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How one Mississippi town rebuilds hurricane after hurricane

Residents of tiny Pearlington, often overlooked by the media and federal-aid donors, rely on grit and small-town selflessness to survive repeated natural disasters.

By Carmen K. SissonCorrespondent / September 8, 2008

Southern charm: A car travels down one of two main roads in Pearlington, an often forgotten town in rural Mississippi, where more than 100 homes were flooded last week by hurricane Gustav.

Carmen K. Sisson

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Pearlington, Miss.

The live oaks that sprawl across the Southern landscape are like no other tree. Their trunks are massive, the limbs long and twisting, drooping to the ground, stretching to the sky, spreading to touch other trees. Most are hundreds of years old. Some thousands. They’ve seen floods, droughts, fires, hurricanes.

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And still they survive, the wood growing harder, stronger, more resilient, through every trial they endure. In Pearlington, Miss., they’re everywhere, a fitting symbol for a town that refuses to die and 800 residents who bend, but will not break.

It’s easy to overlook Pearlington. There are no red lights to stop drivers as they cross the state line into Louisiana, no gas station to buy a Coke. There’s no tax base, no local government. It lacks the glitz of Biloxi or the quiet coastal beauty of Pass Christian. It is a forgotten place in the middle of nowhere, appearing briefly on the radar following hurricane Katrina and disappearing just as quickly.

With last week’s hurricane Gustav being touted as a relatively minor storm, and Louisiana again capturing the national spotlight, no one in Pearlington is waiting for aid, even though 100 homes were flooded or destroyed, some only months after being rebuilt following hurricane Katrina. Instead, residents wearily pick up their brooms once more, sweeping away the water and mud that covers almost everything in this battered corner of rural Mississippi.

In a town that’s less than 10 feet above sea level, it’s an almost yearly ritual, this cleanup and recovery, but residents never get used to it. Mark Evans and his wife, Janyne, have lost five homes and three businesses to the four bodies of water that surround Pearlington. This week, they’re removing Gustav’s calling card, showing up early and leaving late in an attempt to get their restaurant ready for business once more.

”We could move anywhere,” says Mr. Evans as he sits on a stool, a gold cane between his knees. In the background, his wife’s mud-splattered camouflage boots never stop moving. One minute she’s scrubbing garbage cans; the next, she’s offering ham sandwiches to the people who’ve stopped their own cleanup to congregate here, less for the food than for the company.

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Turtle Creek Bar and Grill, one of only three businesses in town, is the gathering place, the one spot where people can grab a bite to eat, find a friendly face, or rest a while and forget their problems. Evans says that’s the main reason he stays. He and his wife feel a deep attachment and grave responsibility to the people of Pearlington. The elementary school is gone, vanquished by Katrina. Many of their friends and neighbors are gone, discouraged by the destruction that seemed insurmountable.

But still they believe, drawing inspiration from the determination of their neighbors along the coast, who restored their communities following the devastation of hurricane Camille in 1969 and hurricane Frederic in 1979, and are just beginning to recover from hurricane Katrina three years ago. It isn’t easy. Evans gazes out towards Cowan Bayou as he talks about the three-story home he lost in 2002.

“It was built out of wood from a 200-year-old hotel,” he says. “Absolutely gorgeous. A one-of-a-kind home.”

Tedi Bega agrees. She remembers the way neighbors used to flock to the house when they caught the scent of a fish fry in the air or the sound of children racing up and down the stairs and tumbling on the lawn. Everyone was welcome. There are no strangers in Pearlington, only family and “adopted” family.

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