When Sweat Equity is the Only Way Home

By: Amy R. Hughes, This Old House magazine (Page 1 of 4)

Photograph: Larry Fink

Johnny Moore eyes what's left of the Sheetrock in his living room. He cut off the bottom section at the line where Katrina's floodwaters had stagnated. Sons Chip (middle) and Troy bring in sheathing for the new roof they are building.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Johnny's youngest son, Nigel, steadies himself on ceiling joists while he secures a roof rafter to the ridge beam.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Many of New Orleans's 19th-century homes were built on raised pier foundations, which helped them stay dry during the flood. By contrast, the postwar slab-on-grade construction of the Moore house allowed water to flow freely into living areas, causing catastrophic damage.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Nigel (left) and Chip survey their work on the new roof.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Firefighters for the NOFD, Troy, Chip, and Nigel work 24-hour shifts, then come to their dad's house on their off days to help him rebuild.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Johnny wants to repay his boys for their labor with some of the aid money he’s waiting on. It’s doubtful they'll accept his offer.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Rather than cram into this FEMA trailer, Johnny's wife, Venus, has been living in Baton Rouge while the house is under construction.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Balancing on the top plate, Nigel measures the roof framing to make sure it's square.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Johnny calls down for more fasteners to finish nailing down a rafter.

Photograph: Larry Fink

During breaks from working on his own house, Calvin Collins, 79, helps the Moores. "If we have a question, he sets us straight," Troy says of the retired carpenter. "Mr. Calvin has been building houses for 60 years."

Photograph: Larry Fink

Chip recalls first entering his own flooded home: "It was like a river had run through. My bed had a mold blanket. It looked like a quilt."

Photograph: Larry Fink

Chip and Nigel install framing for a "cricket," a ramp between the new and old roofs to divert rainwater. Nigel's shirt was a gift from New York City firefighters who helped rebuild his company's engine house.

Photograph: Larry Fink

After a day of backbreaking work at Johnny's place, Troy and his wife, Wendy (seated), invite family and friends over for a celebratory crawfish boil at their home in the Holy Cross section of New Orleans’s Lower Ninth Ward.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Troy installs a header for a new window opening.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Using a template made from a piece of scrap lumber, Calvin and Johnny lay out their cuts for the "cricket" rafters.

Photograph: Larry Fink

Troy and Chip show their cousin Christian Rhodes (left) snapshots of their post-Katrina rescue efforts. "All our emergency plans were out the window," Troy says. "If we hadn't bought our own boat, we wouldn’t have been able to do anything."

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Johnny Moore is on the roof of his flood—wrecked home in New Orleans. But he's not waiting to be rescued.

The three—and—a—half feet of water that swamped the modest brick—faced ranch he shared with his wife, Venus, has long since receded. Now, two years after Hurricane Katrina struck and the levees failed, Johnny is saving himself by rebuilding his house the only way he can: with his own hands. "I'm the contractor," says the 62—year—old, who currently does maintenance work at an area high school. "Ain't nobody going to rebuild this house but me."

Several of Johnny's neighbors in the city's Gentilly section are doing the same thing, as are countless others who have decided to stop waiting on aid and start the reconstruction on their own.

Johnny returned home three weeks after the hurricane. Maybe it was longer. He's not quite sure. "It was a period that I love to forget," he says. A jumble of debris was blocking the front door from the inside, so he had to force his way in. The stench of rotting food in the freezer was sickening. The wood parquet floors had buckled, mold had bloomed on the drywall, and anything that wasn't made of solid wood or metal had pretty much disintegrated. "Water was everywhere, in every pot and pan. You were just hoping that your boots wouldn't leak, and figuring out what to get rid of next."

The mountain of trash Johnny piled in his front lawn was more than six feet high and 15 feet across. All he was able to salvage was an antique mahogany bedstead and some hunting and fishing trophies, as well as family photos that had hung high on a wall. The ceiling fan in the living room remains, but its blades droop like the petals of a wilted daisy. "Everyone tells me to take that fan down, but I say no. That's my reminder of how long the water was in here."