Mike was sleeping in his closet as the hurricane approached. He had cleared a small space where he could shut out the noise and keep safe from any possible flying debris. His closet was an “inside room" with no windows. He stayed in his cocoon while the kids and I stayed out in the den. The outer bands of the hurricane hit us slightly after midnight. That is when the electricity went off. The hurricane itself made landfall at 2:10 A.M. slamming into Galveston as a strong category 2, with a category 5 equivalent storm surge. As the winds picked up we began to hear the howling of the blasting air. Loud banging on the wood that covered our windows prevented Tom and I from sleeping. Just when we would doze off, something would crash into the wood, waking us suddenly. I decided it was time for Bill Cosby to try and get us through. When the boys were in high school, trying to adjust to their new environment I had found old Bill Cosby comedy I had bought on CD. I played his stand up for them and we laughed so hard we fell off our couch. Even though so much of his material was written when I was a small child, it was still relevant. I had listened to these very bits when I was young going through my own adjustment period with a friend. Her dad had Bill Cosby albums that we played so often they had permanent grooves in the vinyl. I had decided to show my sons how to laugh when things got tough. Trying to distract us from the fear, the loud banging, and the ever increasing noise created by the gale force winds, I pushed the on button for Tom and I to have a laugh. We sat there; my son and I listening to Bill make fun of himself, his brother and his dad. As the hurricane got closer and closer we sat in the candle light giggling at the innocent silliness of Bill referring to himself as Jesus Christ. When one CD had finished and we were still awake I reached for another one. Tom and I sat in the dark, huddled together listening as the others slept. Occasionally we would jump at an unexpected tree limb crashing into the house. For hours the wind tore at our trees and our surroundings. We could not see out, but I really don’t think either one of us wanted to see what was going on outside. Tom, lying on his temporary bed, closed his eyes and out of exhaustion fell into a fitful sleep. I remained awake, scared and shaking as the sound of the hurricane continued just outside our house. My eyes had just started to close when I bolted awake, sitting upright on the couch. I listened intently for sounds of the storm. It was completely still. The silence was deafening. All I heard was the soft breathing of my children sleeping next to me. I grabbed the radio and tuned into the news. The eye of the hurricane was directly over us. I grabbed the dogs and headed for the kitchen door, to get them outside to go pee while I could. I only had about an hour to survey what had transpired so far with the deadly Ike. It was still dark outside and I could barely see anything. I looked around while encouraging the dogs to go, still listening to the radio. People were reporting damage, reporting deaths, reporting what it was they saw and experienced. I heard a woman forty minutes North West of us was killed while she slept, when a tree hit her house slicing right through it. She had been alone, in her bed waiting for the storm to pass. I was afraid of our trees, these tall monsters that were living in sand. The root systems were shallow and deadly if uprooted. I stood in my kitchen doorway grateful we had a two story house, giving us some protection from the possibility of trees falling directly on top of us. The dogs were hesitant to go outside, but we only had minutes before the second half of the storm came barreling down on us, so I ran outside yelling at them to go. Each dog found a spot near the house to do what they had to and I stood looking at the dark sky. The radio news said the eye was moving north. I felt the wind pick up, and Tom had woken, coming to the door to see what was going on. I looked at my son, my beautiful boy, and asked, “Couldn’t sleep?” Tom wiped his eyes, bloodshot and weary and shook his head. The dogs did their thing and headed in right away while Tom and I lingered for a while longer, knowing we would soon be locked in again for hours. We just stood there by the house staring out our yard, listening to the nothingness. I was just about to say, “Maybe we should go in”, when the wind picked up gusting so much that it nearly sucked the two of us out into the middle of the yard. Fighting against the incredible air force we fought our way to the door, climbing in as the wind slammed it behind us. Round two had begun. The back side of Hurricane Ike was under way. It would be several hours, in full day light before we would be able to go out again. Once more we hunkered down inside our house as more crashing sounds, more creaking from trees, more howling sounds and more terror came in from the outstretched bands of the storm.
Everything was pitch black, the sky covered in a cloak of thick, dark storm clouds. There wasn’t much to see even when I was outside. With the electricity gone, the streets were black, houses were dark and no sounds except the battering storm could be heard. Feeling exhausted I lay down on our couch, closed my eyes, said a small prayer and went to sleep. The last thing I remember was hearing the radio say was there was a fire in Galveston. The hurricane had ripped through there leaving utter devastation. As I drifted off, I prayed for everyone still there. I prayed that if they must die, they die without suffering. I prayed that we make it safely to the other side of Ike.
I had only slept for a few hours when once again I bolted straight up from my prone position to hear absolutely nothing. Silence had fallen on our storm weary home. I jumped to my feet to look outside the door, opening it carefully, bracing myself for whatever might have transpired just beyond our threshold. The sun was up as the band s of rain poured from the sky. The wind had died down to almost nothing. The first thing I saw was our fence was down. I looked across the bayou and saw everybody’s fence was down. Having a bayou directly behind our house created a sort of wind tunnel for the strong bands of air from the hurricane. I had noticed that with Rita too. I believe it spared us from more damage, this alley-way of least resistance for the hurricanes to blow through.
Mike had gotten up and we went out to see what had happened as we had waited inside, barricaded in from the elements. The back yard had debris, leaves, pine needles, some small tree limbs downed, and our fence that now leaned heavy against the broken posts. We looked around outside our gate so see almost every fence blown down, but no other heavy damage. Mike and I looked at each other stunned. With all we heard, with all the reports that had coming pouring in over the radio, we hadn’t seen any real damage to houses or structures, yet.
Mike went first walking toward the front of the house. I was hesitant; walking very slowly, afraid of what might be in store for us. In our front yard were two rather large branches eight to ten inches in diameter laying on the grass near the house. I looked at the proximity to our home. I felt like we had had a close call. The neighbors had begun to venture out also, the few that were still there. We waved as people surveyed their property for damage. Somewhere in the distance we heard a generator start up, rumbling loudly as it provided power to a single house, surrounded the rest of the now still homes on our block. “Lucky”, I thought wishing we had one also. Down the street we saw where one of the houses had a big tree lying sideways on their garage roof. Other trees were down, but houses were spared. “How is that the trees were up rooted and didn’t land on the houses?” I asked Michael in awe. Mike just shook his head. “I don’t know, baby. Maybe we were just lucky.”
Our land line phone still worked. Our cell phones were all jammed, many towers crushed to the ground. We could still text at times but had to wait hours for a response. I called my parents to tell them we had survived, nearly unscathed. Mike called his parents too. We just wanted people to know we were going to be alright. We were optimistic but still unsure of some things. Even though we had not been devastated by the direct hit, we knew others in our own area had not been as lucky. Standing outside we had already heard that the front area of our town had been ripped apart. There was another neighborhood only a couple of miles away that had also been hit very hard by Ike. Our neighborhood had been lucky, that is all it was, just being in the right place at eh right time; or as I like to call it a divine intervention. The air was cooler as we walked around seeing how the trees had been pulled from the ground as if a giant were weeding out the neighborhood. These several ton giants lay on their side felled by the howling winds of the previous night. More and more people came out into the daylight stunned by what they saw, surprised that no one around us was hurt, grateful that we had each other to help with the inevitable clean up.
