Rolling Down the River (continued part 2)

One of the oddest, funniest stories I have from getting ready for the impending hurricane was when I was standing in the store for about the fifteenth time that week. I had gathered just a few more supplies in case we were unable to get food later after it hit. The shelves were emptied of their canned goods, batteries were scarce and people were in a word, panicked. Frenzied activity of the crazed was abundant. I watched as people pushed carts and each other to get what they thought they needed. The energy in that store, in the town in general, was nothing short of harried. Evacuations were under way and we had heard reports of folks being stuck in their cars for over 20 hours. People evacuated at random, packing what few belongings they could fit in their car. Those of us who stayed, who had either decided or like us because we had nowhere to go, knew we had to stay and stick it out, so we got whatever we thought would help get us through. So there I was standing in the checkout line watching this very loud woman. She was screeching into a cell phone, telling whoever it was on the other end that she didn’t know what size batteries to get. “Did you say ‘C’s or ‘D’s?” she bellowed. I looked in her cart and saw a few feeble cans of beets and several packages of batteries of every size. As she continued to shout at her phone, she grabbed at the Halloween candy display. I sat completely puzzled as she threw ten bags of Halloween candy into her near empty cart. I was riveted to her every move. I was fascinated at the amount of fear she showed like a sounding alarm. I will tell you, I took some sort of perverse pleasure in watching this woman, so completely out of her mind, as she forced her way through the line. “Ten bags of candy? What in the hell is she going to do with that?” I thought to myself. I know my visible reaction was to shake my head, completely enthralled with her erratic behavior. If we all survived, she would certainly be prepared for Trick-or-Treat.
My friend, one of my very best friends, Jerry, moved from our small hometown of Barberton Ohio, to Beaumont, Texas, years ago in 1986. He has been a rock of a friend, showing me love, loyalty that knows no bounds. He is one of the few friends, the handful of people I kept my entire adult life. For years we spent our time talking long distance on the phone, keeping up with each other’s lives, telling our stories, entertaining each other when things got rough for one or the other. When I separated from Danny, I moved into an apartment, leaving my home in order for us to figure things out. Jerry called the house not knowing I had moved. Danny talked for awhile to our then mutual friend, until Jerry finally asked to talk to me. Danny said simply, “She doesn’t live here anymore” and hung up. Stunned, Jerry then called my parents for my new number and called, laughing telling me what had just happened. “You might want to give me a heads up next time” he said in his jovial way. I told him we had separated, I had moved and I was terrified. As my rock, my port in any of my personal storms, Jerry made me laugh, talked about his life to help me forget for a minute just how sad and miserable I was. We have always been there for each other when we really needed help. I have noticed over the years how rarely we ask, but we know without a doubt if we need each other, we will indeed, show up. Jerry is married to a wonderful woman named Genie, a kind hearted woman, who would give the shirt off her back if she thought you needed the extra clothes. I have come to love Jeanie, as I love Jerry. Jerry took Michael in as well, accepting him without condition for no other reason than I love him. We see each other when we can, busy with our own lives and children, we make the effort if we feel it has been too long. The four of us, together spend whatever time we have laughing, caring, and showing our appreciation for having such a long standing heartfelt friendship. They are our treasures, this couple, these people I have known for most of my life. I know exactly how blessed to have them.
It was during our preparation for Hurricane Rita when Jerry and I called each other to see where we were all headed for safety sake. Having no real options, Michael and I had to stick out the storm in our home. Jerry and Jeanie were originally headed up north to get out of harm’s way, since the storm was headed directly for them. Jerry’s house is on a peninsula, next to a bayou, which rises nearly instantly, flooding his entire neighborhood during extreme storms and bad weather. Several phone calls were made; several conversations about where everyone might go were had by the time Rita was bearing down us. The last time we spoke, Jerry, the rock, sounded nervous. “Kel, do you mind if we head your way? Oh, and I have a friend with some pets who also needs a place to stay. Do you mind?” I heard worry in his voice, so I tried to keep the conversation light, “Nah, c’mom over. Bring anybody you want. We’ll stack everybody like sardines if we have to.”
Within hours Jerry, Jeanie, and their friend Bob, now our good friend also, came in trucks with their dogs, supplies and Bob’s fragile newly born cockatiels. The storm now well on its way, was being reported on television and the radio. Soon we would lose power, causing the television to go dead, with only a battery operated radios to keep us abreast of what happening outside our plywood encased house. With no windows to look through or provide any light, the house had morphed into a strange dark and dank place for me. The only thing worse than waiting for the storm, was not being able to see out, being imprisoned in an ever increasingly hot and humid self made prison. During the night, Jerry and I, being the only ones still awake, sat in the kitchen listening to the radio. The wind howled, and the trees were moaning loudly from the strain when suddenly there was a great popping sound and the phone rang. Eerily thorough the beams of a flash light, Jerry laughingly said, “It’s here”, in a sing-songy voice. “Stop it!” I smacked him, “You are freaking me out!” Muffling our giggles we continued to listen for any news of what was happening just outside our barricaded door.
