long hours remodeling homes for other New Orleanians during the week, and on weekends he restores his own home.

Jackson's story is familiar, if not typical. His family did not have flood insurance, so he had to save the money to rebuild. As he worked to get his family back into their home, a task he hopes to achieve soon, they lived in a FEMA trailer too small for the family's needs. Jackson is not merely rebuilding his own home, but his parents' home as well.

A half block away, Christine Green sits on the front porch of her hot pink house, chatting with her neighbor Patrick Price. Green is almost finished restoring her home. The wiring is fixed, drywall hung and windows replaced. All that remains is to install new flooring and hang new cabinets. But Green's insurance money has been spent. She is now waiting for the federal Road Home Program to provide her with financial assistance. But that program has been plagued with problems, and it is likely that many of those in need will continue to wait indefinitely.

Like many New Orleans residents, Green, a 53-year-old housekeeping manager, fled to Houston during the storm. The house, which has been in the family for over thirty years, is important to Green and her siblings. All of them were surprised to learn that the house had survived the storm with little structural damage. "This is a strong house," she says with a booming voice, her brilliant white teeth shining in contrast to her ebony skin. "My mother and daddy worked too hard for this house! How could I leave it and go somewhere else?" she asks.

Christine Greene visits with Patrick Price on the front porch of her home.

(Photo: Charles E. Anderson)

A tour of the neighborhood reveals many dilapidated homes, a few FEMA trailers, and then, about once per block, a home completely remodeled, usually with a new car in the driveway.

There is a temptation to try to classify this phenomenon in relation to 9th Ward geography. To think, for example, the homes by the levee are totally destroyed, but up by Claiborne, the homes are okay. But reality is that resources, not geography, determine a neighborhood's resurrection.

Elderly Are Hit Particularly Hard

Melvina Gains and her poodle Jazzy live in a small FEMA trailer instead of in the double shotgun home she owns just blocks from the once-ruptured levee. They have few neighbors and have been robbed several times. In fact, Gains was victimized twice in one week, and the second time the burglars stole the .38 caliber pistol she kept for self-defense.

Gains, a 74-year-old former housing counselor, has a lot on her mind these days. In March, she paid a housing contractor $22,000 to restore her home. Now, months later, little work has been done. "It's like I take one step forward and two steps back," she says.

Yet, there is hope. Volunteers from Plenty International have begun restoring the home in hopes that she can move back in within months.

Less than a block away, Richard Green, 81, sits on the front porch of his nondescript double shotgun house. Green worked hard for years to afford the house that he and his wife have shared for nearly forty years. Now, little is left of the dream he and his family once shared. The home has been gutted by volunteers. However, Green has not been able to restore the home.

The smell of mildew still permeates the small house. Electricity and water are functioning. However, little else has been done. The walls are mere studs; no drywall hangs to create rooms. The floors are little more than sheets of plywood. Few worldly possessions decorate the house. What the Greens had was washed away by the flood.

Like many residents, the Greens have had difficulty navigating the complex support programs created by the local, state and federal governments. They have had difficulty getting a handicap-accessible FEMA trailer or getting assistance from the Road Home Program. In fact, since they do not own a car, just getting to places where the services are offered is difficult.

Lord, help me hang in there.

(Photo: Charles E. Anderson)

Yet, despite all of their hardships, the Greens still embody the survivor's spirit that is so prevalent in the 9th Ward. Next to their front door that reads, "Lord, help me hang in there."

A few blocks away, Cephus Lewis admits that sometimes he and his wife are scared to stay in the trailer loaned to them by FEMA. Most of his neighbors have opted not to move back to the neighborhood. At night, his corner of the 9th Ward appears to be abandoned. Yet, the area is still deserving of the rough and tumble reputation it once had. After dark, gangs have been seen in the area, and occasionally gunshots ring out. Yet, Lewis and his wife are determined to return to their home. When the stress of life in the 9th seems too much, the Lewises turn to the same place many residents do: their faith. "When we get scared, we just get down on the floor and pray. No one is going to run us out of here," he says.

Across the street from the sign that reads "Welcome to Desire," one of the 9th Ward's more vacant neighborhoods, sits George Elphage's home. Elphage leans to the left as he perches on a cane in his front yard. With a strong, sweeping motion that defies his 83 years, he swings the claw of a hammer into the crack of the sidewalk and pries up a small bunch of weeds. He quickly explains that a double hip replacement in the late 1980s has left him with little ability to kneel.

"My wife would never let me allow the yard to look like this," he explains with a sheepish grin. The yard is indeed overgrown with weeds. The front door of his home stands ajar. A friend helped him to gut the house, but he has not been able to do any reconstruction.

Elphage lives in a FEMA trailer behind the house in which he and his wife raised their family. His sons have long since moved away. His wife and daughter both died in the past year. Yet, he is determined to restore the home and move his wife and daughter's remains from New Mexico back to New Orleans so that he can visit their graves regularly.

"I'm gonna make it. But, it's been real hard," Elphage says as his voice cracks and small tears roll down his face. "I just don't know what else to do."

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Coming Tomorrow: See how Hurricane Katrina spawned a new kind of bus tour.

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Charles E. Anderson's writings have been published by Truthout, Common Dreams and The Huffington Post. He lives in Boone, North Carolina where he is a junior at Appalachian State University. He can be contacted through his web site: www.charleseanderson.com.