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Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Rolling Down the River (continued part 5)
Mike was sleeping in his closet as the hurricane approached. He had cleared a small space where he could shut out the noise and keep safe from any possible flying debris. His closet was an “inside room" with no windows. He stayed in his cocoon while the kids and I stayed out in the den. The outer bands of the hurricane hit us slightly after midnight. That is when the electricity went off. The hurricane itself made landfall at 2:10 A.M. slamming into Galveston as a strong category 2, with a category 5 equivalent storm surge. As the winds picked up we began to hear the howling of the blasting air. Loud banging on the wood that covered our windows prevented Tom and I from sleeping. Just when we would doze off, something would crash into the wood, waking us suddenly. I decided it was time for Bill Cosby to try and get us through. When the boys were in high school, trying to adjust to their new environment I had found old Bill Cosby comedy I had bought on CD. I played his stand up for them and we laughed so hard we fell off our couch. Even though so much of his material was written when I was a small child, it was still relevant. I had listened to these very bits when I was young going through my own adjustment period with a friend. Her dad had Bill Cosby albums that we played so often they had permanent grooves in the vinyl. I had decided to show my sons how to laugh when things got tough. Trying to distract us from the fear, the loud banging, and the ever increasing noise created by the gale force winds, I pushed the on button for Tom and I to have a laugh. We sat there; my son and I listening to Bill make fun of himself, his brother and his dad. As the hurricane got closer and closer we sat in the candle light giggling at the innocent silliness of Bill referring to himself as Jesus Christ. When one CD had finished and we were still awake I reached for another one. Tom and I sat in the dark, huddled together listening as the others slept. Occasionally we would jump at an unexpected tree limb crashing into the house. For hours the wind tore at our trees and our surroundings. We could not see out, but I really don’t think either one of us wanted to see what was going on outside. Tom, lying on his temporary bed, closed his eyes and out of exhaustion fell into a fitful sleep. I remained awake, scared and shaking as the sound of the hurricane continued just outside our house. My eyes had just started to close when I bolted awake, sitting upright on the couch. I listened intently for sounds of the storm. It was completely still. The silence was deafening. All I heard was the soft breathing of my children sleeping next to me. I grabbed the radio and tuned into the news. The eye of the hurricane was directly over us. I grabbed the dogs and headed for the kitchen door, to get them outside to go pee while I could. I only had about an hour to survey what had transpired so far with the deadly Ike. It was still dark outside and I could barely see anything. I looked around while encouraging the dogs to go, still listening to the radio. People were reporting damage, reporting deaths, reporting what it was they saw and experienced. I heard a woman forty minutes North West of us was killed while she slept, when a tree hit her house slicing right through it. She had been alone, in her bed waiting for the storm to pass. I was afraid of our trees, these tall monsters that were living in sand. The root systems were shallow and deadly if uprooted. I stood in my kitchen doorway grateful we had a two story house, giving us some protection from the possibility of trees falling directly on top of us. The dogs were hesitant to go outside, but we only had minutes before the second half of the storm came barreling down on us, so I ran outside yelling at them to go. Each dog found a spot near the house to do what they had to and I stood looking at the dark sky. The radio news said the eye was moving north. I felt the wind pick up, and Tom had woken, coming to the door to see what was going on. I looked at my son, my beautiful boy, and asked, “Couldn’t sleep?” Tom wiped his eyes, bloodshot and weary and shook his head. The dogs did their thing and headed in right away while Tom and I lingered for a while longer, knowing we would soon be locked in again for hours. We just stood there by the house staring out our yard, listening to the nothingness. I was just about to say, “Maybe we should go in”, when the wind picked up gusting so much that it nearly sucked the two of us out into the middle of the yard. Fighting against the incredible air force we fought our way to the door, climbing in as the wind slammed it behind us. Round two had begun. The back side of Hurricane Ike was under way. It would be several hours, in full day light before we would be able to go out again. Once more we hunkered down inside our house as more crashing sounds, more creaking from trees, more howling sounds and more terror came in from the outstretched bands of the storm.
Everything was pitch black, the sky covered in a cloak of thick, dark storm clouds. There wasn’t much to see even when I was outside. With the electricity gone, the streets were black, houses were dark and no sounds except the battering storm could be heard. Feeling exhausted I lay down on our couch, closed my eyes, said a small prayer and went to sleep. The last thing I remember was hearing the radio say was there was a fire in Galveston. The hurricane had ripped through there leaving utter devastation. As I drifted off, I prayed for everyone still there. I prayed that if they must die, they die without suffering. I prayed that we make it safely to the other side of Ike.
I had only slept for a few hours when once again I bolted straight up from my prone position to hear absolutely nothing. Silence had fallen on our storm weary home. I jumped to my feet to look outside the door, opening it carefully, bracing myself for whatever might have transpired just beyond our threshold. The sun was up as the band s of rain poured from the sky. The wind had died down to almost nothing. The first thing I saw was our fence was down. I looked across the bayou and saw everybody’s fence was down. Having a bayou directly behind our house created a sort of wind tunnel for the strong bands of air from the hurricane. I had noticed that with Rita too. I believe it spared us from more damage, this alley-way of least resistance for the hurricanes to blow through.
Mike had gotten up and we went out to see what had happened as we had waited inside, barricaded in from the elements. The back yard had debris, leaves, pine needles, some small tree limbs downed, and our fence that now leaned heavy against the broken posts. We looked around outside our gate so see almost every fence blown down, but no other heavy damage. Mike and I looked at each other stunned. With all we heard, with all the reports that had coming pouring in over the radio, we hadn’t seen any real damage to houses or structures, yet.
Mike went first walking toward the front of the house. I was hesitant; walking very slowly, afraid of what might be in store for us. In our front yard were two rather large branches eight to ten inches in diameter laying on the grass near the house. I looked at the proximity to our home. I felt like we had had a close call. The neighbors had begun to venture out also, the few that were still there. We waved as people surveyed their property for damage. Somewhere in the distance we heard a generator start up, rumbling loudly as it provided power to a single house, surrounded the rest of the now still homes on our block. “Lucky”, I thought wishing we had one also. Down the street we saw where one of the houses had a big tree lying sideways on their garage roof. Other trees were down, but houses were spared. “How is that the trees were up rooted and didn’t land on the houses?” I asked Michael in awe. Mike just shook his head. “I don’t know, baby. Maybe we were just lucky.”
Our land line phone still worked. Our cell phones were all jammed, many towers crushed to the ground. We could still text at times but had to wait hours for a response. I called my parents to tell them we had survived, nearly unscathed. Mike called his parents too. We just wanted people to know we were going to be alright. We were optimistic but still unsure of some things. Even though we had not been devastated by the direct hit, we knew others in our own area had not been as lucky. Standing outside we had already heard that the front area of our town had been ripped apart. There was another neighborhood only a couple of miles away that had also been hit very hard by Ike. Our neighborhood had been lucky, that is all it was, just being in the right place at eh right time; or as I like to call it a divine intervention. The air was cooler as we walked around seeing how the trees had been pulled from the ground as if a giant were weeding out the neighborhood. These several ton giants lay on their side felled by the howling winds of the previous night. More and more people came out into the daylight stunned by what they saw, surprised that no one around us was hurt, grateful that we had each other to help with the inevitable clean up.
Everything was pitch black, the sky covered in a cloak of thick, dark storm clouds. There wasn’t much to see even when I was outside. With the electricity gone, the streets were black, houses were dark and no sounds except the battering storm could be heard. Feeling exhausted I lay down on our couch, closed my eyes, said a small prayer and went to sleep. The last thing I remember was hearing the radio say was there was a fire in Galveston. The hurricane had ripped through there leaving utter devastation. As I drifted off, I prayed for everyone still there. I prayed that if they must die, they die without suffering. I prayed that we make it safely to the other side of Ike.
I had only slept for a few hours when once again I bolted straight up from my prone position to hear absolutely nothing. Silence had fallen on our storm weary home. I jumped to my feet to look outside the door, opening it carefully, bracing myself for whatever might have transpired just beyond our threshold. The sun was up as the band s of rain poured from the sky. The wind had died down to almost nothing. The first thing I saw was our fence was down. I looked across the bayou and saw everybody’s fence was down. Having a bayou directly behind our house created a sort of wind tunnel for the strong bands of air from the hurricane. I had noticed that with Rita too. I believe it spared us from more damage, this alley-way of least resistance for the hurricanes to blow through.
Mike had gotten up and we went out to see what had happened as we had waited inside, barricaded in from the elements. The back yard had debris, leaves, pine needles, some small tree limbs downed, and our fence that now leaned heavy against the broken posts. We looked around outside our gate so see almost every fence blown down, but no other heavy damage. Mike and I looked at each other stunned. With all we heard, with all the reports that had coming pouring in over the radio, we hadn’t seen any real damage to houses or structures, yet.
Mike went first walking toward the front of the house. I was hesitant; walking very slowly, afraid of what might be in store for us. In our front yard were two rather large branches eight to ten inches in diameter laying on the grass near the house. I looked at the proximity to our home. I felt like we had had a close call. The neighbors had begun to venture out also, the few that were still there. We waved as people surveyed their property for damage. Somewhere in the distance we heard a generator start up, rumbling loudly as it provided power to a single house, surrounded the rest of the now still homes on our block. “Lucky”, I thought wishing we had one also. Down the street we saw where one of the houses had a big tree lying sideways on their garage roof. Other trees were down, but houses were spared. “How is that the trees were up rooted and didn’t land on the houses?” I asked Michael in awe. Mike just shook his head. “I don’t know, baby. Maybe we were just lucky.”
