Not too very long ago, before the storm of a lifetime, there was a quaint section of town just beyond the levee, curiously known as Bucktown. It was a unique village within a city, the kind of neighborhood so characteristic of New Orleans.
It was a veritable gumbo of vibrant people and places. Shrimp boats and oyster luggers lined the canal. The docks were strewn with all manner of fishing gear — trawl nets and otter boards, crab traps, wooden crates and hampers, ropes and cables — all the fixtures of a fishing village. Ramshackle shanties built on stilts and clapboard houses with tin roofs fronted the thoroughfare. To one degree or another, these buildings had weathered all previous tropical storms and hurricanes. Like the timeliness of the people living and working there despite adversity, they were still standing, at least until Katrina.
One memorable restaurant and bar perched precariously out over the water was a great place to celebrate the everyday events of life, whether a special anniversary or just the close of a workday, a place to enjoy just being alive. The boiled crabs, raw oysters and fried shrimp were outstanding, the Dixie beer was cold and refreshing, and the people were all “naturally Naw’lins.” It was a place where customers did not seem to mind the occasional smell of not-so-fresh shrimp hulls and crab shells emanating from the nearby dumpsters, or that sometimes a misguided cockroach would scurry along the peeling wallpaper…