In Rural Texas, Blessings and Culture Shock

"My husband hasn't had his moment yet," she said. "And I am not finished with mine."

Bound by Necessity

Oscar was essentially relocating a complex habitat of humans. Technically, they weren't all Jacksons -- there were the Lees, the Strongs, the Goodwins -- but they were all somehow related to Oscar, and survival had bound them together. In New Orleans, some of them were renters, some lived in Section 8 housing and a precious few held mortgages. Most were working class: a window washer, a cook at Pat O'Brien's, a food service delivery driver, a courier, a cashier at a gourmet grocery store, a security guard, a bank teller, and a construction worker. As a car salesman, Oscar earned about $6,000 a month, making him the top breadwinner. His sister, Paula, a licensed nurse practitioner, held two full-time jobs in New Orleans. All lived paycheck to paycheck.

Luckily, the Jackson contingent had what many in New Orleans lacked: vehicles to heed the mayor's evacuation order, including a commandeered church van. Oscar's father would later say that God led them to Seguin, but Oscar's sister said it was actually the toll-free Best Western reservations line. The motel, a 20-hour drive from New Orleans, was the first with available rooms.

Oscar, short and beefy with blinding smile, bought a cowboy hat as a souvenir of what he thought would be a two-day visit to Seguin. Downtown, a sign in front of the courthouse bragged that Seguin was "Home of the World's Largest Pecan." Ten days later, homeless, Oscar started wearing his cowboy hat for real.

Locals began delivering food and clothes to the Best Western hotel. When someone dropped off a box of used Wranglers, the city kids knew that their FUBU days were over. "It's a small town," Oscar told his 15-year-old nephew, who has enrolled in the local high school. "You don't have to be fashionably correct."

People in Seguin know something about floods. In 1998, the swollen Guadalupe River swallowed homes and killed several people, and there have been two other severe floods since, which perhaps explains the outpouring of generosity toward the Jacksons. Dozens of people -- white, black and Hispanic -- showed up to help. "We got pillows and blankets, whoever needs it," local resident Derra McClain announced, arriving in her truck with a girlfriend. "We're just plain folks. But we do what we can for our little folks here. We both been down on our luck before."

One day last week, the church ladies from Second Baptist wheeled up, including one iron-haired maven in a burgundy Ford F-150, loaded with furniture and mattresses. "Well," she said, before driving off into the Texas sunset, "I got to get home to feed my cows."

Offers of places to stay were slower to come in. One local couple proposed that the Jacksons use their ranch house. Oscar drove out to take a look. Heifers grazed nearby. His sister's mouth hung open. "They had a dog so big I thought it was a pony," Oscar said. The house had only two bedrooms; unfortunately they had 24 people. It wouldn't work.

St. Andrew's Episcopal Church volunteers worked 24-7 refurbishing an arts-and-crafts house to make available for an evacuee family. "It's a risky thing in these days and times," said Lynn Campaigne, one of the volunteers who was spurred to action after watching images from New Orleans. "As our lawyer said, 'You have to remember these people have nothing. They're not necessarily people who are going to say, Oh, thank you.' " But compassion trumped all concerns and church volunteers steamed ahead, trying to get the house ready.

The Jacksons were going on Day 10 living in motel rooms, six or seven to a room. Tensions were starting to mount and Oscar knew he needed to get each of the families into their own spaces. Children were getting up for school every morning at 7 but their schedules were haywire. They were doing their homework in the lobby of the Best Western. Other housing offers were coming in, with security deposits waived, but Oscar and the others worried they would be too strapped to make rent when the time came; each family had racked up $500 in hotel bills, and credit cards were maxing out. With only five vehicles between them they wanted to live near one another to share rides to work. So they opted for public housing, grabbing nine available units offered up by the local housing authority.

"We'll recapture," Oscar said.

Recapturing meant wearing other people's clothes. But it had to be done.