Our land line phone still worked. Our cell phones were all jammed, many towers crushed to the ground. We could still text at times but had to wait hours for a response. I called my parents to tell them we had survived, nearly unscathed. Mike called his parents too. We just wanted people to know we were going to be alright. We were optimistic but still unsure of some things. Even though we had not been devastated by the direct hit, we knew others in our own area had not been as lucky. Standing outside we had already heard that the front area of our town had been ripped apart. There was another neighborhood only a couple of miles away that had also been hit very hard by Ike. Our neighborhood had been lucky, that is all it was, just being in the right place at eh right time; or as I like to call it a divine intervention. The air was cooler as we walked around seeing how the trees had been pulled from the ground as if a giant were weeding out the neighborhood. These several ton giants lay on their side felled by the howling winds of the previous night. More and more people came out into the daylight stunned by what they saw, surprised that no one around us was hurt, grateful that we had each other to help with the inevitable clean up.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Rolling Down the River (continued part 4)
Water seems to be the key point, the theme to hurricanes. It is the single biggest worry we all have living close to a coastal area. We have to buy drinking water, gather water in big containers, bathtubs, sinks, filling anything that can contain the precious liquid. People living in areas very near the coast line need to evacuate away from great crashing waves, giant torrents of energy crashing over everything in its path, lest they be swept away into the waves. And let’s not forget the flooding, oh, the flooding that takes place because our houses are built on sand. There are entire parables about not building your house on a foundation of sand, and yet we have done it here to perfection. Houston was nothing but a swamp before it was civilized, drained and built up, with looming sky scrapers, paved roads and businesses. Sometimes I think the saying “the road to hell is paved with good intentions” is based on our arrogance of building over a Mother Nature’s wetlands. In our ever expanding need to take over every square inch of prime property, and I am not totally convinced it isn’t our lack of humility where we decide to do the exact thing that many ‘moral stories’ tell us quite explicitly not to. With buildings and lives at risk, we are taught down here to run from the water and hide from the wind. Gathering water and running from it, seems to be a quandary during times of extreme weather. On one hand, water is the enemy, the powerful, great, sweeping colossus and on the other it is the single most important thing to sustain life. I, being a rather simple human being, find all this a little confusing. While I was gathering my bottled water, my bathtub water, my garbage can water, I thought back to when I was a small child and how much I loved water. For a child water is magical, the feel of it when dancing in the rain, the coolness of swimming in the lake on a hot summer day, the breathtaking beauty of it when viewed from a white sandy beach; water is the best form of entertainment, the finest sleep-aid after swimming and the most delicious beverage when coming out of a hose in the yard. A meager sprinkler running in the grass will cause a child to lose their mind when the weather is hot and humid. Should one be so fortunate to have a swimming pool, well, their life is made in popular groups all across town. As wonderful as water is when we are small, there is real danger associated to it, as well. Most of us know of someone, or at least heard of someone who has drowned, or been tragically taken in a storm, or been deathly ill from drinking tainted, dirty water. Living past the age of twelve means we have gathered shared experiences in death by water. Just falling into water from a considerable height is as if hitting concrete. I know from personal experience, hitting a lake at high speed while water skiing will make you feel as though someone had beaten you with a ball bat. I was taught to swim as a baby. My parents were adamant about making sure we had no fear of water, and could swim our way to safety if need be. My father, a boating enthusiast, had us in life jackets sitting on boats in freezing temperatures from the time we were young. I was nine years old when I became completely aware of how dangerous water can be. All the swimming lessons in the world would not have helped me on that day; my dad, as much as he prepared me all my life to survive in water, had to save the life of his youngest child.
Back in the spring of 1972, I was a precocious nine year old, a tom-boy with scraggly, fine hair that had been fashioned into a shag that looked more like I hadn’t sat still enough for the hair dresser to cut it properly, and a considerable over-bite. I was just beginning to become a real girl. Somewhat like Pinocchio, I was learning what it took to become the very thing I desired. At birth my parents had been assured I was female, but as I became more and more awkward, dressing in mismatched, often times embarrassing outfits I had painstakingly picked out myself, complete with bright red high top converse tennis shoes, one had to wonder what was going on in my head. I thought I was styling! My folks looked as though they were not quite convinced that somewhere someone hadn’t made a tragic mistake in determining what I was. My father was less concerned about my gender neutral fashion because he could rough house with me, take me fishing, and treat me as the son he never had. My dad was not big into stereotyping females against male dominated activities. He scrubbed floors and I mowed the lawn. To my dad activities were for anyone who wanted to participate or in my case his ability to make me participate. His love of boats meant that I had to become proficient at boating. Now that I am thinking about it, we all had to become proficient at boating. He was our captain and we were his skally wags.
I was easy to convince to go out on the boat, a catamaran; my father had acquired the boat to soothe his need to sail. The other women of the house would look at him as if he had three heads, when approached to go out during cold spring days. Don’t get me wrong, they too had gone out to sea with the man who insisted it was not too cold, only to discover freezing temperatures, ice cold wind and the watery spray that would freeze to your face. We had all endured his command to go forth and boat during inappropriate weather. They had just found an out on that particular day. There was simply no way on earth my mom or my sister were going out on one windy and cold day in the spring, when dad came and found me to get me to go. For years I thought “women’s suffrage” had to do with living with guys like my dad. I was thinking of the root word suffer, which if you went boating with my dad you were sure to do. When I found out it had to do with women acquiring the right to vote, my first instinct was to gather the others in the house and see if we could vote him out of power.
So it was cold, damp, and extremely windy when my dad and I went out on our sail boat to catch a ‘hum’. The catamaran had a large sail and a trampoline in the middle. They are very cool to ride, but can be pretty slippery when wet. Our cat used to make a sound that resembled humming when the wind was strong and we really got going. The whole boat used to vibrate. It was in those times when my dad’s normally soured face would soften and he was transported back to being a kid, a young boy with the love of speed and adventure. I watched as his eyes narrowed, his jaw locked into determination and his was sailing on all cylinders. We were dressed to keep out the cold and I had a life jacket on, per my father’s insistence. Dad was always worried about boat safety. As much as he acted like a kid during our boating adventures, when it came to life jackets or his children’s safety on the water, he was all grown-up and all dad. The sky was gray that day, as it was most days in the spring, where the weather changed on a dime. There were a few boats on the water, but not many. The wind was forceful and dad had to strain at times as tacked back and forth across the water. The boom, attached to a tall mast, if you were not careful could cold cock you into oblivion, would swing wildly before snapping hard into place. The boat had begun to hum loudly, as we increased in speed. The side of the boat lifted off of the water, one pontoon nearly completely out as the boat pitched into the wind. Dad and I exchanged looks and started laughing; it was as though we were flying. We caught a sudden burst of wind and the boat’s sail caught it all. Unexpectedly the boat pitched and started to capsize leaning all the way over, the pontoon lifting up toward the sky and the mast heading fast toward the water. In an instant the boat was upside down, the mast firmly dug into the mud and my dad’s glasses had flown off his face, making it very difficult for him to see. Suddenly I was trapped under the tramline of the boat, with only a few inches of air space to catch my breath. My life jacket would normally have held my head above the water except the trampoline was pushing the top of my life jacket in a way that was causing my face to go into the water. The piece of the jacket behind my head was forcing my face directly into the lake. I struggled to find my escape, writhing under the trampoline that had me trapped. I had tried to get my life jacket off, but could not find the release. Panic started to fill me. I had begun to fight against the trampoline, my life jacket, and I was wearing myself out as I fought against the buoyancy of the jacket forcing my head down into the murky lake water. As my breathing became increasingly difficult and I was taking in water instead of air, I felt a large, strong arm grabbing at me. One swipe and he missed, another swipe and a he was closer, the last time my dad cut through the water he caught a hold of the life jacket and ripped me from under the boat. Sputtering, coughing crying, my dad pulled me close. He couldn’t really see, but he knew how to find me. There was little time for tears after we got back to shore without my dad’s beloved boat. We got in the car and drove to a friend of his, who he knew he could ask for help. They needed to get the boat out before dark. The men needed scuba equipment to free the mast that was stuck in the mud. My mom was called at the friend’s house. I sat freezing, teeth chattering as the men thought of ways to get the boat. When my mom showed up, she looked at me and hugged me tight. “What happened to your leg, Honey?” I looked down at the streams of blood running down my leg. I hadn’t even noticed I had been hurt. “I must have cut it on the boat”, I mumbled clinging to my mom for dear life. Mom and I waited for the men to get the boat, and head home. I was bathed, bandaged up and wrapped up in clean pajamas, and tucked into bed. My mom reassured me as she pulled the covers up to my chin, hugging me tightly, kissing my forehead. My dad came to check on me before the light went out for the night. “You, O.K.?” Dad asked quietly. “Yeah…” I whispered and with that I was out for the night.
The very next week my dad was preparing the boat on the trailer to be taken to the lake. I ran inside the house to find my mom. “I’m not going!” I cried as I clung to her. My dad seeing my fear came into the house, and said, “You are going! There is nothing to be afraid of. You are fine! Get ready, you are going!” he shouted at me. I cried louder, terrified of getting back on the boat. I sobbed as I got my things together, knowing I could not resist my father’s will, but I kept insisting I was scared, I didn’t want to go. I stood outside the car door, resisting getting in when my dad looked me in the eye and with a straight face said flatly, “Get in the car.” And with that I got into the back seat of the car. I sobbed all the way to the lake. I continued to cry as we pulled the boat off the trailer and into the water. For a moment I saw my mom buckle a tiny bit, and endeavor to talk to my dad, “Sam, if she really is afraid…” My father crushed my mother’s attempt to spare me getting back on the boat in an instant with nothing but a look, a glare that brought with it the intention that nothing was going to stop him from putting me back on that boat. “She cannot be afraid of the water or this boat.” My dad said in a monotone voice. I saw his face, the way it carried no emotion, the very essence of it conveyed his lack of empathy for me. “I hate you!” I spat. “I don’t care,” he continued, “get on the boat.” I was afraid of my father. I was more afraid of him than I was getting on the boat and I was completely mortified of that. I did as I was told, because back then that is what you did. No one asked how I felt. In that moment I thought no one cared about me. I was certain my parents didn’t give a damn about me. I was just something to be dealt with, tolerated, rather than cherished. I was nine years old. My experiences were limited to a tiny life from a small town. I would learn later why my dad was so cruel to his youngest child. The boat had an inner tube tied to the mast this time, so if it did indeed capsize again the mast would have a buoyant protector. We sat on the trampoline as my father tacked his way across the lake. The wind blew, the boat sailed, and no catastrophe would be had that day. I cried for most of the trip with my little fingers gripping the sides of the boat so hard my knuckles and fingertips were bright white. A few hours later, my crying had stopped, the boat was taken back out of the water and once again we were on dry land.
