Under Surge, Under Siege: The Good Life

Talk of the Town - July 24, 2025

The day after Katrina, surviving Bay St. Louis residents begin to discover the unthinkable enormity of the storm's destruction. 

​- by Ellis Anderson

The next installment of 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.

Before the storm hit Bay St. Louis, the first thing I’d hear in the morning was a rooster crowing. He lived a few doors down and
would get started well before dawn. It could be a charming way to wake, but lots of times I’d want to strangle him. It wouldn’t have done any good.

As the sky grew light, he’d be joined by a variety of wild birds. Flocks of them would gather in the trees around my house, and the volume of their chattering made it hard to sleep late.
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​The morning after the storm, I woke in a very different world. If the rooster hadn’t drowned, he was depressed. The other birds had either died or fled. The only thing I heard were the beating blades of a helicopter.
 
The first thought in my head was, Help is here! It’s the National Guard!
 
Joe and I looked out the window and spotted a chopper circling low, but it had no official markings. After a few minutes, we realized it was probably a news helicopter, photographing the destruction below.
 
Joe predicted help would be a long time coming. “They’ll be focused on New Orleans and forget about us,” he said.
 
I didn’t believe him at the time.
 
Then Joe launched into what would become a morning ritual and listed the day’s priorities. As a high school teacher, he’d had a lifetime to hone his organizational skills. I accepted the direction gratefully because a dense fog had settled over my own mind.
 
Joe didn’t sugarcoat the situation: life as we knew it was over. If we were to survive with sanity, we’d need to take extreme measures.
 
The first extreme measure was to abandon our toilets. The water and sewage systems would be down for the foreseeable future. If we used the bathroom inside and flushed manually, sewage might back up into our houses. We’d need to set up a latrine, and the only available place was the dark storage room beneath my house.
 
The floor was covered with a dense, rank-smelling slime left by the surge. I shoved debris away from the storage room door to make space for the five-gallon bucket Joe gave me. He removed a toilet seat from one of my real bathrooms and placed it over the rim of the bucket. I hung a roll of tissue from a nail on the wall. The new bathroom was ready for business.
 
The next point Joe tackled was the fact that our homes were some of the few standing buildings in town that hadn’t flooded inside. We’d need to house and feed people—maybe lots of them—and that would take some planning. Over the next few days, we’d set up an emergency shelter.
 
We had plenty of dry bedding and enough food and water to last several days, even with a crowd. Joe guessed the propane for his camp stove, used sparingly, would hold out for a week. He pointed out that hot meals every evening would boost morale. We’d share cooking duties.
 
My first priority, however, was to see if anything could be salvaged from either my retail shop or jewelry studio. Joe loaned me a backpack and his bicycle—mine had been ruined by the surge. I whistled for Jack and he trotted beside the bike, eager for adventure. My dog was in a great mood. The stench that rose up from the mud-coated streets may have distressed me, but Jack found it invigorating.
 
It was slow going. I stopped frequently and splashed water from puddles onto the bike tires to remove mud that clung to the wheels like heavy mortar. Many times I was forced to carry the bike over and around fallen trees or sections of houses that blocked the route.
 
The only moving vehicles I saw were the trucks of Georgia Power and an Oklahoma tree-cutting company. Amazingly, their crews were already at work clearing the streets. Their chain saws roared in the still heat of morning.
 
Six blocks and half an hour later, I reached the Lumberyard. It’s a renovated arts center owned by my friends Vicki and Doug. Just three weeks before, I’d moved my office and studio into an inviting space on the ground floor.
 
Nothing looked inviting now.
 
The gate to the center was blocked by a massive fallen tree. I climbed over it and trudged through the thick mud, shouting for Doug. The last I’d heard, he’d planned to ride out the storm there. He didn’t respond, so I guessed he’d left for Jackson with Vicki. Later, I’d learn that he’d evacuated, all right—from the frying pan into the fire.
 
It was obvious that a wall of water had crashed through the arts complex. It was located closer to the beach than my house, but on higher ground, so I was astonished at the damage. I peered into my studio through the plate glass windows.
 
