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

Once we toted in all the supplies we would need, we set out to hook up the generator. It would be our lifeline for the week, giving us electricity for shining light in the basement, running a fan to cool us as we slept in the humid September Gulf Coast air, and most importantly, providing power to the well that would furnish water to clean up the tons of mud that covered the lower level of the house.

The mud was a slimy muck, and during the first 30 minutes of each day we always struggled to avoid touching it. After first contact, though, the rest of the day was spent with little regard to keeping clean hands. Mud that made it onto fingers and hands was routinely wiped on pants and shirt, making both Brian and me a pathetic sight by the end of each day.

Our first task was to clean the garage, which, like the house, took in 2-3 feet of water from the storm surge and was covered with a residue of slick mud from the bottom of the Bay of St. Louis. Cecilia had parked her car in the garage in hopes that it would be protected from the elements. The unexpected storm surged had floated it in at an angle, bringing it to rest against a support pole in the garage. The interior was flooded, and because of the angle at which it came to rest, it was impossible to move it out of our way. So we worked around the car, scraping the garage floor the entire first day with shovels and hoes, transferring the slime and cracked mud into a large wheelbarrow.

Each full load was wheeled through the Battalora's spongy back yard as far back as we could where we would dump the gumbo in hope that the next few rains would wash it down into the rich blanket of St. Augustine grass. Once we got the garage scraped of most of the mud, we sprayed it clean and let it dry. It would become the receiving room, a sanctuary for the cleaned items reclaimed from the mud-bathed basement of the house.

My first look at the huge basement caused my heart to sink. Not just because it was filled with 1-4 inches of mud, but also because we had to find a way to get it all out and clean up the hundreds of items the mud had entombed. We started with square point shovels, scooping mud and slopping it into the wheelbarrow until we reached an item that could be pulled out. Sometimes the item was easy to see, like a lawn mower or generator. Other times, we didn't know we had uncovered something until it had slid off our shovels into the wheelbarrow. For the first several days, we had to be on the lookout for roofing nails, which the storm had spilled from their cardboard box on the basement floor and distributed throughout a large portion of the basement. Occasionally, we found the nails after they had impaled the soles of our shoes, but fortunately, no one ended up with punctured feet.

We were able to clean and save a number of items, but it wasn't long before we began accumulating a huge trash pile. Some of the more expensive things—a washer and dryer, a refrigerator, a ride mower, leaf blower, chain saw, generator, air compressor—were lined up along the driveway so we could photograph them for insurance purposes before we relegated them to the trash pile.

Answered Prayers

Little successes meant a lot. With the monumental task of moving tons of muck from the house, just seeing the concrete floor was a real encouragement. Scrubbing it clean and hosing it off was even better. It took almost a whole day to scrape clear the mud from a section of the basement that had been the laundry room, toilet and basement shower.

Still, we weren't sure how we would get it fully clean. There was a floor drain, but it hadn't worked in all the years I'd been coming to the house. It was a particular time when I needed encouragement. I prayed, "Lord, I know it's a long shot, but it sure would be easier if we had a drain to wash the mud down. Still, I'm okay if You don't." After a very short time working at it, the drain was able to handle everything we could give it.

A couple of days later, amidst another bout with discouragement at the slow progress, I again expressed to God how great it would be if we could fine another drain in the middle of the basement. I don't think it was half an hour before Brian came to me with the exciting news. "I found a drain!" Not only was it in the center of the remaining basement area, when we ran a hose into it, it drained twice as fast as the other one. "Thank you, Lord." I don't recall many times where I've been more thankful.

A Long Road to Recovery

A statue of the French explorer Bienville looks out over the bay that he named in 1699 on the anniversary of the feast of St. Louis. The pilings are what remain of the train bridge. In the three centuries since Bienville's discovery, the city of Bay St. Louis has weathered many tropical storms and hurricanes, including a direct hit from Camille in 1969 which decimated the city. Katrina's damage was far worse, and its storm surge topped that of its older sister by some 5-8 feet. (Photo by Brian Williams)

We worked day after day, doing the same disdainful tasks every day without seeing much progress. At times, the only solace, the only motivation I could find was in two thoughts: "This is not my stuff," and, "In a week, we will be able to leave." While those thoughts helped bring me through those most difficult times, they also reminded me of all the others who lived along the coast and New Orleans. It was their stuff that they were trying to salvage and clean. They wouldn't be able to leave in a week or a month or two months. Their task, their burden had to be immensely greater. No matter where my mind turned, it wasn't able to escape from the reality that it would be months or years, maybe a decade or more for so many families before their work would be done and life would be back to normal.

By the end of our week there, we had managed to remove the mud and belongings out of all but two areas of the basement. We had hoped to finish more so that we didn't overwhelm the next shift of family members who were coming in to continue the cleanup. Still, what was left looked manageable, and having much of the basement scrubbed clean gave them hope that they would be able to finish the untouched areas as well.

Throughout the week, the nights were the highlights of each day. A shower (never mind that the water was cold), clean clothes and a dry sleeping bag draped across a mattress were a welcome change from the drudgery of bending and lifting, scraping and getting our bodies covered in putrid slime. Even though we would usually be in bed by 10 p.m. and wake up with the sunrise, nights seemed especially short and ended abruptly as we'd dress, grab a couple of granola bars or Pop Tarts and head out once again to work all day in the mud.

Read the rest of the story...

Part Three: The First Steps to Rebuilding

Part One: A Landscape of Unfathomable Destruction