My dad came to me days later. He walked in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed and asked in a soft voice, “Do you know why I made you get back on the boat?” In an act of defiance I turned my head away from dad and said quite staunchly, “No, maybe because you are so mean and don’t care about me. I don’t know why you hate me so much.” Dad laughed. “No, Kellie, I didn’t do it because I don’t care about you and I certainly don’t hate you. I did it so you wouldn’t be afraid of water for the rest of your life. I didn’t want this to scar you so badly you would never get over it. Now do you understand? I made you get right back on the horse.” I sat silent, still very angry at my father for making me face my fear. I was certain this feeling would never go away. With my face still turned away from him, I heard him walk out of my bedroom and close the door. Tears slid down my face as I continued to believe my father was the cruelest human being to have ever existed. As a nine year old, I felt certain he had no idea of my pain. He made me get back on that boat every week for years after that. He made me get on that boat so much I eventually forgot that he was a horrible human being and that I was completely terrified.
My dad’s caustic parenting style has forced me to face things I find terrifying. Even now, I think in terms of him coming down to Texas to kick my ass in an attempt to make me do something in the spirit of “getting back on the horse”. With Ike headed our way, I knew for the sake of my family I would once again have to saddle up.
At the stores I helped elderly couples pile cases of water into their carts and offered to carry it all out to their cars. I saw people helping each other, showing more patience, trying their level best to be kind. Store clerks went the extra mile to help those of us who were staying. The phrase that was most heard was, “Hunker down”. We would all be hunkering down, because the storm was only about a day away by this point. I had put fresh batteries into the boom box stereo so we had contact with the outside world. I felt pretty certain we would not have electricity for at least a couple of days. It was the only certainty I held then.
We were as ready as we were ever going to be. We watched and waited as the radar showed the continually growing Ike head directly for the coast of Galveston. I put a Bill Cosby comedy CD in the stereo for when the electricity went out. The silence of no reassurances from the news broadcasters was deafening when it happened. When Rita blew in, we felt like we were on a strange island, isolated from the herd. This time I knew what to expect to some degree. I was trying my best to breathe in as deeply as I could. As the storm crept closer I noticed how bent over I was becoming. My body posture was slowly cutting off my air flow. I have no doubt that it was a self defense mechanism for me as I handled the stress of the unknown. I tried to put on a brave face for my kids. “It will be fine”, I said. I said it over and over hoping to convince myself as much as convince the kids. I have been afraid of large storms all of my life. When it comes to booming thunder and flashing lightening, I am reduced to a shaking, nervous wreck. As a child I used to sleep during storms. It was my coping mechanism. Fascinated, I would listen, asking questions, as others told how they sought out ways to experience big storms, sitting outside, watching it from windows. Not me, I wanted no part of Mother Nature’s wrath. Just thinking about the giant storm about to hit us head on made me shake like a scared Chihuahua. The sun was slowly setting in the sky. I forced myself to breathe deeper, filling my lungs completely, expanding my chest, trying desperately to relax. In a few hours the storm would be hitting land. Flash lights and candles were prepared for the moment when everything would go dark, all would go silent and the only thing we would hear was the raging storm just outside our wood encased windows. We gathered in the main room of the house, our den and waited, with the television droning the latest news in the background. We were trying our best to act as if it were all fine. Not one of us believed it. The kids, Tom and Betty, created makeshift beds in the center of the room. They were talking, giggling and poking at each other. The dogs had cozied-up to them, crawling inside their blankets, snuggling next to them, unaware of what was happening. I watched my children, so sweet in this moment. Tom looked at me for a moment and I saw the fear. I mouthed the words, “It’s going to be fine.” The hurricane would be hitting in the middle of the night. Rita had done the same, coming in the pitch black. I found that odd, these storms blowing in off the Gulf at the time of day we are our most vulnerable. It seemed like unnecessary cruelty.
(to be continued)
Back in the spring of 1972, I was a precocious nine year old, a tom-boy with scraggly, fine hair that had been fashioned into a shag that looked more like I hadn’t sat still enough for the hair dresser to cut it properly, and a considerable over-bite. I was just beginning to become a real girl. Somewhat like Pinocchio, I was learning what it took to become the very thing I desired. At birth my parents had been assured I was female, but as I became more and more awkward, dressing in mismatched, often times embarrassing outfits I had painstakingly picked out myself, complete with bright red high top converse tennis shoes, one had to wonder what was going on in my head. I thought I was styling! My folks looked as though they were not quite convinced that somewhere someone hadn’t made a tragic mistake in determining what I was. My father was less concerned about my gender neutral fashion because he could rough house with me, take me fishing, and treat me as the son he never had. My dad was not big into stereotyping females against male dominated activities. He scrubbed floors and I mowed the lawn. To my dad activities were for anyone who wanted to participate or in my case his ability to make me participate. His love of boats meant that I had to become proficient at boating. Now that I am thinking about it, we all had to become proficient at boating. He was our captain and we were his skally wags.
I was easy to convince to go out on the boat, a catamaran; my father had acquired the boat to soothe his need to sail. The other women of the house would look at him as if he had three heads, when approached to go out during cold spring days. Don’t get me wrong, they too had gone out to sea with the man who insisted it was not too cold, only to discover freezing temperatures, ice cold wind and the watery spray that would freeze to your face. We had all endured his command to go forth and boat during inappropriate weather. They had just found an out on that particular day. There was simply no way on earth my mom or my sister were going out on one windy and cold day in the spring, when dad came and found me to get me to go. For years I thought “women’s suffrage” had to do with living with guys like my dad. I was thinking of the root word suffer, which if you went boating with my dad you were sure to do. When I found out it had to do with women acquiring the right to vote, my first instinct was to gather the others in the house and see if we could vote him out of power.
So it was cold, damp, and extremely windy when my dad and I went out on our sail boat to catch a ‘hum’. The catamaran had a large sail and a trampoline in the middle. They are very cool to ride, but can be pretty slippery when wet. Our cat used to make a sound that resembled humming when the wind was strong and we really got going. The whole boat used to vibrate. It was in those times when my dad’s normally soured face would soften and he was transported back to being a kid, a young boy with the love of speed and adventure. I watched as his eyes narrowed, his jaw locked into determination and his was sailing on all cylinders. We were dressed to keep out the cold and I had a life jacket on, per my father’s insistence. Dad was always worried about boat safety. As much as he acted like a kid during our boating adventures, when it came to life jackets or his children’s safety on the water, he was all grown-up and all dad. The sky was gray that day, as it was most days in the spring, where the weather changed on a dime. There were a few boats on the water, but not many. The wind was forceful and dad had to strain at times as tacked back and forth across the water. The boom, attached to a tall mast, if you were not careful could cold cock you into oblivion, would swing wildly before snapping hard into place. The boat had begun to hum loudly, as we increased in speed. The side of the boat lifted off of the water, one pontoon nearly completely out as the boat pitched into the wind. Dad and I exchanged looks and started laughing; it was as though we were flying. We caught a sudden burst of wind and the boat’s sail caught it all. Unexpectedly the boat pitched and started to capsize leaning all the way over, the pontoon lifting up toward the sky and the mast heading fast toward the water. In an instant the boat was upside down, the mast firmly dug into the mud and my dad’s glasses had flown off his face, making it very difficult for him to see. Suddenly I was trapped under the tramline of the boat, with only a few inches of air space to catch my breath. My life jacket would normally have held my head above the water except the trampoline was pushing the top of my life jacket in a way that was causing my face to go into the water. The piece of the jacket behind my head was forcing my face directly into the lake. I struggled to find my escape, writhing under the trampoline that had me trapped. I had tried to get my life jacket off, but could not find the release. Panic started to fill me. I had begun to fight against the trampoline, my life jacket, and I was wearing myself out as I fought against the buoyancy of the jacket forcing my head down into the murky lake water. As my breathing became increasingly difficult and I was taking in water instead of air, I felt a large, strong arm grabbing at me. One swipe and he missed, another swipe and a he was closer, the last time my dad cut through the water he caught a hold of the life jacket and ripped me from under the boat. Sputtering, coughing crying, my dad pulled me close. He couldn’t really see, but he knew how to find me. There was little time for tears after we got back to shore without my dad’s beloved boat. We got in the car and drove to a friend of his, who he knew he could ask for help. They needed to get the boat out before dark. The men needed scuba equipment to free the mast that was stuck in the mud. My mom was called at the friend’s house. I sat freezing, teeth chattering as the men thought of ways to get the boat. When my mom showed up, she looked at me and hugged me tight. “What happened to your leg, Honey?” I looked down at the streams of blood running down my leg. I hadn’t even noticed I had been hurt. “I must have cut it on the boat”, I mumbled clinging to my mom for dear life. Mom and I waited for the men to get the boat, and head home. I was bathed, bandaged up and wrapped up in clean pajamas, and tucked into bed. My mom reassured me as she pulled the covers up to my chin, hugging me tightly, kissing my forehead. My dad came to check on me before the light went out for the night. “You, O.K.?” Dad asked quietly. “Yeah…” I whispered and with that I was out for the night.
