This is the final installment of a three-part article about Scott Williams' journey to Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina.

Often we began our days with a trip to one of the relief centers close to the house. These visits were our reminders of the tough circumstances faced by so many families. The first day, we saw a flyer with the words, "Missing: Van Schultz." It displayed a color photo of a pleasant looking middle-aged man and a woman who appeared to be his wife, cheek to cheek. The expressions on both faces were from a much happier time. At the bottom of the flyer was some hastily-worded text pleading for anyone knowing his whereabouts to contact a phone number out of the area.

The next day when I came to the relief center, I noticed that someone had scribbled a note in permanent marker up the left hand side of the flyer: "Found, deceased. Go to God."

Almost to a person, those who we saw on our daily excursions were walking zombies. Flat. Numb. Everything that resembled to them familiarity or comfort was gone. At this point, only a few days after the storm, the task of cleaning, clearing, rebuilding or starting completely over seemed insurmountable, and it showed on their faces.

Some people had lost everything but the clothes on their back. They were isolated from other family members. And everyone seemed to have a story; you just needed to ask. We talked to one man who tried to stay in what he thought was a safe shelter until the storm surge finally made it impossible to stay inside. He told of swimming out the window and over cars and debris toward other family members, before they all managed to make their way to a boat.

Sometimes people needed to speak to someone, anyone, just to share their triumphs and tragedies. One man I passed on the way to a Port-A-Potty was beaming, nearly in tears as he hung up his cell phone. "I finally got through to my wife after eight days," he said. "She was so relieved to finally hear that I'm okay." He didn't even wait for my approval before he turned around to look for someone else with whom he could share the fantastic news.

Of course, moments of elation were the exception. Emotions were on edge for most people. My first trip to the local relief center, there were individuals standing around, sitting around, smoking cigarettes, restless, nervously pacing. Suddenly behind me, a woman began shouting. I turned around to see her as she pointed at a man looking as unkempt as she was and accused him of harassing her. A couple of National Guardsmen swept onto the scene, weapons at the ready. The man, shocked and obviously scared by the sight of armed soldiers moving toward him, tried to defend his actions. "All I said was, 'That's a nice dog you got there.'" The situation was diffused in short order, but I could still see the underlying tensions on each trip I made to the shelter that week.

A City in Ruin

Battalora family members Larry Gagnon and Josh Owens look over a sailboat and piles of rubble carried by Katrina. The storm, which carried the water some 8-10 feet over the street level, destroyed nearly every home in Waveland, a city of 8,000. (Photo by Brian Williams)

Our morning visits to the relief centers also gave us the opportunity to survey the damage to the city of Bay St. Louis. Large sections of the downtown historic district looked more like Baghdad than Bay St. Louis. Past all the debris that marked the first block, two Humvees blocked the road with soldiers close by on patrol. Debris and a couple of crumpled automobiles were piled together against a gutted three story building on the right side of the street. It would be a surreal scene that would repeat itself throughout the week. What was so familiar and comforting now was replaced by disturbing images for which my mind had no frame of reference—except for photos I have seen from third world countries.

The Our Lady of the Gulf Church towered seemingly unscathed above the decimated landscape, a beacon of stability in a city completely rocked to its foundation. Since 1908, travelers from sea and rail knew they had arrived in Bay St. Louis when they saw this fortress of a building. It was Ellie's family church, the site of our own wedding and many others in the Battalora family.

As I moved closer, my hope was dashed, that the church had been spared the ruthless damage of Katrina. Walking up the side steps past the mangled metal railing of the church, I glanced left at the door where, 20 years ago, I had waited for word that it was time to start of the ceremony that would unite Ellie and me in marriage. As I walked into the sanctuary, I was stunned by the defilement.

Apparently the storm surge had come in through the main door that faced the beach, swept every pew off its mooring and flung them against the marble railing at the base of the altar at the other end of the church. The carpet that had covered the floor had been swept to one side, revealing the wood slat flooring, most of which was swollen and buckling from the long exposure to the caustic Gulf brine. One large section of floor toward the church's front door was bowed nearly three feet in the air. As I turned toward the south side of the building, I saw that a couple of the impressive, century-old stained glass windows on the lower level had suffered significant damage.

