Kids and their parents walked to the beach, carrying fishing poles and folding chairs. Lori’s studio perched above a majestic marsh, and the paintings that were birthed there often depicted the startling beauty that surrounded her.  One of Lori K Gordon's marshland paintings Just a few months before Katrina, the county had rezoned eleven hundred acres nearby—mostly wetlands—threatening to change Clermont Harbor forever. More casinos would join the single one already established, and several high-rises were slated to begin construction. One proposed tower would loom over the marshes a mind-boggling forty-five stories. County officials hoped the area would build out with more than ten thousand high-rise condo units—rivaling the combined housing stock of Bay St. Louis and Waveland. They envisioned a “New Vegas,” one that would create jobs and fatten tax coffers.  Photo of a rendering submitted to the county planning and zoning office pre-Katrina. The proposed development would have been built on wetlands on the beach road near Clermont Harbor. As a response to the rezoning, Lori and I founded a watchdog group called Coastal Community Watch in May 2005. The CCW mission was to “facilitate citizen participation in Hancock County developmental issues.” Lori and some of her neighbors filed a legal appeal to the zoning decision, backed by CCW. Residents of nearby Waveland and Bay St. Louis joined the fray, donating thousands of dollars to help fund the appeal. Many had concerns like my own—wondering how our family-oriented lifestyle could withstand the pressures of a mega resort city nearby. When Katrina struck, over eight hundred members belonged to Coastal Community Watch. Most seemed to understand that development was inevitable and necessary but hoped for projects sensitive to our heritage. Katrina added a sad twist to the story. While the appeal was making its way through the legal system, every house in Clermont Harbor—including Lori’s—was flattened. Yet the membership of Coastal Community Watch actually grew after the storm as many residents in the Bay and Waveland recognized a new threat: the annihilation of our community character. The fact that thousands of houses and historic buildings had vanished overnight didn’t seem to matter. Our unique identity had withstood both wind and water. And although thousands of people may have lost everything they owned, they didn’t want to sacrifice the one thing that seemed to have survived—the invisible essence of their towns. “Preserving the character” became a community mantra. In October 2005, at the request of Governor Barbour, hundreds of the country’s top architects and planners converged on the coast for an extraordinary renewal forum. They formed teams to focus on each coast city, then met with community leaders and residents to draw out a vision for the future. The final report for Bay St. Louis begins with a section titled “What We Heard You Say.” Number one on the list reads: Keep the small-town character, the architectural heritage and the natural beauty. Build on the arts character. Provide for growth without destroying what makes Bay St. Louis so livable.  A screenshot from the Mississippi Renewal Forum's Bay St. Louis report. Click on the image to access the entire report. FEMA’s Long Term Recovery Plan for Hancock County states the same edict culled from community input: Preserve the small-town character of Bay St. Louis and Waveland. Yet the directive didn’t stop developers from tempting local leaders with dreams of instant recovery, numerous jobs, and new revenues to replace the tax base gutted by Katrina. A particularly alluring prospect was presented by the Paradise Properties Group, who claimed they were planning over $5 billion in projects in Hancock County. One local architect wisecracked, “It’s ironic that they chose the name of something they’d probably destroy.” The group boasted of plans for glitzy condo towers, casino complexes, and commercial retail centers along the Hancock coastline, including sites in Bay St. Louis and Waveland. Yet shortly after a FOX news broadcast featured these economic emancipators, a 2006 MSNBC report revealed some astonishing facts. Donald and Richard Kern, two brothers who were key players in Paradise Properties, had been involved in an Internet stock scam that had fleeced millions from unsuspecting investors in the late nineties. A civil case brought against the Kern brothers by the Securities and Exchange Commission had resulted in a fine of nearly $10 million dollars—a debt they had yet to satisfy. The extent to which the community may have been snookered was brought to light when MSNBC reporter Mike Stuckey asked Donald Kern about the projects the brothers had supposedly developed elsewhere: Asked to name a single project, he replied, “Off the top of my head, I can’t remember them right now.” Paradise Properties Group scrambled to recover when local media outlets ran with the story, but although it assumed a lower profile, the corporation didn’t dissolve. In January 2007, the Sun Herald reported on its plans to plunk a massive casino complex in Bay St. Louis on the city’s main gateway. The rendering printed in the newspaper showed a sprawling scenario that included a convention center, casino, condos, and a hotel— although much of the proposed fifty-five-acre site contained federally designated wetlands. Frazzled Bay