'Tail' Of Survival: Riding Out Ike With A Lion

BOLIVAR PENINSULA (AP) ― Many years from now, a small group of Hurricane Ike survivors will probably still be telling the story of how, on the night the storm flattened their island, they took sanctuary in a church -- with a lion.

The full-grown lion was from a local zoo, and the owner was trying to drive to safety with the animal when he saw cars and trucks stranded in the rising floodwaters. He knew he and the lion were in trouble.

He headed for the church and was met by a group of residents who helped the lion wade inside, where they locked it in a sanctuary as the storm raged. The water crept up to their waists, and two-by-fours came floating through broken windows. But the lion was as calm as a kitten.

When daylight came, everyone was still alive.

"They worked pretty well together, actually," said the lion's owner, Michael Ray Kujawa. "When you have to swim, the lion doesn't care about eating nobody."

Amid the destruction in places like Bolivar Peninsula and Galveston, where row upon row of houses were scoured from the landscape, seemingly impossible tales of survival have begun emerge. Whether through faith or fate, luck or resourcefulness, dozens of people who stayed behind made it out alive, and have harrowing stories to prove it.

As of Tuesday, the official death toll from Ike stood at 48. Only 17 were in Texas -- and many of those were people killed by fires or generator fumes after the storm had passed. However, authorities held out the possibility that some victims were washed out to sea.

Among those who made it out alive was Kathi Norton, who put on a life jacket as the storm closed in on High Island, on the Bolivar Peninsula. She and her husband, Paul, knew the dangers of staying, and put their important documents, credit cards, money and cell phones into a plastic bag, and held on tight.

All too quickly, the floodwaters rose and the house started to break apart. Through the gaps, they saw refrigerators, lawn mowers and hot tubs floating past. The deck broke away next. Then the roof started to buckle.

"The whole floor was just opened out," he said. Norton grabbed his wife and headed for an outdoor staircase, escaping in time only because a flagpole kept the house from crashing down for a few precious seconds. "I look up, the house is coming on us," he said.

For hours, they sloshed around in 4-foot waves before finding themselves perched in a tree. They finally made their way onto someone's motor home, which then started to sink. They were able to cling to rafters of a nearby structure and hang on until daybreak.

"We had to grab that staircase and float wherever it took us," the 68-year-old retiree said.

Willis Turner decided to ride it out on his wooden boat next to his house on Crystal Beach, also on Bolivar Peninsula, but it nearly capsized and he was saved by a rope his wife tossed to him. The two held on inside a home that she said "vibrated like a guitar string."

"It was like an atomic bomb going off. Right after the eye passed, whole houses came by us at 30 miles an hour -- WHOLE HOUSES! -- just floating right past," Turner said. "It was unreal. Unreal."

Turner and his wife awoke the next day to an island they no longer recognized. The first four rows of houses on the beach were washed into the sea. There were no more restaurants, no more gas stations, no more grocery stores. The neighborhood was gone.

In Galveston, Charlene Warner, 52, weathered the storm with her landlord and a neighbor in the apartment above her own.

"It felt like an earthquake -- the rumbling and the rocking of the building," she said, smoking outside a shelter in San Antonio. "Everyone was praying."

"It was so terrible. All I could say was, 'Lord, please don't kill me. Forgive me for what I done,"' Warner said, as a tear rolled down her cheek.

After the storm, she and neighbors waited for rescue, but no one came. The water receded, leaving a layer of muck filled with snakes. But with no water, no electricity and a shrinking supply of food, Warner decided to go for help, sliding her way across the goo a block and a half to the fire station.

Firefighters took her and neighbors to a spot where they could get on an evacuation bus. She arrived at a shelter in San Antonio with her purse stuffed full of personal documents and cigarettes, and one spare outfit that she washed and drip-dried on a railing Tuesday.

"I lost everything. What you see with me is all I have," she said. "I never seen anything like that in my life. I'll never ride out another storm."

Cheryl Stanley said she and her husband, Tom, wanted to evacuate their Galveston apartment before the hurricane hit but couldn't. Their son, Casey, has cerebral palsy, and the three live on the third floor. When they tried to leave, the elevators were turned off, and they couldn't carry Casey down the stairs.

"It was horrible," Cheryl said. "The building was shaking all night."

A few hours into the storm, Casey said he didn't feel safe in the bedroom, so they moved him to the living room. About three hours later, the ceiling in his bedroom collapsed.

