Habitat for Humanity Kingston's
Global Village
Gulf Coast Rebuilding Trip
December 3 to 9, 2006

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The gratitude toward Canadian Habitat for Humanity Volunteers was overwhelming at first contact with the Southerners who, arguably, “survived” the catastrophe of Hurricane Katrina in August 2005. We were about to make the acquaintance of an appalling number of the walking wounded.


A year and a half later, “Ya’ll leave your families to come down here and help us folks that you don’t even know. We thank ya’ll so much.” This was the sentiment of gratitude that would break our hearts over and over again, and give us the fortitude to learn to become construction workers, building homes and building hope.

You get what you give. For twenty-one strangers who journeyed by shuttle and two airplanes, in the middle of the night, to reach troubled New Orleans, we got what we gave. And then some

Many encounters with these resilient and loving Louisianans were met with thank you’s and apologies in various forms of trade-off. “I got nothing to give ya’ll but I want you to stop working long enough to listen to a Christmas carol on my new car radio. God Bless ya’ll for everything you do.” The blazing sun and miserable conditions betrayed that Christmas was in the air, but we listened and smiled and thanked him back, this unfortunate stranger on a mission to give what he had in thanks.

Never in my years of volunteerism or travel have I experienced such heartbreaking gratitude and respect for Canadians. Never have I tasted such delectable cornbread (“you have to boil the butter, my baby”). Never have I been so proud to be affiliated with such an organization as Habitat for Humanity.

A hand up, not a hand out, makes perfect sense in an imperfect world. These are hard-working family folks we worked alongside, who earn and deserve the dignity afforded them by a new house built with loving, and somewhat inexperienced, hands. Guided and taught by the passion and excellence of crackerjack engineers and labourers who donate their time and skill, our Global Village Team Canada was lead by unflappable (believe me, we tried) Sandy Berg of Kingston, Ontario and Cathy Lyons from Cobourg. Banded together for a common cause, a group of twenty-one individuals became one. Ranging in age from 22 to 65, each paid upwards of a thousand dollars for the privilege (read : honour) to serve as a Habitat builder, in partnership with a family whose life was turned irreparably upside-down by first “Katrina the Destroyer”, followed closely behind by “Rita, the kick in the pants.”

Some 15 months later, the conditions at Volunteer Base, Camp Hope are deplorable; cold enough that we wore layers of warm-weather clothing and woolen toques to bed. And we were the lucky ones—the volunteers with time and resources to share, who got to go home at the end of the week to heat and hot water and family.


Faced with the magnitude of damage and the shocking weakness of the levee that failed miserably to hold the waters of Lake Pontchartrain,the Mississippi River, and the Industrial Canal from the land below sea level, your breath is taken away and you cry. Stand in the midst of it all and cry.

Adrenaline is a tonic that can fuel the synergy of a shell-shocked team of Canadians and we were ready to build. First to Thibodaux on Monday, where rock band Bon Jovi’s compassion donated the materials to build homes for 40 families!! A beautiful little village of hope: hope that New Orleans will be easy again. Much more than a subdivision, this is a Neighborhood, complete with a playground for the children who will someday return. Pretty little gardens and personalized mailboxes proudly proclaim a house a Home.



Perhaps the only rival to the ties that bind our team, is the revelation and self-discovery of being productive on a construction site. Some of us retired and some who spend most days at a desk, were filled with the surprising confidence that a well-swung hammer can bring; imbued with pride when a row of two-ton (weren’t they?) trusses are secured in place. Sometimes we laughed so hard at our own impolite grunts and groans that we were thankful for the well-worn kneepads we had borrowed. Who knew?!

Only the blessed call to Lunch could drag us from our work. On that day we were treated to home-made fried chicken, rice and cornbread that surely came from heaven. At the very least, our lunch was a loving thank you from the volunteers and proud new homeowners at the Bayou Build on Bon Jovi Boulevard. Clearly, someone else smiled that day when I retrieved a carelessly forgotten purse. There, on the side of the road, was the untouched purse containing all my worldly goods for one week in New Orleans, exactly where I had left it an hour earlier.

Tuesday and Wednesday delivered us to the Upper Ninth Ward and the all but forgotten Spain Street. Forever haunting are the spray-painted recovery codes of the Search and Rescue crews (from a year and a half ago) on each and every structure. We were onward soldiers, beginning to frame our second house, ridiculously pretty in the midst of such rubble and heartbreak. And when she stood in glorious shades of fresh, donated lumber, hope sprang eternal. It was there on Spain St. that the trickle of traffic and few passersby would honk a car horn with a thank you wave, stop to play us a Christmas song, or shyly approach with a smile and a “thank ya’ll so much for all ya do.”