The room had been ransacked. My cherished tools had been churned with an evil black silt dredged from the bottom of the sea. Office equipment and files had overturned in the frenzy, while books and personal memorabilia had been hurled around the room. The shock of the sight almost brought me to my knees.
 
Then, to ward off self-pity, I repeated a phrase that was already becoming a town maxim: no sniveling.
 
I biked the two blocks to Main Street, where the debris field became too treacherous for riding. Main Street runs straight to the beach along the highest ridge of land in the Bay.
 
On the first block from the front, I’d owned a Creole cottage built in 1850. I’d painstakingly renovated it, and for ten years, it had housed my gallery, studio, and apartment. The older people in town called it “The Monkey House.”
 
In the 1940s, an eccentric woman had run a small, feisty newspaper in the front part of the building. She’d lived in the back with her large pet monkey that would periodically escape and terrorize the neighborhood children.
 
A month before, wanting to downsize my business, I’d sold the building. I’d signed over the deed, but not my heart. The Monkey House had never flooded in a 150-year lifespan of serious storms, and, together, Mimi and I had safely weathered three hurricanes there.
 
I held my breath as I rounded the corner. When I saw that it still stood, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. It’d lost part of the roof and taken on four to five feet of water, but the sturdy cottage shone like a beacon of hope.
 
That hope dimmed as Jack and I continued towards the waterfront. A thick hedge of wrecked cars, beams, furniture, and utility poles made it impossible to even carry the bike. I left it behind and walked forward into the nightmare.
 
The gallery building where I’d recently rented a retail space was toast. Much of the roof had caved in, burying my display cases and jewelry. After twenty years, I couldn’t find enough left of my business to put into a backpack. I wouldn’t be alone—most of the old downtown had been demolished.
 
The waterfront itself was unrecognizable. Main Street used to end at Beach Boulevard. Now, it abruptly dropped off to the Gulf below.
 
The beach road was gone. Every structure on the beach side of the road was gone.
 
The buildings on the near side hadn’t fared much better—the few surviving shells looked as if they’d been bombed. The entire front of one brick building had been sheared away. A fully furnished living room on the second floor was exposed to the street, looking like a bizarre set for a Fellini film.

 
The railroad bridge bisecting Old Town was no longer a bridge. Concrete pilings rising out of the water were all that remained, while the track itself twisted crazily into the Gulf, a roller-coaster ride gone berserk.
 
I looked toward the four-lane bay bridge in the distance. Only scattered supports bore witness to the fact it had even existed.
 
A few of my neighbors joined me at the literal dead end of Main. They slouched against the edge of an asphalt slab like worn shipwreck survivors. I nodded and they nodded back. There wasn’t much to say. We surveyed the absolute eradication of our town in silence.
 
Walking back towards my bike, I came upon a wedding photo face up in the mud. I studied the eager, hopeful faces, but didn’t recognize them. Where were these people now?
 
Tears ambushed me again. Like some madwoman, I carefully worked to dislodge the picture from the mud, ignoring the magnitude of the ruin around me. I somehow hoped to save the photo and return it to the owners, but it fell to pieces in my hand—a shredded symbol of the countless losses around me.
 
I wailed aloud from rage and frustration. Jack was the only witness to this tantrum, and he burrowed his head beneath my arm. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he wanted to make it better. I pulled him tightly against me and cried into his fur.
 
I headed back up Main Street and saw my friend Doug. My spirits lifted immediately as we greeted each other with enthusiastic hugs. Doug always exudes a relaxed humor, and that morning was no exception. He’s a hurricane hunter by profession—flying planes into the heart of storms for a living probably gives him a certain immunity to anxiety.
 
As I’d guessed, he’d evacuated the arts center before the storm. He’d stayed with six friends at the Bay Town Inn, a historic bed-and-breakfast on the beach. He reported that all had survived.
 
I wouldn’t find out until later exactly what they’d survived: the Bay Town Inn no longer existed. When I pressed Doug for details that morning, he answered with characteristic understatement: “It was one heck of a ride.”
 
Further up Main, the houses had flooded but were still mostly intact. I met a truck inching through the debris towards the front. The driver was Ernie, owner of a popular beach bar. Ironically, he’d named it the Good Life—something we’d all had a shot at in the Bay.
 