"Thank God, we got Casey out of there," his mother said.

After the storm passed, paramedics carried Casey downstairs. And neighbors carried the wheelchair.

At the Baptist church on Bolivar Island where the lion spent the night, Richard Jones, a shrimper, said he wasn't afraid of the beast.

"That little old fella is just as tame as a kitten," Jones said.

After the storm passed, the lion's caretakers fed it pork roast to keep it happy.

National Guardsmen dropping off food and water lined up Tuesday in the choir loft to get a glimspe of the lion, and the soldiers jumped back when the lion looked up from it perch on the altar and snarled.

Jones said he hadn't stepped foot in a church in the 40 years he has lived on this spit of land. And he wasn't ready to call his survival divine intervention.

"I drink beer and chase women, gamble, cuss," Jones said. "You can't call that religion. I'm either too good, the devil won't have me, or I'm so bad the Good Lord won't take me. That's a good toss-up."

Clyde Beatty

With violence down, Iraqis flock to revitalized Baghdad Zoo

BAGHDAD (AP) — Families stroll the park's sidewalks and picnic in the shade as laughing children clamor to see the main attraction — lions once owned by Saddam Hussein's son, Odai.

Damaged after the 2003 U.S.-led invasion, the Baghdad Zoo has made a startling comeback, and thousands of Iraqis are flocking here to escape the city's grungy streets.

The zoo, located in the sprawling Zawra Park in the heart of Baghdad just outside the U.S.-controlled Green Zone, has been held up as an example of American reconstruction efforts. The military brought in new animals, rebuilt damaged exhibits and worked with international zoos and organizations to train the Iraqi zookeepers.

Still, the effects of war are all too plain. Because transporting refrigerated meat is too difficult, donkeys are raised in a fenced-off area. They are euthanized and fed to the lions. And although the zoo is far more serene than other parts of the capital, U.S. military helicopters frequently buzz overhead.

The zoo's revival coincides with a reduction in violence across the capital. As a result, Iraqis are increasingly going outside for their leisure time. And in recent months an average of 8,000 to 10,000 Iraqis visit the zoo each week, paying about 20 cents each for admission, said Adel Salman Mousa, who has been the zoo's director for the past 18 years.

On a recent sunny spring afternoon, Iraqi families packed the zoo. Young couples sat side-by-side on park benches, teenagers rowed small boats in the zoo's pond and families took pictures with their cell phone cameras of the bears and other animals behind green cage bars.

Ahmed Noori, a Baghdad dentist who came here with his wife and 1-year-old daughter, said the zoo is a getaway for Iraqis who live under the constant threat of bombings and shootings.

"The Iraqi people are tired and need more places to relax like the zoo," he said. "This is one of the only well-protected areas that is safe."

That was not the case five years ago. After the 2003 invasion, the zoo was in tatters.

Iraqi fighters had booted the zookeepers from the park and set up defensive positions among the cages. Chaos ensued.

Looters stole or turned loose nearly every animal. Some animals lay dead in their cages, others roamed freely. Three Iraqis were found dead, apparently mauled by a bear. When U.S. soldiers arrived, they were forced to shoot a few lions.

Three months after the Americans captured Baghdad, the damaged zoo officially reopened. But violence soon raged in the capital and elsewhere in Iraq, making it too dangerous for many Iraqis to visit and for organizations to repair it.

Though there was some effort in the first years of the war to fix up the zoo, the U.S. military began to give the zoo a makeover in January 2007. They brought in new animals, mostly from Turkey or other Iraqi zoos that were shut down or could not afford to keep animals any longer.

Over the past year and three months, the U.S. Army has spent more than $2.15 million on the zoo, supplying it with generators because it receives only two hours of electricity a day, building new bathrooms for visitors, cleaning up trash, repairing cages and providing medicine to its animal clinic.

The U.S. backing was a crucial supplement to the zoo's annual allotment from the city of Baghdad of about $400,000, said Mousa, the zoo's director.

"Zawra Park and the zoo are the only escape for people in Baghdad, and the improvement in security and the work of Coalition Forces has made it a haven for people," Mousa said.

Iraqi government guards provide security at the zoo and the park, both of which are overseen by the 2nd Brigade Special Troops Battalion, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault). No weapons or vehicles are allowed in the park, and people are searched before entering.