The very next week my dad was preparing the boat on the trailer to be taken to the lake. I ran inside the house to find my mom. “I’m not going!” I cried as I clung to her. My dad seeing my fear came into the house, and said, “You are going! There is nothing to be afraid of. You are fine! Get ready, you are going!” he shouted at me. I cried louder, terrified of getting back on the boat. I sobbed as I got my things together, knowing I could not resist my father’s will, but I kept insisting I was scared, I didn’t want to go. I stood outside the car door, resisting getting in when my dad looked me in the eye and with a straight face said flatly, “Get in the car.” And with that I got into the back seat of the car. I sobbed all the way to the lake. I continued to cry as we pulled the boat off the trailer and into the water. For a moment I saw my mom buckle a tiny bit, and endeavor to talk to my dad, “Sam, if she really is afraid…” My father crushed my mother’s attempt to spare me getting back on the boat in an instant with nothing but a look, a glare that brought with it the intention that nothing was going to stop him from putting me back on that boat. “She cannot be afraid of the water or this boat.” My dad said in a monotone voice. I saw his face, the way it carried no emotion, the very essence of it conveyed his lack of empathy for me. “I hate you!” I spat. “I don’t care,” he continued, “get on the boat.” I was afraid of my father. I was more afraid of him than I was getting on the boat and I was completely mortified of that. I did as I was told, because back then that is what you did. No one asked how I felt. In that moment I thought no one cared about me. I was certain my parents didn’t give a damn about me. I was just something to be dealt with, tolerated, rather than cherished. I was nine years old. My experiences were limited to a tiny life from a small town. I would learn later why my dad was so cruel to his youngest child. The boat had an inner tube tied to the mast this time, so if it did indeed capsize again the mast would have a buoyant protector. We sat on the trampoline as my father tacked his way across the lake. The wind blew, the boat sailed, and no catastrophe would be had that day. I cried for most of the trip with my little fingers gripping the sides of the boat so hard my knuckles and fingertips were bright white. A few hours later, my crying had stopped, the boat was taken back out of the water and once again we were on dry land.
My dad came to me days later. He walked in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed and asked in a soft voice, “Do you know why I made you get back on the boat?” In an act of defiance I turned my head away from dad and said quite staunchly, “No, maybe because you are so mean and don’t care about me. I don’t know why you hate me so much.” Dad laughed. “No, Kellie, I didn’t do it because I don’t care about you and I certainly don’t hate you. I did it so you wouldn’t be afraid of water for the rest of your life. I didn’t want this to scar you so badly you would never get over it. Now do you understand? I made you get right back on the horse.” I sat silent, still very angry at my father for making me face my fear. I was certain this feeling would never go away. With my face still turned away from him, I heard him walk out of my bedroom and close the door. Tears slid down my face as I continued to believe my father was the cruelest human being to have ever existed. As a nine year old, I felt certain he had no idea of my pain. He made me get back on that boat every week for years after that. He made me get on that boat so much I eventually forgot that he was a horrible human being and that I was completely terrified.
My dad’s caustic parenting style has forced me to face things I find terrifying. Even now, I think in terms of him coming down to Texas to kick my ass in an attempt to make me do something in the spirit of “getting back on the horse”. With Ike headed our way, I knew for the sake of my family I would once again have to saddle up.
At the stores I helped elderly couples pile cases of water into their carts and offered to carry it all out to their cars. I saw people helping each other, showing more patience, trying their level best to be kind. Store clerks went the extra mile to help those of us who were staying. The phrase that was most heard was, “Hunker down”. We would all be hunkering down, because the storm was only about a day away by this point. I had put fresh batteries into the boom box stereo so we had contact with the outside world. I felt pretty certain we would not have electricity for at least a couple of days. It was the only certainty I held then.
We were as ready as we were ever going to be. We watched and waited as the radar showed the continually growing Ike head directly for the coast of Galveston. I put a Bill Cosby comedy CD in the stereo for when the electricity went out. The silence of no reassurances from the news broadcasters was deafening when it happened. When Rita blew in, we felt like we were on a strange island, isolated from the herd. This time I knew what to expect to some degree. I was trying my best to breathe in as deeply as I could. As the storm crept closer I noticed how bent over I was becoming. My body posture was slowly cutting off my air flow. I have no doubt that it was a self defense mechanism for me as I handled the stress of the unknown. I tried to put on a brave face for my kids. “It will be fine”, I said. I said it over and over hoping to convince myself as much as convince the kids. I have been afraid of large storms all of my life. When it comes to booming thunder and flashing lightening, I am reduced to a shaking, nervous wreck. As a child I used to sleep during storms. It was my coping mechanism. Fascinated, I would listen, asking questions, as others told how they sought out ways to experience big storms, sitting outside, watching it from windows. Not me, I wanted no part of Mother Nature’s wrath. Just thinking about the giant storm about to hit us head on made me shake like a scared Chihuahua. The sun was slowly setting in the sky. I forced myself to breathe deeper, filling my lungs completely, expanding my chest, trying desperately to relax. In a few hours the storm would be hitting land. Flash lights and candles were prepared for the moment when everything would go dark, all would go silent and the only thing we would hear was the raging storm just outside our wood encased windows. We gathered in the main room of the house, our den and waited, with the television droning the latest news in the background. We were trying our best to act as if it were all fine. Not one of us believed it. The kids, Tom and Betty, created makeshift beds in the center of the room. They were talking, giggling and poking at each other. The dogs had cozied-up to them, crawling inside their blankets, snuggling next to them, unaware of what was happening. I watched my children, so sweet in this moment. Tom looked at me for a moment and I saw the fear. I mouthed the words, “It’s going to be fine.” The hurricane would be hitting in the middle of the night. Rita had done the same, coming in the pitch black. I found that odd, these storms blowing in off the Gulf at the time of day we are our most vulnerable. It seemed like unnecessary cruelty.
(to be continued)
Monday, June 6, 2011
Rolling Down the River (continued part 3)
It was 2008 and I had just been told my careers of being a nurse and a massage therapist were O-V-E-R. Having bilateral carpal tunnel in my wrists meant my life had changed on a dime. I felt as though I had been driving right along, enjoying the ride, when suddenly I had gone off a cliff without realizing it. After I had started my last book, writing full time, I felt like once again I was swimming right along. I won’t ever say it all happened without skipping a beat. Oh, I skipped a beat, as did my heart when I found out I was no longer the definition of myself I had had for ever twenty years. My assimilation into to my new life took months. I didn’t adapt well, or easy. I cried, for days and days and days, until I thought I would never be able to produce another tear. The investment I had made into my two careers, the schooling, the experience, the continuing education, the countless hours and money, thousands of dollars, all of it was gone. Writing albeit my passion, my love, was not something I ever thought I would make money at, and so far, I wasn’t all wrong. Losing my jobs was something I hadn’t thought would ever happen. Maybe it was naivety or arrogance or thoughtlessness, which allowed me to think I would be able to do what I had always done for as long as I wanted to do it. I became unaware of any other opportunities I might get if I only chose another path. I see now where what I had thought was a career path had actually been a rut I was continually trapped in. Had I not been writing at home, being with my family every day, when hurricane Ike came, maybe things would not have worked out so well for us. I say all things for a reason, knowing so many people think it is all by chance, but what if, what by some miraculous notion, my belief in God, in a fate greater than I could imagine, really existed? What if all things happen in such a way, God is creating greater dreams than you could ever dream for yourself?
Hurricane season was in full force when I was at home writing. The younger kids were back in school, the older kids were off up north on opposite ends of the state in college and Mike was working his magic at the airline. All was well with the world. In retrospect that September, I was happier than I had been in a long time. I had the gift of time, something I had long ago given up ever having. I had time to do the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, and all the little mom things I had put off because I was always racing the clock. I was truly my own boss, producing chapter after chapter for no other reason than I could because I had the time to do it. I sat down every day writing long hand, and tippy tapping away on the computer, letting it all unravel, the words I held in my tightly spun, spool of a brain. I had taken to the idea it was time I showed up for me. It was novel, not a novel, but rather a new, exciting, a very different way of looking at my life and my purpose. Michael came home one day and told me there was a disturbance, a storm out in the Gulf. I love the way they refer to giant storms, heading directly at innocent bystanders as “disturbances”, as if it was a mild annoyance rather than a potentially deadly, life altering disaster. We watched the weather channel, like some sit glued to the home shopping networks. Daily the disturbance got bigger until we saw the swirling motion of the clouds and surrounding atmosphere that caused our little disturbance to get a name. They named the new baby hurricane Ike. I couldn’t help but associate it with Tina. “He must be real bastard, this Ike guy”, I mused, “Just look what he did to Tina for all those years.” ‘Rolling Down the River’ became a theme song for us, while we continued to view what was quickly becoming a Texas sized hurricane heading right for us. “It’s the size of Texas”, the television droned. The irony of me writing this book this time of year makes me laugh. I started this project on June 1, 2011, the first day of hurricane season, with a “disturbance” out in the Gulf. You gotta love how wonderfully the universe ties things up so neatly.
