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February 5, 2006Mission to Moss Point
Gulf Coast Rising
Gulfport resident Melanie Morgan, right, helps friend Tricia Morris filter through debris in hopes of finding keepsakes. For more photos from Miss., see today's Mission to Moss Point photo gallery. 
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"It's sad to see it go, but I guess that just means there's progress coming," said Torjusen, 39, who watched with daughter Addy, 3, and son Brantly, 5, as the 70-year-old house crumbled. Heavy equipment finished the job at Torjusen's house that Hurricane Katrina began Aug. 29, when it slammed into the Gulf Coast and reduced neighborhoods to rubble and concrete slabs. Storm devastation lured waves of relief workers to coastal cities, including 118 students from Traverse City Christian School, who spent a week last month on a mission trip to Moss Point, Miss. They worked with and for those uprooted by the storm, many of whom still don't have any idea what the future holds, five months after Katrina hit. Just down the street from the Torjusen house, Susie Stewart, 63, lingered outside her government-issued trailer, near the remains of a house she called home since 1961, and gazed at gnarled trees and budding day lilies that were somehow spared by the storm. "Everything God made is still here," she said, pointing to a tree limb where the skeleton of a clock dangled. It once graced her living room mantle. Stewart and Torjusen live on Beach Boulevard in Pascagoula, a city of 25,873 on U.S. 90 in southern Mississippi. The highway rolls west along the Gulf of Mexico toward New Orleans - an artery that runs through the heart of Katrina's destruction. Stewart isn't sure she'll rebuild her waterfront home, but she returns nearly every day to scavenge for mementos and count her blessings. "We have a few blocks of this, but they have miles and miles," she said of those on the tattered path to Biloxi and beyond. "I know we're bad, but they have it just horrible." 'Rest in Pieces' Tricia Morris spent a recent sunny afternoon sifting through the wreckage of a condo she rented across from the beach in Biloxi, about 30 miles down U.S. 90 from Pascagoula. "My whole bedroom is here," she said, using a rake and hoe to scour the rubble for family heirlooms. She unearthed a perfume bottle and part of her dresser. U.S. 90 includes a 107-mile stretch between Pascagoula and New Orleans that also enjoins towns like Biloxi, Ocean Springs, Gulfport and Long Beach. Katrina cast debris across the interstate, leaving little but destruction in plain sight for many city blocks. The U.S. 90 bridge between Ocean Springs and Biloxi is in tatters; detoured drivers must head north toward U.S. 10. Several of Biloxi's shoreline casinos are back in business, but Katrina's storm surge threw the former Grand Casino barge across U.S. 90, where today it sits next to a sign that reads "Rest in Pieces." Many storefronts in the city of 50,115 remain shuttered, but others, like Mary Mahoney's French House Restaurant, welcome patrons with makeshift signs that declare "We Are Back!" David Martin, coordinator for the Biloxi-based Open Doors Homeless Coalition, toured the city's downtown with a group planning outreach efforts in the hurricane's wake. They stood before a hollowed-out building that formerly housed the Mental Health Association of Mississippi. "Our role has expanded to help the victims of Katrina, who are the newly homeless people," he said. Double-whammy Michael Parker doesn't consider himself homeless, but his future is uncertain. His Gulfport house, first storm-stricken, later was gutted by fire. "We were so blessed, but we had a double-whammy," said Parker, who managed to repair his Katrina-damaged home enough to move back in before an electrical fire charred it on Oct. 12, a blaze that killed his dog. Parker lives with several roommates in a FEMA trailer parked in his front yard. It's surrounded by debris from adjacent homes in his nearly abandoned neighborhood. "Somebody's carport and refrigerator were in my yard," he said. "There was so much stuff you couldn't move." Gulfport's 71,851 residents took a direct hit from Katrina and many of the city's homes were flooded or destroyed. Parker, who moved to Gulfport from Los Angeles 10 years ago, often rides his bicycle 13 miles to Biloxi in search of work because Katrina's surge flooded his car. He was a self-employed painter before the storm. "It's getting better, though, it always does," he said. "This is my domain, and I'm going to fix it. I don't think we're going to leave." Planning to stay Clarence Green fixed his humble, two-story home after Hurricane Katrina flooded New Orleans' Ninth Ward, and he plans to stay put. "I've been here all my life," he said from the porch of the house where flood waters reached the top of a screen door. "I don't feel right anywhere else." Green, 40, gathered with a handful of neighbors to discuss their community's future. They're let down by slow federal response to the disaster, but envision rebirth of the Ninth Ward. Pamela Bienemy said residents need relief from mortgages, rent and other expenses while they live elsewhere. "They need to go down on the rent to get people to come back," she said. The historic city's skyline doesn't tell the whole tale of loss and destruction until nightfall, when only the odd street lamp lights the abandoned neighborhoods. Down in the French Quarter, an area spared from Katrina's worst blows, colorful lights symbolize hope for New Orleans' future. Landmarks like Cafe du Monde, Antoine's and Arnaud's are among the 85 percent of French Quarter attractions open for business, and the storied district is gearing up for Mardi Gras. Patrons at Sing Sing on Bourbon Street on a recent evening tuned in to Rooster & the Chickenhawks, a rhythm and blues staple on a lane lined with music clubs. Rooster, the ensemble's leader, beckoned passers-by inside with his guitar and a greeting. "Come on in, it's showtime," he said. 'One more time' Back in Pascagoula, Torjusen looks forward to rebuilding on the site of her family's demolished home, which her husband Hank's grandfather built after emigrating from Norway. The couple lives next door with their three children and a cat in an 80-foot by 16-foot trailer, an upgrade from the 42-foot model they initially moved into after the storm. The southern Mississippi natives typify the resolve that echoes along the Gulf Coast "I said, 'We're going to have to try it one more time,'" Torjusen said. "You just start it all again."
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