Though the Baghdad Zoo isn't exactly San Diego, it does feature a wide range of animals: the lions, including two cubs and a few adults that once belonged to Odai, three bears, porcupines, several pelicans and ostriches, a couple of camels, peacocks, a cheetah and monkeys.

Over at the fish house there's a tank with small, yellow fish. Each fish also sports a red and black stripe sandwiching a white stripe with green stars and Arabic script — the Iraqi flag. The fish are from Thailand, where they are colored with laser technology and sold for $45 a pair.

The Army's plans for further upgrading the zoo over the next year include improving the horse stables and the lion habitat, according to Capt. Jason Felix. This summer, he said, three veterinarians at the zoo will go to England for training.

THE DAY CLYDE BEATTY
CAME TO TOWN

By KENT HOLSATHER
for TheColumnists.com

Just the other day I was rummaging through some old photos I’d come across at our local museum. I’m a sucker for nostalgia and I can’t resist the trip up to the archives department for a fix every now and then.

The box that read 1955 caught my eye, so I placed it on a study table and proceeded to plow through the prints. It was an especially tedious chore considering that I had to wear white “archival gloves” to handle the pictures.

An hour passed before I pulled out a photo that snapped my memory cells to attention. It was a picture of Clyde Beatty receiving a gift from a local city councilman. At that moment, memories long forgotten suddenly sprang to life.

CLYDE BEATTY! He was the world's most famous circus superstar, something we don't seem to have in our culture anymore. He was, in fact, the world's greatest wild animal trainer. WE used to call them "lion-tamers." Do today's kids even know what that means?

The memories came flooding back. I was five years old and I had never seen a circus in my rather short existence. That was all about to change in one glorious night of laughter, music and derring-do.

A large circus visiting a small town like Bellingham, Washington, was a big deal back in the 50s. The local paper worked hard to cultivate interest by splashing gaudy layouts of Clyde Beatty and his assorted felines in the evening spreads. By all accounts, it worked well.

On the morning of July 19th, 1955, a train loaded with performers, animals, tents and roustabouts pulled into town. The Clyde Beatty Circus still moved on rails--it would convert to trucks in 1957--and it usually arrived just before dawn to assure that the Big Top was up and ready by the first performance that afternoon.

As noon drew near, Clyde utilized one of the oldest advertising tricks in the book of circus entertainment. He put on a “circus parade.” Clyde used to say “give the customer a free taste and he’ll clamor to buy the whole dinner.”

State Street--our main commercial street--was jammed with people to watch the animals and performers parade from a staging area near the center of town out to a vacant lot where the big top had been set up.

My brother and I found the perfect perch atop the hood of a 1951 Pontiac. Our vision was totally uncompromised, even in that era of men’s Fedora hats and women with padded shoulders. From our rampart, we watched as camels and elephants lumbered by, prodded on by their keepers. We were especially impressed with the refuse dropped by the elephants. We were small town kids who had only just begun to open our eyes to the bigger world beyond our backyard so the big-time piles in front of us were real eye--and nose--openers.

Clowns with endless supplies of seltzer bottles ran, strolled, rolled and cart-wheeled down the street and anyone within seltzer range was fair game. They were followed by performers of all sizes, shapes and at least two, possibly three genders.

Everyone seemed to be represented: the fat lady, the giant, the alligator man, tiny people, jugglers and horsemen. They were all there for us to gawk at, but the best was saved for last. At the very end of the parade came the star attraction. Riding atop the loudest calliope that I had ever heard (and the only one I'd heard up to that time) was the epitome of Sigfried and Roy rolled into one incredible character: Clyde Beatty!

He looked like a movie star in his white chapped pants, pith helmet, whip and pistol. He ran the most celebrated animal act in the world. In the 1930s and 40s, he really was a movie star, appearing in such films as "The Lost Jungle," "Darkest Africa," Africa Screams" and "Perils of the Jungle." Maybe they were marginal films at best and down right horrible at their worst, but his movies didn’t diminish the fact that Clyde Beatty was one of the most recognized performers of his generation.

Born in 1903 in Bainbridge, Ohio, Clyde began entertaining the neighborhood kids when he was nine years old. His first animal tricks were performed with dogs and cats borrowed from his friends. As a young man, he got a job training polar bears in a circus and when the resident lion tamer had a nervous breakdown, Clyde took over the lion act with one bit of advice, “Always keep a clear path to the exit door.”