residents were still trying to process this startling information when another group of developers stole the thunder. The new group unveiled a venture that called for the demolition of surviving historic buildings in a three-block area of Old Town, the city’s sacred cow of culture. The $100 million concept proposed the building of a counterfeit historic complex that would contain a forty-thousand-square-foot “boutique” casino, a four-hundred-room hotel, and a parking garage. Invited to speak before the city council, the developers faced a standing-room-only crowd in January 2007. People spilled out into the lobby, while I squeezed into a tiny space by one door, curious to see the reactions of my community. While a few spoke in favor of the plan, the majority of citizens seemed staunchly opposed. Even downtown merchants, who would benefit from promises of subsidized rent in the new complex, expressed reservations. An Old Town property owner who probably stood to profit by the proposal called the idea a “mismatch and a cultural clash.” The city motto—“A Place Apart”—was invoked by several others in pleas to preserve our city’s character. A former city councilman predicted that “if you open up this can of worms... you’re going to have worms all over town.”  BSL Main Street 2007, two years after Katrina. Photo by Ellis Anderson Less than two months later, the Sea Coast Echo, a local newspaper headquartered in Bay St. Louis, ran a full-page ad that appeared in two separate editions. The message was simple: We, the undersigned, believe that locating a casino in Old Town Bay St. Louis (in the vicinity of Beach and Main Streets) would be a case of inappropriate placement. Beneath were the names of eighty-two citizens who had pitched in to pay for the ad. Many were prominent businesspeople in the community. The ministers of two Old Town churches had also signed on. The casino proposal evaporated like a shallow puddle on a sizzling summer street. Meanwhile, illegal wetlands fills were beginning to occur at an alarming rate. Authorities learned about one when a Coastal Community Watch member getting a haircut heard about suspicious earth-moving activity from his barber.  A post-Katrina wetlands fill, by Ellis Anderson Then, in the fall of 2007, a young woman appeared before the Bay St. Louis City Council, bringing photos of a massive wetlands fill adjacent to her property. Chrissy Schuengel had begun investigating when a mild rainstorm caused the yard of her newly built home to flood. She calmly stated her case before the council. Since apparently no permits for the developers’ work had been filed—with either federal agencies or local authorities— Chrissy insisted on an immediate halt to the wetlands destruction. Her forthright manner and unwavering stance impressed me, and I couldn’t resist comparing her to Joan of Arc. Within a few weeks of the council meeting, two environmentalist friends of mine volunteered to fly over the property behind Chrissy’s. They returned with a series of staggering images. The seven-hundred-acre site, which contained a large percentage of wetlands, had been riddled with roads. A huge swath of raw earth gaped where the pine forests had been razed. Canals cut through the property like wide ribbons.  Chrissy sent the digital images and her meticulous documentation to the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers, the EPA, and ;the Gulf Restoration Network, an active environmental group in the region. For months, the “Maid of the Bay” dogged both federal and local authorities, her persistence paying off in June of 2008, when the EPA finally decided to pursue a criminal investigation. The laissez-faire attitude towards wetlands adopted by some developers seemed to be inspired by the theory that it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. It must have appeared to be an especially effective tactic in a post-Katrina world where authorities—who had been overburdened in the best of times—now carried a workload that bowed them to the ground. To exacerbate the situation, the Corps of Engineers announced in October 2006 that it proposed relaxing restrictions for filling of “low-quality” wetlands in six coastal Mississippi counties. The permitting process would no longer require cumbersome public hearing or comments. It would also increase the acreage that was eligible for “fast-tracking” from one to five. Proponents claimed the move was necessary to rebuild needed housing. Opponents wondered why any new housing was being constructed on wetlands prone to flooding, especially since the counties contained plenty of higher elevation property. “Five acres!” one insider exclaimed to me in alarm. She’d worked for years in a state regulatory agency that had monitored wetlands fills. “That’s huge! We’re talking a 500 percent increase overnight!” National environmental groups jumped into the battle, foreseeing the potential for other states to concoct reasons to pressure for an easing of federal guidelines. The corps offices were inundated with over five thousand comments. In response, the corps added a few caveats to the regulations and trimmed the proposed five acres to three. Two Gulfport community groups took issue with the ruling and filed a lawsuit with the corps. The Mississippi Department of Marine Resources shot back with a press release calling the suit “frivolous” and “damaging to