'This ain't right'
26/09/2005 22:48 - (SA)
Deon Lamprecht
Vidor - Her late father hammered in the first nail - and then the entire family helped to build the simple wooden house.
"It was a labour of love. Four generations of our family lived here," said a shocked Gayrell Ketll on Sunday night while sifting through the remains of her life.
With the images of Katrina still fresh in her mind, she fled the wrath of Hurricane Rita in southeastern Texas along with three million others.
She returned on Sunday morning to find a war zone. A massive tree had split the wooden home.
Along with her, I bowed under the branches covering what used to be the lounge.
"We were never rich, sir. This house was our safe haven.
"Now this, too, is gone."
She showed me the remains of the bar.
"When daddy Charles completed the house in 1985, mom put up a plaque saying 'labour of love'.
"After his death she couldn't face living here any more and took the plaque along when she moved."
Won't be able to rebuild
Gayrell, 38, is divorced. She shared the house with her daughter, Jennifer Holden, 21, and Holden's two baby daughters.
"I work part-time only and we don't have insurance. We won't be able to rebuild."
In what used to be the bedroom, a doll and bright red and white balloons lay among the tree branches and timber.
Gayrell's mother, Gaye Ketll, 59, arrived. She lovingly touched the timber and started crying uncontrollably.
This kind of scene repeated itself again and again in Port Arthur, Beaumont and Vidor. In some suburbs, a tree had split every home in two.
The streets were littered with toppled trees, broken electricity cables sparking menacingly, large sheets of corrugated iron and other rubble.
People moved around aimlessly, survivors on a battlefield.
In Vidor's business area, where all the shops were left roofless and windowless, a Salvation Army caravan stopped.
Within minutes, people had formed a queue, desperate for whatever was being distributed.
A hurried woman arrived: "Please help. I have an 84-year-old woman here who was hurt, but there are no doctors."
A woman with grey hair sat next to her, pressing a bloodied handkerchief to her face, her eyes wild with fear and confusion.
"Where is the government when we need them?" shouted an angry woman in cowboy boots.
Curfew put in place
"This ain't right, this is America," shouted somebody else.
Sheriffs pleaded with people to evacuate the town and tried to prevent others from returning: it could take weeks before power, clean water and sewerage systems were restored. A curfew was put in place.
Military convoys, ambulances and fire engines rushed up and down the highway.
Help was on its way - but, in Vidor, everybody awaited a dark, unbearably hot night.
Link Here
Deon Lamprecht
Vidor - Her late father hammered in the first nail - and then the entire family helped to build the simple wooden house.
"It was a labour of love. Four generations of our family lived here," said a shocked Gayrell Ketll on Sunday night while sifting through the remains of her life.
With the images of Katrina still fresh in her mind, she fled the wrath of Hurricane Rita in southeastern Texas along with three million others.
She returned on Sunday morning to find a war zone. A massive tree had split the wooden home.
Along with her, I bowed under the branches covering what used to be the lounge.
"We were never rich, sir. This house was our safe haven.
"Now this, too, is gone."
She showed me the remains of the bar.
"When daddy Charles completed the house in 1985, mom put up a plaque saying 'labour of love'.
"After his death she couldn't face living here any more and took the plaque along when she moved."
Won't be able to rebuild
Gayrell, 38, is divorced. She shared the house with her daughter, Jennifer Holden, 21, and Holden's two baby daughters.
"I work part-time only and we don't have insurance. We won't be able to rebuild."
In what used to be the bedroom, a doll and bright red and white balloons lay among the tree branches and timber.
Gayrell's mother, Gaye Ketll, 59, arrived. She lovingly touched the timber and started crying uncontrollably.
This kind of scene repeated itself again and again in Port Arthur, Beaumont and Vidor. In some suburbs, a tree had split every home in two.
The streets were littered with toppled trees, broken electricity cables sparking menacingly, large sheets of corrugated iron and other rubble.
People moved around aimlessly, survivors on a battlefield.
In Vidor's business area, where all the shops were left roofless and windowless, a Salvation Army caravan stopped.
Within minutes, people had formed a queue, desperate for whatever was being distributed.
A hurried woman arrived: "Please help. I have an 84-year-old woman here who was hurt, but there are no doctors."
A woman with grey hair sat next to her, pressing a bloodied handkerchief to her face, her eyes wild with fear and confusion.
"Where is the government when we need them?" shouted an angry woman in cowboy boots.
Curfew put in place
"This ain't right, this is America," shouted somebody else.
Sheriffs pleaded with people to evacuate the town and tried to prevent others from returning: it could take weeks before power, clean water and sewerage systems were restored. A curfew was put in place.
Military convoys, ambulances and fire engines rushed up and down the highway.
Help was on its way - but, in Vidor, everybody awaited a dark, unbearably hot night.
Link Here
posted by Kangaroo Brisbane Australia at 6:30 AM
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