It's hard enough to lose your house, your car, your furniture and your pets.

Those are the big things.

How about all the little things that you were used to. Your favorite pillow. The clock that used to wake you. Not only your coffee pot, but your favorite coffee cup - all gone.

The store where the small merchant remembered your name. Gone.

The guy at the neighborhood hardware who answered your questions about how to get rid of moss or moles or mice. All gone - even the mice and moles are gone.

Your favorite mechanic who used to toss in a car wash when he did your brakes. Your favorite barber, who memorized your lumpy head and never nicked your ear. The lady who did your nails. The butcher who always set aside a Christmas turkey. Gone.

The way you drove to work. Gone. The little bistro where you celebrated anniversaries and birthdays. Places like Sal's Deli where you often ate lunch.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

In case the weight of all this escapes you, think of it this way: Suppose, like me, you used to drop in at Angelo's in Burien for a steak, medium rare. Suppose it was 20 feet underwater now.

Or suppose you used to buy your bouquets at Gehls in Burien, or Marine View in Des Moines or Sharon's in West Seattle, but now those posies are just wet memories and the owner doesn't know if he or she can afford to re-open after the waters recede.

How about your church, where you do your spaghetti feed, or the day care where you drop off your kids, or the bookstore where you buy your mysteries.

Imagine them all suddenly submerged.

And you? You're staying in a tent camp 45 miles north in Everett, or maybe they relocated you to an empty warehouse with 15,000 other soggy souls up by Issaquah or across the mountains in Cle Elum, until Normandy Park or Alki Point isn't underwater any more.

A life, anyone's life, is a tiny list of likes and dislikes, habits and hopes. The loss of life and property are painful to be sure, but when I think of what it must be like in Louisiana or Biloxi right now, I can't help wondering how Elsbeth and I would handle it if we couldn't hop in the car and run over to get a burrito at Azteca or a mocha at the Daily Perk. Or a bowl of chowder at the Charleston Cafe or fish and chips at Spud in West Seattle.

Many people here are shocked and anxious to do something, to send money or send bundles of clothing, some even want to go there and pitch in. The sheer magnitude of the disaster leaves many of us feeling helpless but in sympathetic agony . This is a tribute to way we were raised. And more power to anyone who finds a way to contribute. Sending money to the Red Cross is the easiest.

But when Mother Nature messes up your life like this, the most humbling thing is to realize which humble things matter most. Until those tiny comforts are restored, all the emergency food and shelter they receive for the next year won't make our neighbors in Louisiana and Mississippi feel normal again. That will take a long time. But it will happen and that is a tiny bit of solace for me.

Jerry Robinson is the publisher of these newspapers and can be reached at wseditor-@robinsonnews.com