“Have you been down there?” he said, pointing to the Gulf.
 
I nodded my head, knowing what he was going to ask next. I didn’t want to break the news to him, but I was trapped.
 
“How is it?” he asked. Tears came to my eyes when I said, “Ernie, it’s all gone.”
 
He shook his head and choked for a moment. Then he smiled.
 
“Cheer up, baby,” Ernie said, patting me on the shoulder. “There’ll be another Good Life.”
 
I knew he wasn’t talking about his bar.
 
 Before he left, Ernie offered his help. “Honey, let me know if you need anything,” he said. He drove away to look at the eroded bank where the sea had devoured his dream.
 
I didn’t have time to escape before another friend pulled up with her two teenaged sons in the back seat. I was both glad and horrified to see them: their home had faced the beach.
 
“What’s it like?” she asked. I didn’t want to lie. “The whole front’s gone,” I said. She looked stricken, so I started to be evasive. “But I haven’t actually been down to your house...”
 
My neighbor took a deep breath, looked back at the impassive faces of her sons, and attempted a smile. I wished her luck as they left.
 
It didn’t do any good.  Later, I’d see for myself that only the pilings of their home remained.
 
I’d always understood why messengers got shot, but now I wondered why more messengers didn’t shoot themselves.
 
I had to get off Main before I ran into anyone else. Jack and I navigated back streets the rest of the way home. The temperature was in the high nineties and even Jack was dragging. By the time I arrived, I was drenched with sweat and liberally spattered with mud.
 
Augusta and most of her family had gone to see what they could salvage from their houses, while Donald had walked to his job at the local power company. He’d been teamed with some Georgia Power linemen, and they’d dropped off juice and bottled water for the household. I helped myself to a juice while I rested in the shade of the porch.
 
Jimmie joined me and we discussed his mother, Mimi. On my ride, I’d heard from a neighbor that the hospital had been destroyed. It was clear to us now that no ambulance would arrive, no medics. Mimi was bedridden for the most part, and Jimmie was concerned about sanitation. He’d been helping clean her, but she was understandably mortified.
 
I was mortified myself—I hadn’t understood the situation fully. I’m not a nurse but agreed to try my best.
 
I went into the bedroom where Mimi lay atop the sheets, listening to the news on her battery radio. She’d kept it pressed against her ear since the storm began, even when she slept. With no air conditioning or fans, the room was stifling, but Mimi never complained. I asked how she was feeling.
 
She didn’t waste time with niceties—she knew why I’d come. “Oh darling,” she protested. “I don’t want you to do this. I feel so useless. I want to get up and help you, but all I can do is lie here and be a burden. Just give me some water. I can take care of myself.”

Pretending to be stern, I told her to quit fussing. I spread out garbage bags across the bed and cleaned her with water from my bathtub reservoir and a pack of disinfectant wipes. I was terrified I’d do something wrong; if her catheter became infected, her life would be at risk without antibiotics.

Mimi kept trying to apologize, and I chattered to distract her until we were finished. For lack of other disposable options, I cut up some old T-shirts and swaddled her with them, joking about the new fashion statement. I helped her into a clean gown and then, with fresh water, sponged off her face and hands. “Thank you,” she said. “That feels wonderful!” Then she asked, “Do you have any perfume?” We both laughed and I gave her a spritz of my favorite.
 
Mimi dozed off listening to the news of her hometown, New Orleans. It wasn’t good. The levies had broken; most of the city was underwater. I only hoped Joe’s daughter Robyn was in Baton Rouge with her sister. Briefly, I thought of my other friends who lived in the city, then slammed that mental door tightly shut. There was nothing I could do for New Orleans, and I needed to focus on the troubles at hand.
 
I took two more treks on the bike that day. The first was to the foot of the bay bridge pilings, two miles away. Doug had told me that it was the one place in town where cell phones would work. A small crowd had gathered, but few people actually talked on their phones. I tried my own cell phone and dialed several numbers, frustrated when the signal would die before I’d connect. Finally, I asked one woman whose phone was working if I could make a quick call to my parents. She kindly agreed, but the signal died before I could enter the number.
 
