Our Hurricane Helene Story: Part 1

The day of Hurricane Helene, I was supposed to sign a lease.

I had been working on a plan to move the flower company to a big property where the farm and the flower studio could be together. The new property would have given us enough space to some really revolutionary things.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I knew something was going to happen to Marshall. I didn’t know — what has happened is shocking. I did know our location combined too many risk factors, too many limiting factors: a parking nightmare, a seriously leaky roof, mean neighbors, an entire room without light fixtures, the world’s tallest staircase, fraught layout — and simply not enough space.

I really wanted to move in August, but I couldn’t make it happen. I will always, always wish I could have made it happen. I will always, always wish I had rented a moving van and evacuated all our stuff from the building before the flood. I will always, always wish Helene hadn’t come to our mountains — that friends hadn’t fled to their roofs with their families — that homes hadn’t been crushed by trees — that my niece could be in school right now.

In comparison to the losses of our community, our losses at Carolina Flowers are small. In comparison to the challenge of the coming winter, our losses are great.

I have so much to say about Helene. I think you might find it interesting and entertaining to a degree. I hope something about this situation can be entertaining. Is it OK if I write about it for the next couple of weeks?

Are people sick of talking about it? Sick of living with it?

Here is what happened in brief: On Thursday, September 26, we evacuated, fearing imminent water intrusion of a foot or so. The river was high but not yet flooding. Forecasts were beginning to look worrisome — but nowhere near what actually happened. Our building sits at the highest point in our town, and it’s elevated off the grade be a set of five steps. We knew we would be the last to flood.

As a precaution, we lifted most things on the floor to waist height.

On Friday, September 27, a great swell careened through the town, pulverizing the auto shop and ripping several buildings off their foundations. The flooding happened quickly. The water burst through our back windows, which are about 10 feet off the ground. It coursed through the building, smashing all our furnishings against the front window.

When I saw the building from afar on Saturday, the water was at about 8 feet on the front side, the shallowest spot.

The water withdrew as forcefully as it came and, it left several feet of mud behind. It sucked back all the contents of our building, ripping all the shelves off the walls, smashing our large room dividers, claiming items for the river. It sucked open a hole in the wall and pulled in bottles and pitchers from our next door neighbor, Heilbron Herbs.

Marvelously, certain items floated. Our big desk where we process orders rose from the floor as if weightless and bobbed atop the waves. The items on top remained clean and dry, and when the water receded, we found them where we left them. They were familiar and comforting, shielded from the chaos and mania of the river.

The flood was horrible. It was mysterious and magical. It was impressive, and I am angry.

Our new shop on Glendale Avenue is safe but remains without power and water. We are working there sometimes and other times from the home of a friend who is out of town and has power and water. We are still filling wedding orders and are happy to have some work.

Our spirits are … OK. We have good days and bad days. I have good days and bad days. We reflect nostalgically on the trials of COVID. Somehow in my mind, COVID and Helene are connected.

We moved into our building in Marshall in January 2020, and we were set for an opening in March 2020. Although it had a storefront, the building was always meant to be more of a production studio that a retail shop, but the public-facing space always felt like a feather in my cap.

 We opened the doors for a day in March and then quickly shuttered for the pandemic.

Appropriate that the space that opened for COVID should shutter because of Hurricane Helene. The building was bookended by two great calamities — what I hope will be the two great calamities of my lifetime, but I am only 34 and plan to live to 95, so who knows? I can hope.

I suppose I should consider myself lucky for the chance to reevaluate amidst the chaos.

I don’t know when I realized that Helene was an existential threat — not just to me, but to us all. We have seen many storms, and we know flooding is a possibility. Our Marshall shop was a hundred yards from the river, albeit on a high spot. Our farm is bordered by creeks. We prepare.

 Helene appeared as a blip on Monday. By Tuesday, the National Hurricane Center added it to its map, not sure what it was. By Wednesday, it was a hurricane, and it was coming straight for us with impact projected for Friday.