We had “the talk”, Michael and I. This consisted of the two of us trying to figure out if we should stay or go. By the time we had the talk, many of our fellow neighbors were long gone. Where would we go? Who would we stay with? What happens if we can’t get back? What about the petting zoo who lived with us? Where would they go? Questions upon questions swirled around our big conversation. The older kids were safely out of harm’s way, miles and hours away. The rest of us, well, we were pacing around trying to decide how scared we should be. Ultimately we decided since it did not look like it would become a category 5 hurricane, we would once again stick it out at home. The four of us had to dismantle our back yard, taking down the gazebo, removing all furniture, putting plants and projectiles in the garage for safety sake. As the last piece of our lives was tied down, stored away and taken apart, I looked at our patio, wondering what would happen to our lives during this latest storm. We live outside twelve months out of the year; it is part of the glory of being a southerner. We had as much stuff outside as we had inside. It was all gone, leaving a barren concrete slab baking in the sun. We bought plywood to cover our four foot by six foot plate glass windows, these giant windows that allowed us to feel as if our house continued into the yard and the yard was a part of our house. If eyes are the windows to the soul then these windows were the eyes for our house and its’ heart and soul. Covering these massive stretches of glass was for our safety. Having lived through Rita, we knew just how dangerous being near any unprotected glass could be. Last time we had been so blessed, so watched over, nothing had hit our house or even come close to our windows, but we hadn’t been amidst a direct hit then, Ike was different. Up went the wood, and out went all the light from inside our house. Once again our house had changed into a lovely appointed penitentiary.
I went out several times to several different stores to stock up on water. The stores had readied themselves for the storm, this time as well. This time felt very different in the sense that everyone was playing nice. Before, during Rita, water was at a premium and prices had spiked up to being four times the normal cost. This time there were specific displays for water, canned goods, batteries, hurricane specific supplies. I had noticed the same thing at the hardware stores, where they had things lined up, extra staff was on duty, and things were organized to perfection so no one got left behind or left out. We must have learned something from the disastrous amount of panic from Rita and Katrina, just three years prior. The lessons had been absorbed by the people and those in charge. Our mayor ordered an evacuation by area. Those closest to the Gulf were to be allowed out first. The mayor of Galveston talked on the T.V. news every day, speaking directly to her town’s people, begging them to leave, asking that they go for their own safety. Buses were provided, lower income folks were offered shelter, transportation, food, whatever they needed to get out of the way of Ike. I watched as people began to tell of leaving everything they had, the houses that they had built, the cars they had bought, and their belongings it had taken their entire lives to acquire. Evacuating is one of the most difficult things we can ask someone to do. It’s asking people to leave their entire lives behind with no end point, indefinitely. They knew, as we all knew and had witnessed just a few years earlier, that sometimes you never get to go back; sometimes it’s just a done deal, you end up finished with your home, your town, your friends; it’s just that no one has told you yet.
(to be continued)
Hurricane season was in full force when I was at home writing. The younger kids were back in school, the older kids were off up north on opposite ends of the state in college and Mike was working his magic at the airline. All was well with the world. In retrospect that September, I was happier than I had been in a long time. I had the gift of time, something I had long ago given up ever having. I had time to do the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, and all the little mom things I had put off because I was always racing the clock. I was truly my own boss, producing chapter after chapter for no other reason than I could because I had the time to do it. I sat down every day writing long hand, and tippy tapping away on the computer, letting it all unravel, the words I held in my tightly spun, spool of a brain. I had taken to the idea it was time I showed up for me. It was novel, not a novel, but rather a new, exciting, a very different way of looking at my life and my purpose. Michael came home one day and told me there was a disturbance, a storm out in the Gulf. I love the way they refer to giant storms, heading directly at innocent bystanders as “disturbances”, as if it was a mild annoyance rather than a potentially deadly, life altering disaster. We watched the weather channel, like some sit glued to the home shopping networks. Daily the disturbance got bigger until we saw the swirling motion of the clouds and surrounding atmosphere that caused our little disturbance to get a name. They named the new baby hurricane Ike. I couldn’t help but associate it with Tina. “He must be real bastard, this Ike guy”, I mused, “Just look what he did to Tina for all those years.” ‘Rolling Down the River’ became a theme song for us, while we continued to view what was quickly becoming a Texas sized hurricane heading right for us. “It’s the size of Texas”, the television droned. The irony of me writing this book this time of year makes me laugh. I started this project on June 1, 2011, the first day of hurricane season, with a “disturbance” out in the Gulf. You gotta love how wonderfully the universe ties things up so neatly.
We had “the talk”, Michael and I. This consisted of the two of us trying to figure out if we should stay or go. By the time we had the talk, many of our fellow neighbors were long gone. Where would we go? Who would we stay with? What happens if we can’t get back? What about the petting zoo who lived with us? Where would they go? Questions upon questions swirled around our big conversation. The older kids were safely out of harm’s way, miles and hours away. The rest of us, well, we were pacing around trying to decide how scared we should be. Ultimately we decided since it did not look like it would become a category 5 hurricane, we would once again stick it out at home. The four of us had to dismantle our back yard, taking down the gazebo, removing all furniture, putting plants and projectiles in the garage for safety sake. As the last piece of our lives was tied down, stored away and taken apart, I looked at our patio, wondering what would happen to our lives during this latest storm. We live outside twelve months out of the year; it is part of the glory of being a southerner. We had as much stuff outside as we had inside. It was all gone, leaving a barren concrete slab baking in the sun. We bought plywood to cover our four foot by six foot plate glass windows, these giant windows that allowed us to feel as if our house continued into the yard and the yard was a part of our house. If eyes are the windows to the soul then these windows were the eyes for our house and its’ heart and soul. Covering these massive stretches of glass was for our safety. Having lived through Rita, we knew just how dangerous being near any unprotected glass could be. Last time we had been so blessed, so watched over, nothing had hit our house or even come close to our windows, but we hadn’t been amidst a direct hit then, Ike was different. Up went the wood, and out went all the light from inside our house. Once again our house had changed into a lovely appointed penitentiary.
I went out several times to several different stores to stock up on water. The stores had readied themselves for the storm, this time as well. This time felt very different in the sense that everyone was playing nice. Before, during Rita, water was at a premium and prices had spiked up to being four times the normal cost. This time there were specific displays for water, canned goods, batteries, hurricane specific supplies. I had noticed the same thing at the hardware stores, where they had things lined up, extra staff was on duty, and things were organized to perfection so no one got left behind or left out. We must have learned something from the disastrous amount of panic from Rita and Katrina, just three years prior. The lessons had been absorbed by the people and those in charge. Our mayor ordered an evacuation by area. Those closest to the Gulf were to be allowed out first. The mayor of Galveston talked on the T.V. news every day, speaking directly to her town’s people, begging them to leave, asking that they go for their own safety. Buses were provided, lower income folks were offered shelter, transportation, food, whatever they needed to get out of the way of Ike. I watched as people began to tell of leaving everything they had, the houses that they had built, the cars they had bought, and their belongings it had taken their entire lives to acquire. Evacuating is one of the most difficult things we can ask someone to do. It’s asking people to leave their entire lives behind with no end point, indefinitely. They knew, as we all knew and had witnessed just a few years earlier, that sometimes you never get to go back; sometimes it’s just a done deal, you end up finished with your home, your town, your friends; it’s just that no one has told you yet.
(to be continued)
Friday, June 3, 2011
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)
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)
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Rolling Down the River (part 1)
When we first moved to Texas, I had no idea what our landscape would be like. The kids and I, looked at the map, searched for weather patterns on the computer and tried to get the lay of the land, before we ever got on the plane that would take us to our new home. Our atlas has dog-eared pages where Texas is shown. We found out that what we knew of our country’s landscape was next to nothing. We all sort of pictured our new landscape to look like something out of a John Wayne movie. Whenever Texas was featured in any kind of media, it is always scruffy, rugged terrain, barren of grass or trees or anything remotely green. Other kids asked our children if they planned to ride horses to school. My kids would shake their heads as if the kids surrounding them were completely ignorant, but in fact most of us have no idea what it’s like to live elsewhere.