Around sunset, Joe and I biked to Saint Stanislaus, a school close to my house. The campus overlooks the beach, and we’d heard it was another cell phone hot spot. The sun was beginning to set, and it was the time when many residents used to exercise along the beach. That evening, people had come only with the hope of making a simple phone call to let loved ones know they were alive. No one was having any luck, but I saw several people I knew, including my friends Grady and Sally. They’d evacuated with their three children to Grady’s office at Stennis International Airport, more than six miles north of the coast. Even there, the water had risen over six feet. I was staggered at the news—that meant the entire southern part of the county had been inundated by the surge.
 
Grady and Sally were both shaken. Not only had their home been destroyed, but they’d also had an ugly run-in with some would-be looters. While they were picking though the rubble of their house, two men had confronted and threatened them. The incident ended without violence, but my idealistic bubble burst when I heard their story. Although Bay St. Louis was an extraordinary community, apparently it wasn’t perfect.
 
I can’t remember eating dinner that night. Between the heat, the exhaustion, and the stress, I’m sure I didn’t care. The final defeat of the day came when I realized I’d lost the new prescription glasses I’d gotten three days before. Somehow, the case had popped out of my pocket while I’d been biking. Finding it in the debris and mud would be impossible. It was a relatively small loss, yet utterly disheartening.
 
Joe chose to camp out in his driveway, to escape the heat inside. I crawled into my loft bedroom in the center hallway of my own house. I’d covered the bed with plastic before the storm, so it was still relatively dry. Jimmie and his mother slept in rooms to one side of me, and Augusta’s family spread out on the porch, where it was cooler.
 
Despite the story of the looters, I left the windows and front doors open for cross-ventilation. I don’t have screens anywhere in my house, because I don’t need them. I have bats. A small colony nests between two beams under my house. They’re my secret treasures, patrolling my yard in the evenings, devouring every bug that dares come near. That night, two bats somehow got into my room, something that had never happened before. At first, I was anxious, wondering if they’d accidentally land on me as I slept. Finally, I decided to be grateful I had personal guardians for the evening. No surviving mosquito would draw my blood this night.

n the eerie silence, I heard the membranes of the bats’ wings fluttering, felt swift movements in the air close above my face. The darkness wrapped the house like a thick cloth. The entire coast was stripped of artificial light, and through the open windows, I looked out at stars I’d never seen before.
 
As I lay in bed, the bats winging overhead, I thought about the Good Life. The neon sign for the bar had always amused me. It rarely worked perfectly, although Ernie had tried many times through the years to fix it. Sometimes, it said “The _______ Life.” Sometimes it just read “Good,” and occasionally just “The.” It seemed like a metaphor for our lives in general. Years before, I’d written a poem about the sign. It wasn’t a very good poem, but it seemed prophetic when I remembered it that night:

The Good Life

The “Good” part is burned out
What remains is “Life.”
It glows a steady phosphorescent blue
against the dark sky over the Bay.

The red border flashes
off and on
with typical neon anxiety.
The caption underneath
blinks as well:
“live entertainment”
​
– E. A. 1996
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Under Surge, Under Siege is available in paperback and as an ebook.

• UPM has lowered the price of all their Katrina-related books, including USUS, to $8.29 through the 2025 hurricane season in honor of Katrina's 20th anniversary. Click here to order Under Surge, Under Siege through Kindle. 
• Paperback copies of Under Surge are available at Pass Books, the Waveland Ground Zero Museum or your favorite Indie bookseller. 
• Excerpts of Under Surge are published here with the permission of University Press of Mississippi and photographer Joe Tomasovsky. Book cover art painted by Mississippi artist H.C. Porter from a photograph of the author by Joe Tomasovsky taken on the afternoon on 8/29, hours after the storm had passed.​​

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In 2011, Anderson founded her first digital publication, the Shoofly Magazine and served as publisher from 2011 - 2022. She established French Quarter Journal in 2019, where she currently serves as publisher and managing editor. Anderson currently divides time between the New Orleans French Quarter and Mobile, Alabama. 

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