...“Next door, someone’s home had been gutted (another story for another time). A ragtag group of very young and ill-equipped contractors were toiling to repair some siding to the remains of the empty shell of a house. You give what you’ve got, so we gave them work gloves and water. We may as well have given them a vault full of money, they were that grateful. They asked to have their photos taken with the Good Habitat People and we humbly obliged; tears and toothy smiles”...

Thursday and Friday brought us to Musician’s Village...



Beyond the striking good natures of the people of New Orleans are the musicians who make it the Home of Jazz. When these hard-working, easy-living artists were displaced at the hands of such great loss, the very culture of New Orleans and its economy suffered. To encourage and assist these talented artists to return home and rebuild their lives, a generous group of world-renowned artists, including Harry Connick Jr. and Branford and Ellis Marsalis, struck up a partnership with Habitat for Humanity. They rallied, raised, and donated the funds to purchase the building materials, while Habitat pledged the labour. Musicians’ Village is well underway toward rebirth. Katrina could ravage, but could not conquer, the heart of this community.

Habitat New Orleans playing host to our Canadian team, addressed a shivering, eager crowd of volunteers at the morning assembly. Clipboard at the ready, Zach delivered his oration perched atop a house foundation resembling a stage in the middle of the build site. This particular foundation, and many others of its kind, stood ready to adopt a home, just waiting all this time, too much time, for the hearts and hands to do it.

He described briefly the jobs of the day and the skills required or desired. As he offered up opportunities, those whose interest he piqued raised their hands and set off to work. We listened proudly as Zach announced that a Habitat team of Canadians was here and “we just let them loose to do their thing.” Another foundation was waiting for us to frame its house, already earmarked for a family in need.

It was our good fortune that the manufacturers of the energy drink, Red Bull, had volunteered the services of a hundred or so of its employees to work in Musicians’ Village that day. The generosity did not end there. They served us all a delicious, welcome hot breakfast (with butter!) and the first “real” coffee I’d had all week. Nice way to start a day

A Human Resources Administrative Assistant by day, by Friday in Musicians’ Village, I began to feel like a Master Nailer. Retired engineer, Dave, and retired school teacher, Doug had taken me under their capable wings and oh-so-patiently taught me the fine art of toeing a nail. I not only know what a stud is now, but if you asked me to, I could make a thousand of them, in four different styles.

This, our last day of construction, was filled with camaraderie and sunshine. It was as much fun learning to read blueprints that chilly morning as it was to work on a busy construction site, where other teams, as varied as a jellybean jar, passed each other with wheelbarrows of building materials and said hello as though we’d been friends and teammates forever. Yet another pleasant surprise in “a day in the life of a Habitat for Humanity Volunteer.”

We had all heard the term, “gutting a house” and had shared a camp with the “gutters.” But to witness an actual gutting when it takes place is to feel as though you are attending a funeral. We stood stock still in our fresh, happy house-in-the-works and watched with sadness and respect as someone’s entire life was carted to the curb by strangers. Dressed like astronauts, covered head to toe in protective anti-contamination suits. They entered and left the house in procession , perhaps a hundred times. On this particular house was the haunting message, spray-painted indelibly, from the first agency on the scene way back a year and a half ago, “Sept. 9, no bodies, 2 guns”. Hurricane Katrina had unleashed her wrath a full eleven days earlier. When the gutting was over, all that was left of a family’s home life lay at the curb.

A buzz of electricity went through our group when a shy and smiling man arrived. Michael Harris. Jazz Musician. Hurricane Survivor. Proud and grateful new homeowner. Having only hoped to meet the recipients of any of our labours of love, I was not prepared for the power of compassion that overcame me. A happy and humble man, in spite of all that he and his family had endured, he said this: “I do thank ya’ll so much, ya’ll will never know how much this means to my son and me. You’ve given us the greatest gift of all and it can’t be replaced. Ya’ll gave us your time and we thank ya’ll so much.”

While the group photos were being shot, I took a walk and sobbed. Cried in gratitude for all that I love and all that these wonderful people had lost. Cried that our work this week was done and cried at the grace of the happy smile that Mr. Harris wore sincerely, dead centre of a group photo with smiling, teary-eyed strangers who had built him a house.

There was the gift he gave to us. A happy smile in a group photo with a team of strangers who fell in love. In love with people who could very well have been hurt beyond repair. But there in that photo is the smile that tells the world how to fall in love - with a team and with a place in our Global Village where, at the end of the day, we’re all just people. What’s not to love?

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