In journalism, the big stories often bring out strains of competitive tension that cut into the profession’s unspoken code of courtesy, but all of that seemed to evaporate with this one. The journalistic mission of Katrina’s aftermath was way too important to worry about scoops and bylines.

The camaraderie that was forged among the Katrina reporters, especially in our makeshift “New Orleans Bureau,” hasn’t gone away. I don’t think it ever will. We still greet each other with back thumps instead of polite handshakes. Over a long lunch or after-hours cocktails, we fill in the blanks of those first war-like weeks.

If I had a chance to give it all back—the plaudits from peers, the national media appearances (I did CNN, MSNBC, NPR, and others), the gratitude from citizens—I would forgo every byline, every life-altering moment, in exchange for the pre-Katrina New Orleans. But it happened, and now I’m faced with the agonizing dilemma that so many New Orleanians are grappling with. Do I stay and help in the rebuilding process? Do I stick with the amazing story of a city’s struggle to regain a semblance of its former glory? Or do I stake out a fresh clean start for my family, in a place where there are no flooded playgrounds and the strength of levees isn’t on your mind every time a storm starts brewing in the Gulf.

For now, my wife and I have decided not to think about the bigger picture, at least not until the end of the spring, when Patty wraps up her academic year as a Tulane professor. In the meantime, this battered, waterlogged sinkhole continues to hit me with small reminders of why I stuck it out here for 20 years. One of them came on a night in mid-December, at Little People’s Place, a hole-in-the-wall club in the impoverished but famously musical neighborhood called Treme. That night, I hooked up with composer Bruce Bennett (Reed ’90) to see a new band called “Davis,” named for frontman Davis Rogan (also Reed ’90), a hometown piano player with a raunchy but genius lyric wit.

A crowd of about 14 people—black and white, young and not-so-young—filled the joint. Strangers bought rounds of beers for the band, and for other strangers. Rogan served everybody red beans and rice. He let his sax player strut his formidable chops. The drummer went to town. Rogan improvised some hilarious Katrina lyrics and everyone danced. I still can’t fathom how three Reedies ended up in a deep groove at the tattered edge of civilization in a mostly vacant neighborhood in a ruined city.

But I know it could only happen in New Orleans.