Coastal recovery.” The release, dated August 30, 2007, quotes Governor Barbour: “This issuance of RGP-20 is one of several things that the Mobile District Corps of Engineers has done at my request to accelerate the recovery process following Hurricane Katrina. It’s something we asked the Corps of Engineers to do, and we will vigorously defend it in court. Mississippi applauds the Corps of Engineers for taking this innovative action.” An environmental activist friend expressed amazement when he read the release. “Even though it’s not supposed to happen, local officials exert influence on the corps all the time,” he said. “But it usually happens very quietly. To my knowledge, this is the first time a governor has actually bragged about it.” The “frivolous” lawsuit didn’t go away and was still ongoing as of July 2009 [when this was written]. Coast attorney Robert Wiygul called the whole thing “silly,” and said that the new streamlined permitting process hadn’t been used once since it had been put into place. Wiygul noted, “The fact is that facilitating building on wetlands has nothing to do with affordable housing, expediting recovery, or anything else except making money for developers. Insurance costs and the overall economy are the issue.” By late 2007, the insurance crisis and the stumbling national economy began to stall grandiose projects along the entire Mississippi coast. Steel skeletons of condo, retail, and casino complexes stood as new monuments to thwarted ambitions. While developers foundered for lack of investors, Bay St. Louis residents used the unexpected breathing space to consider what the future might look like. Hundreds of Bay residents met repeatedly over a two-year period to give input on a new comprehensive plan, one that would guide development of the city for the next twenty-five years. In spring of 2009, the city council unanimously adopted the plan, laden with references to “preserving the character.” During one series of public meetings, the Sea Coast Echo ran a story with a bold headline blazoned across the front page: “Residents: ‘No More Casinos or High-Rises.’”  Celebrating a $100k grant to plant trees along the Hwy 603 and Hwy 90 corridors in 2008, photo by Joe Tomasovsky  A few of the trees planted with the grant in 2007. Other teams led by Katherine Truett Ohman continued planting to beautify the entrance to the city. Click on the photo to read more about Katherine and her amazing work! Photo by Ellis Anderson  Some of the trees planted in 2007 with the grant (these are between the Bay Bridge and Dunbar Ave.). The trees have grown substantially in the past 18 years. Photo by Ellis Anderson During the tedious process, a few people appeared to jockey for zoning changes that would impact the value of their own land holdings. Yet few really seemed to blame them for trying to manipulate public policy for personal profit. Once, after listening to me fume about someone I’d pegged as a self-serving schemer, a regal community leader gave me a mild rebuke. Her face had aged to reflect her character—kind, perceptive, and sincere. “That poor man,” she drawled in authentic pity. “And he came from such a fine family. It’s so sad, you should feel sorry for him. Everybody knows that all he cares about now is money.” “All he cares about now is money.” The observation offered the ultimate in disdain, but also a lesson in compassion. Poverty of the soul—not a lack of wealth—made one an object of pity in Bay St. Louis. Once again, I experienced the thrill of realizing that I lived in a most extraordinary place. Augusta reinforced that feeling during a visit one afternoon to tour her new house. It’d been built over the past few years with the help of family members and volunteers. During the process, she hadn’t had time to pay much attention to the comprehensive plan or the threat to the wetlands or the possibility of high-rise towers in the town. What little free time she’d had, she’d spent fishing from local piers. “Your mind just relaxes. You can’t think about your problems when you’re casting a line.” First we looked over her vegetable garden in the backyard, where dozens of ripening fruits clustered on towering tomato plants. Inside, she led me from room to room, while I marveled at the artful way she’d decorated. Augusta’s green thumb had been working magic inside as well as out—philodendrons escaped from baskets that dotted the cottage, tendrils creeping across shiny floors and climbing the corners of her living room. As the visit ended, the eighty-one-year-old matriarch stood in front of her new home and gazed at the overgrown field next door. A weathered “For Sale” sign, posted shortly after the woods had been cleared, hung forlornly from a pole near the street. Yet volunteer trees had already sprung up and were shooting skyward at an astounding rate. Some were already taller than my head. “It won’t take too long for those trees to be giving me some shade,” Augusta said, smiling. And I understood then that absolutely no one had the power to take it all, at least not in Bay St. Louis. Tree Hugger Series The Shoofly Magazine is publishing 12 of Under Surge's 25 chapters to commemorate Hurricane Katrina's 20th anniversary. Missed one? Below are links to those we've published to date:  Under Surge, Under Siege is available in paperback and as an ebook.
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