 On Wednesday, it rained all day, steady but not alarming. I called Marshall’s town manager to ask his views and learn if the town had plans for limiting access should flooding begin. No plans yet, he said. We agreed that a watch and wait plan was in order. I planned to make a call about whether to evacuate our employees on Friday morning. I checked the river before I went home, and it looked completely normal.

 At 6:30 a.m. on Thursday, I woke up to a text from the town manager. “Looks like the water may be in town today instead of tomorrow.”

We needed to evacuate the business. At this point, it felt perfectly logical that we would be able to continue filling orders on schedule. Marshall would get some water in the roads. We wouldn’t be able to get to our building for a day. We could go back in for supplies next week, although we would probably be without power since our power main was in the basement, which would be first to flood. So I reasoned.

 I had made a couple of vague calls on Wednesday about back up locations — most of my ideas were not available because the county fair was set to take place that weekend.

With no other ideas about where to go, I booked an Airbnb. I looked in Weaverville, as close to downtown as possible, thinking if power went out, it was less likely to impact areas near the town services. I looked for something without trees, without creeks. I found a place on Hamburg Mountain Road surrounded by pasture.

As I pulled out of my driveway, I sat in my car and thought, “Am I really doing this? Am I really going to move my staff to a different location during one of the busiest weeks of the year?” I almost went back inside, did some emails, waited for more intel. But instead, right then and there, I committed to the mini evacuation. I am so glad for that moment of commitment. It’s the only thing that has given us options, a starting point.

I think that’s my number one take away from this experience. In times of uncertainty: Don’t waffle. Make a decision. Follow through.

When I arrived in Marshall, the town was as usual. Businesses were open for the day. Coffee, lunch, groceries. Everything as usual. The rain was persistent but light. I was a little concerned I was on my own wavelength — zagging while everyone else was zigging. But I’m a bit used to that by now.

I texted our property manager about the power main. Was it OK to turn it off in the afternoon? He was surprised I was planning for a flood. No one else was, he tried to reassure me. Everyone else has more sunk costs than me, I reminded him. It’s easier for me to see the truth because I have less to lose than some people who own multiple buildings. I was and am happy to be a renter. 

Despite the pervasive calm of the town, the river was rising. Too high for a storm that was still hundreds of miles away. As the water crept up, the mood in town began to change. People began to prepare. 

“Pretend we’re going on a trip,” I told the staff. “Pack everything you need for a week.”

I have never seen a crew move with such efficiency. We were out of our building before lunchtime. Sophia, Alli, Ainsley and Grace set up in the Airbnb and finished the day’s work ahead of schedule. They began working on Friday’s orders in case the storm delayed our start time. I was so proud! I am still so proud! 

The supplies they packed have been crucial to keeping us going since the hurricane. It wasn’t that they saved valuables or anything particularly fancy. What they saved were pieces of systems, systems that can serve us wherever we are. 

The actually objects are small: spools of wire and ribbon, pins, tape, snips, tables, vases. Together, these objects are mighty because they create a workflow that’s efficient and familiar to us.

So much of our workflow was lost with the building. That’s what makes me saddest, all the time we spent planning and organizing and setting up our space. It’s lost! But I am glad to have some pieces of it.

 Of course, we all know how this story ends. We’ve all been living it together. It’s not the ending that’s fascinating though. It’s how it happened, to hundreds of thousands of us, each faced with an extraordinary set of circumstances. I think everyone’s story is so valuable. Mine is precious to me, even if it is pure disaster.

 As I left Marshall, I wasn’t thinking about tragedy. I wasn’t saying goodbye. There were rumors of waist high water at that point, but with a USGS forecast of 19 feet, that seemed extreme. Maybe ankle deep water, I thought.

Little did I know what was coming for the town — and for me. In less than 24 hours, I would be sitting alone and damp in the middle of a stranger’s pasture, waiting for the wind to shift, wishing my family had any idea where I was. But I’ll save that for next time.