When I am asked what my new hometown looks like, I describe it as Ohio with palm trees. We live in a tropical zone, with weather that rains and has the sun shining high in the afternoon sky at the same time. A downpour here will flood our streets in a matter of minutes. And the lightening, ooh, the lightening is something to see. My first week in Houston, Mike was working at his new job, so he was completely distracted by all the new responsibilities it carried. We had no furniture, nowhere to sit except on hard tile, or concrete outside. We had to buy a dorm size refrigerator until our new one was delivered. My car was on a flatbed somewhere between Ohio and Texas. I felt alone, afraid and completely out of my element.
The boys were with us, while the girls hung back for a couple of weeks back in Ohio, saying their last goodbyes. Feeling restless, the boys and I decided to walk to the store one day. Our skin was fluorescent white. Having just come from up north where it had snowed in May, we had not seen the sun in months. The first real sunny day we had all spring was the day we were packing up our last few items and piling them onto a truck that would disappear with all our earthly belongings not be seen again until we were in our new house. We moved on the last day in May and May is hot here in Houston. When I say hot, let me explain…Hot here is hell everywhere else. Our concrete is composed of different materials to withstand oven like temperatures, melting even human skin if one stood in one place long enough. The thick, sweet air hangs on your skin like heavy dew witnessed on delicate blossoms in the morning sunlight. The full smell of jasmine, adheres to the inside of your nose, making you think you have dreamed up this glorious perfume, for surely nothing could possibly smell this sweet. Our night jasmine in full bloom as the sun sets in the balmy evening urges the most splendid, luscious aroma. To partake of our sweet smells, our incredible foliage here in Houston, feels nothing short of feeling as though we have drifted back in time, to place from long ago where Scarlet and Rhett may show up for dinner. The days in south Texas, well, they make you feel faint. One must endure the sun, so as to become ‘heat hardy’, a phrase I had never encountered before, but now use on a regular basis. To hide from our sun if you live here is more dangerous than if you take it in. We, Texans live outside most of the year, even in the summer. We force ourselves to sit in the heat and the sun, so our bodies acclimate to our surroundings, mostly so we don’t pass out walking to our cars.
I learned, the hard way, when we first got here, never walk to the store at two in the afternoon. The boys and I got dressed, and headed out to walk the mile and half to the store to pick up a few items. Being May, we didn’t think about a heat index. Being naive northerners, we had lived through lots of wind chill factors, where our weather knowledge came from. By the time we got to the store we all were one step away from heat stroke. Perspiring profusely, red in the face, boiling from head to toe, and exhausted, we called a friend of ours to rescue us from having to attempt walking back home. Her husband later told us the heat index for the day was 106 degrees at the very time we were taking our hike. I take walks during the warm months, walking the dogs, riding bikes around town, but I don’t do it at two o’clock in the afternoon when the sun is baking the earth to a crispy finish.
We have acclimated to our weather here in the south. We had to evolve or perish. We have learned where the idea of siestas came from, greatly appreciating the chance to escape from the oven like atmosphere, hiding away in a dark air-conditioned room. Before we moved a friend, who had moved to Houston years earlier, had told us they grow sick of the sun here. Being from a state where the sun was a precious commodity, we could not comprehend what she was saying. “Some days we just pray for rain, just so the sun takes a day off”, she said with a straight face. Nothing could have seemed more foreign to my natural born Ohio mind. In Ohio we pray for sun starting in April and keep vigil until well after school starts. By Halloween we just give up, knowing any sun we see is a gift after that. I get what she was talking about now, I really do.
After enough years of getting fried, my body and the bodies of my family all adapted to the hot Texas sun. We are used to great tropical storms blowing in off the gulf, shaking our houses with thunder, producing a light show in the sky that pyro-technicians worldwide envy. Several times a year a house gets hit by the light show and burns to its core. Our electricity often leaves us for hours at a time due to the extraordinary power of a storm pouring its’ heart out.
2005, was my first experience with any kind of hurricane. First came Katrina in Louisiana, then came Rita sweeping just east of where we live, hitting my friend’s house and property. I am trying to think of appropriate ways to describe the enormity of those situations. I say those, because the two separate hurricanes are forever bound together for Texans. Due to the extreme nature of the devastation in New Orleans, many Texans, the very Texans who gave to those in need from Katrina, ended up suffering massive damage in their own homes and businesses. FEMA, a bogged down bureaucratic mess of a group, could not cope with the first hurricane, so those in Beaumont who suffered heavy damage, and several other smaller, lesser known places, where people were literally trapped for days, had little or no help from anyone outside of the state, and even then they found themselves begging for help, literally calling in from jammed cell phones, trying text their desperation to the outside world. Everyone bore witness to the tragedy handed down from Mother Nature, herself in Louisiana, but few were given the views of Texans without electricity for two months, or the blue tarps that remained on roof tops for years. Rita, while devastating in her own right, and Texans were still in the process of helping those who had been flooded out in our neighboring state, Louisiana. Those two hurricanes were the perfect examples of adding insult to injury.
For Rita, we had prepared by filling every trash can in the house with water, plywood covered our large plate-glass windows that normally showed our beautiful backyard, canned food was purchased, tubs were filled, closets were emptied so we had a place to hide from high winds and debris, should the storm break through all of our other barriers. We made sure the cars were filled with gas, our important papers and documents were accessible, my precious pets were readied for evacuation if need be. We had never lived though anything like this before, so we did the best we could. We weren’t sure what we needed. They had lists readily available everywhere for those of us who probably wouldn’t evacuate since we were far enough away from the Gulf, but after watching Katrina, the disorganization, the chaos, the terror, none of us felt like we were safe regardless of how prepared we were.
(To be continued)
When I am asked what my new hometown looks like, I describe it as Ohio with palm trees. We live in a tropical zone, with weather that rains and has the sun shining high in the afternoon sky at the same time. A downpour here will flood our streets in a matter of minutes. And the lightening, ooh, the lightening is something to see. My first week in Houston, Mike was working at his new job, so he was completely distracted by all the new responsibilities it carried. We had no furniture, nowhere to sit except on hard tile, or concrete outside. We had to buy a dorm size refrigerator until our new one was delivered. My car was on a flatbed somewhere between Ohio and Texas. I felt alone, afraid and completely out of my element.
The boys were with us, while the girls hung back for a couple of weeks back in Ohio, saying their last goodbyes. Feeling restless, the boys and I decided to walk to the store one day. Our skin was fluorescent white. Having just come from up north where it had snowed in May, we had not seen the sun in months. The first real sunny day we had all spring was the day we were packing up our last few items and piling them onto a truck that would disappear with all our earthly belongings not be seen again until we were in our new house. We moved on the last day in May and May is hot here in Houston. When I say hot, let me explain…Hot here is hell everywhere else. Our concrete is composed of different materials to withstand oven like temperatures, melting even human skin if one stood in one place long enough. The thick, sweet air hangs on your skin like heavy dew witnessed on delicate blossoms in the morning sunlight. The full smell of jasmine, adheres to the inside of your nose, making you think you have dreamed up this glorious perfume, for surely nothing could possibly smell this sweet. Our night jasmine in full bloom as the sun sets in the balmy evening urges the most splendid, luscious aroma. To partake of our sweet smells, our incredible foliage here in Houston, feels nothing short of feeling as though we have drifted back in time, to place from long ago where Scarlet and Rhett may show up for dinner. The days in south Texas, well, they make you feel faint. One must endure the sun, so as to become ‘heat hardy’, a phrase I had never encountered before, but now use on a regular basis. To hide from our sun if you live here is more dangerous than if you take it in. We, Texans live outside most of the year, even in the summer. We force ourselves to sit in the heat and the sun, so our bodies acclimate to our surroundings, mostly so we don’t pass out walking to our cars.
I learned, the hard way, when we first got here, never walk to the store at two in the afternoon. The boys and I got dressed, and headed out to walk the mile and half to the store to pick up a few items. Being May, we didn’t think about a heat index. Being naive northerners, we had lived through lots of wind chill factors, where our weather knowledge came from. By the time we got to the store we all were one step away from heat stroke. Perspiring profusely, red in the face, boiling from head to toe, and exhausted, we called a friend of ours to rescue us from having to attempt walking back home. Her husband later told us the heat index for the day was 106 degrees at the very time we were taking our hike. I take walks during the warm months, walking the dogs, riding bikes around town, but I don’t do it at two o’clock in the afternoon when the sun is baking the earth to a crispy finish.
We have acclimated to our weather here in the south. We had to evolve or perish. We have learned where the idea of siestas came from, greatly appreciating the chance to escape from the oven like atmosphere, hiding away in a dark air-conditioned room. Before we moved a friend, who had moved to Houston years earlier, had told us they grow sick of the sun here. Being from a state where the sun was a precious commodity, we could not comprehend what she was saying. “Some days we just pray for rain, just so the sun takes a day off”, she said with a straight face. Nothing could have seemed more foreign to my natural born Ohio mind. In Ohio we pray for sun starting in April and keep vigil until well after school starts. By Halloween we just give up, knowing any sun we see is a gift after that. I get what she was talking about now, I really do.
After enough years of getting fried, my body and the bodies of my family all adapted to the hot Texas sun. We are used to great tropical storms blowing in off the gulf, shaking our houses with thunder, producing a light show in the sky that pyro-technicians worldwide envy. Several times a year a house gets hit by the light show and burns to its core. Our electricity often leaves us for hours at a time due to the extraordinary power of a storm pouring its’ heart out.