Elsewhere in the historic district I noticed a statue standing in what had probably been a courtyard. The figure was Bienville, who along with his brother had discovered the bay in the fall of 1699. Beyond the statue lay a massive pile of rubble. I had a hard time distinguishing whether the debris was from one of the adjacent buildings or from somewhere else down the beach. The scene captured for me the essence of all I was seeing—a city, rich in history, a survivor of hundreds of years of Gulf-born storms, now in ruin. Nothing would be the same for so many people, so many families.

Visiting Cecilia's home

Although the storm surge had its peak at Bay St. Louis, the adjacent cities of Pass Christian to the east and Waveland to the west suffered much greater damage because of their lower elevations. Officials estimate that between 80 and 90 percent of the nearly 25,000 in these three communities have no home to return to. I had seen aerial photographs of Waveland where Ellie's sister Cecilia lived and it looked to me like it was total devastation. Ellie's brother-in-law, Larry, had managed to get in a couple of days after the hurricane. "I was expecting complete devastation, but it was much, much worse than that."

On the day we were to leave the coast for home, Larry loaded Brian and me, along with three of my nephews, in the bed of his pickup and we went to see what was left of Cecilia's house. As we headed toward Waveland, once again I was awed by the completeness of the destruction. What had been well-constructed vacation homes were now pilings or foundations. I saw water line from the storm surge nearly 20 feet up in the trees, and debris that included clothing and roofing material even higher than that. Boats lay stacked against homes. We had to veer slightly left as we approached Cecilia's home because the stucco house across the street had been lifted off its foundation and deposited onto the road.

The storm surge had washed through the first level of Cecilia's home. We stepped over boards and an assortment of debris that had to have come from neighbors—plastic containers, a saddle, a small boat, planks, and who knows what else. The only thing we didn't notice was anything belonging to Cecilia.

The back stairs were still sturdy enough for us to make it up to the second story, which suffered less damage than the floor below, though the house was missing much of its roof. Larry had already filled the back of the pickup the day before with salvageable things, but there were others that were left behind that we scooped up. We found a large curtain and threw different treasures in it. I saw one of Ellie's nieces looking at some curios that were still sitting out in the open, untouched by the wind. "These might have sentimental value to Aunt Cecilia," she said, a flash of compassion in her eyes. It was almost as if she considered the thought of leaving without them nothing short of callous. Cecilia would be starting completely over. Anything we could do to return her life close to what it was before August 29 we knew would be a blessing to her.

Family Photographs

Wherever I walked in Bay St. Louis or Waveland, I would come across photographs every few steps. I pulled many out of the sand or rubble and tried to discern the stories of some of those who had apparently lost everything to the storm. A handsome young man sporting an 80s hairstyle, beaming next to an elderly man. Was it his father, a pastor, a professor? There was no way for me to tell, and no matter how much I wanted to, no way for me to know who to return the photo to.

Resting on a stump in the front yard of a modest single story home, left in splinters on its foundation, was a framed family portrait. Its glass was cracked, but otherwise it was in perfect condition. Everyone in the portrait was smiling, dressed in their best outfits. It seemed like an emblem of the importance of family set amid the backdrop of total destruction. While the family is probably physically fine, it will be a long time before the emotional scars are healed and before they can resume a normal life.

Many Bay St. Louis families have lived in the area for two, three, four generations or more. Many have lost too much to come back home. Still, some will return to rebuild or start anew, drawing off the courage and sweat of fellow family members. One thing was clear from being on the Gulf Coast for a week. The family is much sturdier than the strongest building or most stately old oaks. It takes more than strong winds and swelling seas to beat it down.

Read the rest of the story...

Part One: A Landscape of Unfathomable Destruction

Part Two: Working All Day in a Slimy Muck