Eight years to the day after Katrina, I still miss Bruning’s restaurant out at the Lakefront.
Eight years later, the ‘LSU Purple’ fig I planted in the storm’s aftermath STILL isn’t reliably producing fruit, mainly because its young roots were wrenched around by Gustav’s winds, then Isaac’s winds, and probably several other tropical systems whose names I no longer remember.
Eight years later, I can still smell, vividly, the odor of 450,000 stinking refrigerators blowing on the wind. I still can’t eat Honey Baked Ham because I happened to be driving down Causeway Boulevard a few weeks after the storm, when people in HazMat suits worked to clean out the store’s walk-in coolers.
Eight years later, I’m happy that Saharan dust and westerly wind shear have thus far delivered us from threatening tropical weather.