Sunday’s Explore section celebrates the return of New Orleans, four years after Hurricane Katrina. To highlight what was at stake, we offer a column first published on Sept. 4, 2005, days after the levees gave way.

Re-reading these mournful words makes the comeback even sweeter:

DEAR NEW ORLEANS: With fondest memories — and get-well wishes

By Tom Uhlenbrock, Post-Dispatch Travel Writer

In the televised footage of the grim carnage that is New Orleans, those of us who love the city found a ray of hope.

Although battered and bruised, the French Quarter still stood.

Catastrophes have struck other vacation spots with an ever-increasing regularity in recent years, but this one was personal. My fondest memories — a lifetime’s worth — are in “the City that Care Forgot.”

Like a lot of St. Louisans, I headed south on Interstate 55 when it came time to party.

Actually, the interstate had yet to be built when I first arrived in New Orleans in a car full of teenagers who strolled wide-eyed down Bourbon Street. At a long-gone saloon called Larry and Katz on the other side of Canal Street, we bellied up to the bar for 25-cent beers and witnessed firsthand the Old South.

Blacks were relegated to the parking lot, making their purchases through a window. When one dared stroll inside, the other patrons backed away from the bar.

The bartender pretended not to notice, then picked up a towel off the back bar and began polishing glasses. Beneath was a shiny blue-gray revolver. The black man retreated to the parking lot.

New Orleans survived the Civil Rights years better than most Southern cities, and emerged with its hodgepodge of cultures intact. Cajun, Creole, whatever. Laissez les bon temps rouler.

Although there are a lot of pretenders, there is only one real Mardi Gras in America. Trading beads for a flash originated here.

A personal record of 17 people jammed into one Holiday Inn room for a Mardi Gras weekend stood for decades until broken just two years ago by my son and his Sig Ep cronies from Mizzou. He called his mom from the courtyard at Pat O’Brien’s as he downed his first Hurricane. It felt good passing the torch.

Most of the memories come with a soundtrack.

Tops among all concert lineups always will be Al Green opening for Ray Charles at a small Uptown theater. Fats Domino teaming with Bonnie Raitt on a riverboat cruise is a close second.

After 11 Mardi Gras appearances in a row, we switched to JazzFest and watched it grow from Mahalia Jackson wailing in Congo Square to Dave Matthews drawing way too many people to the Fairgrounds. In between was Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin and hours spent testifying at the Gospel Tent.

Still, the impromptu performances were the best.

Honeymooning in our favorite city, we sat by candlelight around the piano bar at Lafite’s Blacksmith Shop. A Lauren Bacall look-alike was playing when one of the barflies with a baritone like Pavarotti sang “If Ever I Would Leave You” from Camelot. He finished, and a bar full of rowdies sat in stunned silence.

Twenty-four years later, the hair still stands on the back of my neck.

Our children grew up, figuratively, on the streets of the French Quarter. Yes, they saw some strange sights that prepared them for a strange world.

During a carriage ride over the brick streets lined with balconies strung with beads, the driver urged my young daughter to sit by his side and take over the reins. She guided that mule expertly back to Jackson Square. “Wouldn’t take a wrong turn if you hit him with a board,” confided the driver.

There were Ramos gin fizzes in the courtyard at Brennan’s, New Year’s Eve dinner at Antoine’s, oysters at Desire, antique shopping on Royal Street, powdery beignets in the French Market at dawn and dollars donated to young boys dancing with soda bottle caps fastened to their soles.

We mourn for the people of New Orleans who have lost so much. And we pray, selfishly, for their city’s return.