Those who had evacuated, heading to Dallas and San Antonio were stuck in traffic. Lines that stretched for miles, showed scared, heat weary travelers, some out of gas, some just stuck in one place, all not being able to move past a slow crawl, trying to get out. The radio reported a fire on a senior citizen bus that killed several people. The building dread over the last few days caused the people of Houston to cut and run. The images of Katrina still very fresh in our minds, not one of us believed it would be alright. We had just seen the worst case scenario in a natural disaster, so it seemed perfectly logical to fall apart and panic. What I learned in that moment and one very big moment to come was in case of a hurricane, the biggest thing to fear is isolation. As the streets and houses emptied, leaving just a few of us to hold down the fort, I felt as alone as I would ever feel to date. I felt what it would be like if a bad “B” sci-fi, invasion movie were to take place for real. The eerie feeling I had with Hurricane Rita would visit me again at a later date, only it would be so much worse than I could have believed.
Hours later it was over. The hurricane had come and gone, leaving behind it a path of destruction in our neighborhood that felled trees, ripped branches down and caused the roads in our surrounding area to fill with debris. This turned out to be nothing in comparison to what our friends would face days later near their home. Beaumont got leveled, giant trees splitting houses, roof tops destroyed, roads completely blocked, and electrical towers crumpled like tin cans. Jerry never being one to sit still got busy while he was waiting to go home, trimming our trees with a chainsaw he had brought. Bob a part time landscaper, cleaned our beds, pruned our plants and raked everything clean. The men stood around the radio, attempted to make phone calls to folks back home to see if it was safe to go back. Much of the waiting I watched as they paced back and forth, feeling helpless, useless, wanting to go home. They live only an hour away, but the difference in the destruction of what happened to their houses, their businesses compared to our damage was night and day. We cooked over a fire, kept each other company and tried to make as many jokes as we could, so as not to feel the panic, the anxiety of what had happened. Our house was without electricity for a few days. Jerry, being my McGyver friend, rigged a system with his generator where our ceiling fans on the first floor ran in order to try and cool the house. The heat after hurricane Rita was sweltering. While we were without electricity and air conditioning; we all felt like wrung out rag dolls, dragging around in the heat. Once they received word it was safe to go back, they packed up their trucks, hugged us tightly and went on their way, wondering what they would inevitably face once they were home. Later that evening, Mike, the kids and I started the process of putting our house back together. Closets were repacked with our clothes, instead of make-shift shelters, plywood was taken down, the gazebo was put back up to shade our concrete patio, and the pool looked more like a garbage bin than a swimming pool was cleaned out thoroughly. I heard the phone ring in the distance, and I went inside to answer it to hear my friend, my rock on the other end. Jerry’s voice was shaking hard, he was near tears, and his raw emotions gutted me as he told of the extent of the damage from Rita. I felt his heartbreak, his uncertainty about what the future held for all of them. Tears slipped my cheeks as I listened to my friend describe what he saw, how he felt, and the utter devastation of his hometown. All I could say repeatedly was, “I’m so sorry.” Jerry recounted people he had talked to and what had transpired while he was at my house waiting. His property had damage, but nothing so bad he couldn’t make repairs. He has his own business that remained closed down for weeks. But it was months before anything began to look normal. Months- the amount of time it took for people to even assess the damage, the amount of time they lived with only generator power being fueled by very expensive gasoline, the amount of time before anyone over in east Texas began to entertain the notion that one day they would heal.
The people of Beaumont did heal, eventually. My first book was featured in a celebration of a bookstore opening in 2009 in Port Arthur, another area, very close by, that was ripped apart. That book store was the first to open since Rita, allowing the residents to come out by the droves, happy they no longer had to drive for miles just to buy a book, or find a book to read to their child or grandchild. The mayor came out for the ribbon cutting ceremony, and I was there. To say I was honored isn’t really sufficient. I sat and watched the people come into the store, browse the bright and shiny brand new contents, running their fingertips over the spines of the books. The smell of fresh ink hung heavy in the air. The feeling in that place was happy. It was the kind of happy as if someone who had a terminal diagnosis was suddenly and unexpectedly healed. Looking at all those happy faces, the faces that said, “Look, things are really getting back to normal” made me realize how lucky I was to be there, seeing it for myself. The resilience of the people has stayed with me. Seeing the amount of sheer joy for something so small was a moment of pure grace.
(to be continued)