2005, was my first experience with any kind of hurricane. First came Katrina in Louisiana, then came Rita sweeping just east of where we live, hitting my friend’s house and property. I am trying to think of appropriate ways to describe the enormity of those situations. I say those, because the two separate hurricanes are forever bound together for Texans. Due to the extreme nature of the devastation in New Orleans, many Texans, the very Texans who gave to those in need from Katrina, ended up suffering massive damage in their own homes and businesses. FEMA, a bogged down bureaucratic mess of a group, could not cope with the first hurricane, so those in Beaumont who suffered heavy damage, and several other smaller, lesser known places, where people were literally trapped for days, had little or no help from anyone outside of the state, and even then they found themselves begging for help, literally calling in from jammed cell phones, trying text their desperation to the outside world. Everyone bore witness to the tragedy handed down from Mother Nature, herself in Louisiana, but few were given the views of Texans without electricity for two months, or the blue tarps that remained on roof tops for years. Rita, while devastating in her own right, and Texans were still in the process of helping those who had been flooded out in our neighboring state, Louisiana. Those two hurricanes were the perfect examples of adding insult to injury.
For Rita, we had prepared by filling every trash can in the house with water, plywood covered our large plate-glass windows that normally showed our beautiful backyard, canned food was purchased, tubs were filled, closets were emptied so we had a place to hide from high winds and debris, should the storm break through all of our other barriers. We made sure the cars were filled with gas, our important papers and documents were accessible, my precious pets were readied for evacuation if need be. We had never lived though anything like this before, so we did the best we could. We weren’t sure what we needed. They had lists readily available everywhere for those of us who probably wouldn’t evacuate since we were far enough away from the Gulf, but after watching Katrina, the disorganization, the chaos, the terror, none of us felt like we were safe regardless of how prepared we were.
(To be continued)
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Dedication & Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to my children,
whose mirror images allowed me to
break free, break down, and ultimately break open.
Acknowledgements
*I need to thank my husband, Michael, pretty much every day for the rest of my life; without his physical, emotional, and spiritual support, my dreams would have been swept away in a pile of dust, discarded without regard for hope. He is my human security blanket that allows for my childlike belief that anything is possible. Well, him and God.
*Thank you to every person who sacrificed the very precious time in their lives to read my last book, read my blog, and connects with me, one human being to another. Your support gives me my courage, my strength, each word of support has been a stepping stone for me to stand on, so I may continue my journey on solid ground.
*I need to extend a very special thank you to my family and friends for trusting me to write our mutual stories with a loving heart, good intent and careful thought. My greatest desire is to honor you the way you have honored me with your never ending love and patience.
*For my dogs, I want to say thank you for listening to my very bad karaoke when I get stressed. The fact that your undying loyalty makes you sit and tolerate my bellowing, listening ever so intently, following my every move, so I can unwind my addled brain, makes you my personal heroes. You continue to be the best audience I have ever had.
Fast Forward
Back when I first started writing, when fire was created, I sat next to the newly discovered wheel and I wrote so that I could unwind my life’s experience for myself. The idea was to put it all in print, these feelings, and these thoughts I was having, so I could then go back and read through them, making heads or tails out of what had just happened. Writing gave me perspective, time to think before I drew any conclusions from my life. Some of us are slow learners. Some of us need time, and distance to walk through the maze of our own brains. Some of us need to see it in writing.
This began my great love affair with words on paper. It was the singular moment in my life when all my pieces felt like they fell into place, no longer searching for corners, or odd bits to squeeze into the picture to complete the puzzle. It never occurred to me that one day I would be a writer. Having no degree in journalism, or literature, or even the want to write the next great novel, I wrote for no one, but me; or so I thought until a friend of mine read some of my work. She connected to the feelings the piece talked about. She said, much to my astonishment, “If I could write, this is what I would say.” It never occurred to me that I was not alone in my thinking. I never once considered the idea that someone else could take my words scratched on notebook pages and use them to describe themselves.
That became the first moment I felt the real sense of obligation to get it right, to be honest, open, dig as deep as I could, so I could help others speak, too.
I got letters from people who read my last book. I kept each and every one. They are as precious to me as jewelry, or antiques or my favorite photographs. The letters all said the same thing; they connected to me, to the book, to the words. Each spoke of a different chapter in the book, telling their own story to me in their own handwriting, how my story connected with theirs. Each letter, email, and note made me cry, big dripping tears of joy, empathy, sympathy, laughter, binding us together as one.
This book is built on essays. Little stories of how my life has intertwined with others. Evidently I have told stories my entire life, because just this year, as my mother cleaned out her house, she found my Kindergarten report card. The teacher had to fill out the back every six weeks telling my parents of my progress. While she never told them I was a genius in the making, never inferred they should get to me to a special school for the gifted and talented, what she did write was that I was a talker.
All day, every day, evidently, I told stories to the class. Each six weeks the card would come with exact same progress noted, “Kellie really likes telling the class stories.” Having heard that for the first time in my life, I laughed until I cried, thinking how diplomatic Mrs. Ford was. At least she didn’t call me a blabber mouth, ‘Chatty Cathy” or tell my parents to include a muzzle with my nap mat. My mom, said softly, ever so sweetly to me after I gained some composure, “See? You were a born story teller. It’s been there the entire time.” I gave my mom an air hug, you know like an air five, only cuddlier, because she was too far to reach.
I love my stories because they true, they help me to realize we are all more the same than different, and most of all they make me laugh, make me cry, make me feel just how lucky I am to be here, feeling anything at all. As much as I take my voice for granted, often getting sick and tired of hearing my own thoughts rattle around in my frequently chaotic head, I love the memories of my family, friends, even those horrible moments when I wished the ground would swallow me whole; those are the moments when I find out something so spectacular, so wondrous or horrifying, and I learn something, be it about them, or me or the situation.
Each story is a small building block that has brought me to where I am now. Every time I looked back on some situation, some particular event, I found myself learning something about myself, the people I have encountered and where I stood in the process of growth.
Learning, lifelong passionate discovery is my greatest love. It is in its singularity, the one thing I cannot live without. When my atrophying brain finally gives way, caves in and lets go, my time here on earth will be finished.
I want my intent of this book to be known, not to explain myself, exactly, but to let you know what my plan is. I want this book to be better than the last. My hope is the art of writing has improved, for sure, but more importantly, I want the content to be more.
The way, the only way I can see myself doing that much better, is to apply my husband’s skiing school practices here. Michael taught me to ski when I was 19 years old, in college and deeply in crush with him. I was having all these mushy, self-conscious feelings, the butterflies, the tinglies, and the “I refuse to look like an ass” feelings. I do get embarrassed. Back then I really got embarrassed. See, I thought, I would outgrow my dorkiness. I thought I would become the beautiful swan, butterfly, insert magical transformation here. I really did think one day when I grew up, I would be someone else. One day when I did grow up, I looked in the mirror to see exactly what I had seen a thousand times before and realized, yep, this was it. Tadah.
Anyway, Michael, a really cute, buff, college guy was teaching me how to ski. My dorkiness, my insecurities, all my bailiwick of crazy, came bubbling up in such a force I could barely stand on my skis. I have a fear of heights…That and breaking my neck; I am scared of that, too. I knew I looked like a complete ninny. I knew I was wearing more of the hill than the others had skied on. I was athletic, built sturdy, with formidable thighs and gams. I could not figure out the trick to getting my ass up on the skis. Michael showed such great patience, while laughing at my every move mind you. I felt my face burning red, with the sun shining; reflecting off the white of the snow covered hill, there was no way to hide my embarrassment. After spending much of the day on my back side, Michael said this, “Kel, you have to lean down the hill.”
“I can’t”, I protested, or whined depending on your perspective.
“Trust me; you do trust me, don’t you?” Michael gave me the charming, sexy looking up through his tousled hair thing. In my head I thought ‘Noooooooooo’, but out my mouth came a girlish giggle I could barely pull off, “Yeah, I trust you.”
“Lean down the hill. Put your weight on your downhill ski, and lean forward. You don’t want to catch an edge uphill. That’s what will make you fall.”
He was right, of course; leaning uphill while skiing will make you catch an edge on your skis, turning your legs in ways that rip apart your knees. It was terrifying leaning downhill, toward what I could only assume was my impending death. With each shaky turn, as wide as the mountain itself, I headed further and further down the hill, gaining speed, praying loudly as I went that I might survive dating an avid skier.
That is exactly what I feel about this book. I am leaning as hard as I can down the hill, gaining speed, turning tightly to avoid crashing into writer’s blocks, anxiety attacks and utter panic. I am digging my edges into the slippery slope, confident of nothing, but somehow hoping that at the end of this wild ride, you and I will be laughing as loud and as much, as Michael and I did, after I skied for the first time. I want us to be breathless, spent with explosive sounds of pure joy, yelling to each other, “Wow! Now that was one hell of a ride!”
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