Clyde’s fearlessness outweighed his technical skills in his early years and it was well known among the circus community that when Clyde stepped into the ring, there were three possible outcomes. 1. A triumphant exit to applause. 2. A mad dash to the exit or 3. Being dragged out of the cage by the clowns after a mauling. That No. 3 outcome wasn't so rare either. In fact, it happened several dozen times over his career.

His popularity skyrocketed when he was hired by the great showman, Zack Terrell, to run the big cat show at the Chicago Worlds Fair of 1933. He was in demand to highlight the center ring of circuses across the United States and worked in several over the next 30 years.

Clyde was a tireless self promoter who had his own radio show in the 1940s and early 1950s, featuring stories of himself and his circus. The kids ate the stories up with gusto. It helped keep the seats full at his performances until television came along and began to eat his industry up with an equal gusto.

And here he was in my hometown--in person!

After the parade finished, everyone followed the calliope to the circus grounds. There was a mob around the midway as people bought tickets to the show in the Big Top and others milled around the side shows. As my parents stood in line to buy tickets--80 cents for kids and $1.45 for adults--my brother and I walked over to where the giant stood. As we stared, a lady came up and offered to sell us a ring that was said to be the same size that the giant wore. My brother dug into his pocket and shelled out the 25 cents needed for the transaction to be made and as the woman walked away, my brother held it up in awe. Its golden finish sparkled in the afternoon sun and it was big; big enough for him to put two fingers through it at once. Our world was expanding by the minute.

We browsed around the side shows for a few minutes until it was time to head into the Big Top. Flooding into the tent like cattle, we scampered up into the bleachers with our folks and grabbed the best seats we could find.

What I remember most of that day was the smell of sawdust. It was a smell that has imprinted itself on my brain for all time and will most likely be with me until the day I draw my last breath.

After about a 15 minute wait, the show opened with a grand entry around the perimeter of the three rings. It was the circus parade all over again, only indoors. The crowd applauded as the different acts marched by and were introduced to the audience by the Ringmaster.

When the grand entry was completed, the acts split into groups and began their performances in the 3 rings at the same time. It was mind-boggling trying to watch 3 acts simultaneously. I gave up trying to keep up with all of the action so I concentrated on the center ring where several women twisted and turned from suspended ropes. They worked their act for about 15 minutes before they were replaced by 20 clowns exiting from a clown car and after another 15 minutes, they in turn were replaced by another act. This went on for a couple of hours until the big finale.

A group of circus workers ran out and assembled a large caged ring. They then brought out several lion and tiger cages that opened into the ring. All was set as the tent grew dark except for a spotlight over the ring. It was “show time”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest animal trainer in the world!” the Ringmaster literally bellowed the words: “Clyyyyyyyde Beattyyyyyyy!”

The crowd roared and I excitedly spilled my popcorn on the back of the man in front of me. Whirling around to face an embarrassed 5 year old, he just smiled and turned back to the show. The circus will do that to you.

Clyde was famous for his ability to mix different breeds of lions and tigers into one show. Some of the cats were natural enemies and on more than one occasion faced off in lethal encounters. The climax to Clyde’s act was to have 16 lions and tigers lay down next to each other in perfect harmony and after lots of whip lashing, pistol shooting and chair poking, he did just that. That was as big-time as it got in the Big-Top and I was there to see it all.

As it turned out, that was the last real old-fashioned circus I ever attended. I went to a Ringling brothers Barnum and Bailey circus in the Coliseum in Seattle many years later, but it was more like a Vegas show than a circus.

It was ironic to find out the Clyde Beatty died exactly 10 years to the day after I saw him on that warm July day in 1955. He’s buried in Forest Lawn cemetery in Hollywood Hills and that seems appropriate enough.

A lot has changed in the 40 years since Clyde passed away and by today’s standards, he probably would have been in constant trouble with animal rights groups. The public attitude towards captive animals and animals used for entertainment has changed immensely since the 1950s. “Rights” that the animals desperately needed are being enacted and enforced on an ever widening scale all over the world.

Clyde was utterly fearless and a tremendous entertainer, but he was also a product of his era. It was a time when most of the great zoos still kept animals in small cages and the rights of animals were still just being developed. It was also a time when the lion tamer wore a pith helmet, carried a pistol with blanks, cracked a whip and wore his courage on his shirt sleeve.

©2005 by Kent Holsather. This column first posted March 28, 2005.