Fluffy white clouds dotted the brilliant blue of a peaceful sky one day last week. A warm sun pushed temperatures to an unseasonably high in the low 90s. Rolling waters created small white caps that crashed into the surprisingly white sands of the manmade beach.

It was a Chamber of Commerce-type day on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, the kind of day that makes visitors think of permanent homes instead of motel rooms, teenagers seek golden tans, businessmen explore options for expansion and growth, kids frolic to the cadence of deep bellied laughter, entrepreneurs overlook risks, workers daydream about weekends, restaurant owners await full dining rooms and traffic patterns test patience.

That’s the way it’s supposed to be in an area blessed with sand and sun. That’s the way it used to be on Mississippi’s southernmost coast. That’s the way it is today, but only in our memories.

Hurricane Katrina changed all that last August. Its wrath pushed 175 mph winds on the coast, killed more than 1,600 people in three states, caused more than $75 billion in damages and likely changed an area from Bay St. Louis to Pascagoula forever, uprooting lives as fiercely as the majestically gnarled, picturesque and historic trees that line what was once scenic U.S. Highway 90.

Now, eight months later, life goes on, but it’s different. An air of disbelief, a sense of caution envelopes the small towns along the coast, places with names like Waveland, De Lisle, Pass Christian, Long Beach, communities that sustained incredible damages but little public awareness because their names perhaps weren’t as noteworthy or as glitzy as Biloxi, Gulfport or New Orleans.

Even today, it’s hard to describe.

Television reports put us there, the widest of our screens capturing the horror of the storm often with life-sized updates by the minute. Newspaper reporters sought to personify the disaster, sharing as best they could the human drama through emotional eyewitness reports strong enough to earn two papers the coveted Pulitzer Prize. And books, crammed full of pages of before and after photographic comparisons, have documented the disaster in a format quicker, better and more comprehensive than ever before.

But it’s unlikely any of that sterling work truly did justice to the slice of terrifying hell that was Katrina. Only by being there, only by knowing what was and now isn’t, only by seeing the aftermath of the devastation and trying to imagine anything so powerful could cause so widespread the catastrophic heartbreak can you even begin to sense what those horrible hours must have been like, what pockets of fear, uncertainty and disbelief must have engulfed anyone with human or material links to what was home.

Dead trees dot roads entering recently lifeless towns now trying to recover. Limbless, skinny trunks shoot skyward. Twisted mobile homes, shattered motor homes, cars turned upside-down, washing machines and toilets lie unclaimed.

Clothes and material remain in trees and on fences that halted their flight. Yellow tape forbids entry to what’s left of whatever was. Plumbing is exposed, window frames empty. Blue tarps replace roofs.

Stores, gas stations, motels, shopping centers have collapsed or are gutted. Schools are empty. Church steeples have been toppled. Windows are boarded. Electronic signs and marquees say nothing. Piles of ragged rubble are a common sight.

Concrete steps lead to vacant air. Stilts have no houses. Mailboxes sit in folding chairs. Docks and piers scarcely touch the water. The bridge across the bay won’t reopen for months.

Huge antebellum columns are attached to nothing. Heavy iron fences circle nothing. Ornate gates open to nothing. People who once lived in magnificent mansion-like structures now gratefully cram families into tiny white trailers, their webbed lawn chairs and plastic outdoor tables replacing dining rooms and family rooms.

Portable school rooms and outdoor port-a-johns seem permanent. Tiny tent cities remain. Along U.S. 90 where intensive cleanup work is obvious and only one recovery center is apparently still open, concrete pads and foundations, for miles, are the only clues that once they held large, expensive homes, multi-storied apartments, office buildings, motels and stores.

Codes, spray-painted on houses, tell their own stories of when they were searched and what was found. Sometimes, the message is tragic.