Historic Town Swept to Eternity
Under the branches of ancient live oaks, life in this gracious resort town moved at a leisurely pace.
The wide porches of century-old Southern mansions were made for languid afternoons. Camellia and magnolia blossoms scented the air. Yachts dotted the shimmering waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
Hurricane Katrina wiped it all away.
The beachfront, which was listed on the National Register of Historic Places for its trove of antebellum estates, is nothing more than a shattered rafter here, a twisted bicycle over there.
The rustic fishing piers that used to jut into the Mississippi Sound vanished too. Only the concrete pylons remain. Hundreds of them rise from the flat, calm water; they look like tombstones.
Farther inland, the elegant town that locals called “The Pass” has been reduced to a garbage dump. All that’s left of many homes are the rooftops, stacked up in haphazard piles of red, brown and peach.
Antique furniture that graced meticulously restored houses lies in bits and pieces: Ornately carved knobs from a four-poster bed, splinters of gilded picture frames and the slender legs from a dining room table.
A beautiful oak dresser sits atop a pile of debris, a few damp bras hanging out of one drawer. Nearby is a red cedar chest, embossed with gold. It’s filled with model trains and foul-smelling mud.
“Words can hardly express how devastated I feel,” said Richard Cawthon, chief architectural historian with the Mississippi Department of Archives and History.
Cawthon spent several hours Friday studying satellite images of the coast, trying to assess the damage.
“Some of our finest architectural landmarks along the Gulf Coast have been obliterated,” he said. “It’s mind-boggling.”
Founded in 1699, Pass Christian blossomed in the decades before the Civil War.
Louisiana’s elite, mostly sugar and cotton plantation owners, raced their yachts here from New Orleans. It was cooler than the swampy city -- and less malarial. Much as wealthy New Yorkers took over the waterfront in Newport, R.I., the plantation owners made The Pass their own.
Many built “summer cottages” along the beach, with broad balconies, separate servants quarters and 10,000 or more square feet of airy, high-ceilinged living space.
Over the years, homes were built in a jumble of styles -- Colonial, neoclassical, Victorian, Greek revival and even Craftsman bungalow. Framed by arching oak trees and enormous azalea bushes, they looked eclectic but distinctly Southern; they were a world apart from the glitz and grit of the nearby casino towns of Biloxi and Gulfport a few miles to the east.
In recent decades, Pass Christian, a town of 6,600, became popular with wealthy retirees -- many of whom lived here year-round. They browsed the art galleries, bought shrimp and oysters from fishing boats and tried to ignore the encroachment of modern conveniences like fast-food restaurants and Wal-Mart.
“Part of the charm was that they were able to maintain a tranquil, sleepy, Southern feel,” said Marlo Kirkpatrick, author of the travel guide “Mississippi Off the Beaten Path.” “It was always a real treat to go down there.”
The town took a direct hit in 1969 from Hurricane Camille, a Category 5 monster with 230-mph winds. Several historic homes were damaged, but enough survived to preserve the character of the beachfront.
Katrina seems to have hit even harder.
“So much beautiful culture and history has been washed away. All those homes that stood watch over the Mississippi Sound so many years
Former Fire Chief Rusty Necaise said city officials did not yet know how many Pass residents died in the storm.
The Harrison County coroner has confirmed 71 deaths in the area, which includes Biloxi, Gulfport and Long Beach. That number may well rise; late this week, rescue crews still were trudging through Pass Christian with spray paint to mark structures containing corpses.
The extent of the property damage is not clear, either.
Most of the beachfront has been destroyed. But the roads are so clogged with debris and sewage -- and the surviving structures are so unstable -- that authorities are restricting travel farther into the city. Armed troops patrolling in Humvees have threatened to arrest reporters.
Residents have a hard time gaining access. Dozens milled about the central fire station late Thursday, trying to get one-day passes to check their homes.
One woman, red-faced and exhausted, kept showing authorities a sodden phone bill she pulled from the rubble of her house a few days earlier, saying it was her only identification. A man tried to explain that he had lost his wallet in the storm and had only an expired driver’s license as proof of residency.
When Chelsea Grow, a neurologist, choked up as she pleaded for a chance to go home to get her cat, an officer snapped, “Don’t you dare cry.” Any more tears, he said, and “your truck will make a quick left turn out of here,” Grow said.
Some residents who made it through the checkpoints set up tableaux of foraged junk as if in defiance of the devastation all around.
A black coffee mug rested atop one pile of rubble with an American flag propped next to it.
On a damaged house, someone hung a banner made of white sheets. It read, “Survivor Pass Christian.” And the line below: “Katrina. Outplay, Outlast, Outwit, Rebuild.”
Another survivor set up a ghostly cocktail party at Market and 2nd streets.
Seven rattan barstools were grouped around an outdoor patio table. A dented champagne bucket was in the center, with an empty bottle of wine jutting out. Next to it was a bottle of gin and one of those thick, flared glasses used to serve the mixture of rum and fruit juice known as a hurricane. It was partly filled with sand.
Times staff writer Stephanie Simon in Denver contributed to this report.
