Our Hurricane Helene Story: Part 3

 

In my mind, it’s still September 27. When I see the mums blooming at the farm, or the leaves changing around my house, I think, “No, it’s too soon.” And then I remember. Time has moved on.

 

I feel all the ways I am behind. Our bulb sale is many weeks late to launch. Our holiday plans are in major flux. Sometimes I think, if I can just unshake myself from September 27, I’ll be able to fix it all.

 

Probably it won’t happen. That’s what grief is, right? It’s not just the building and the stuff that I lost in the flood — it’s a way of life. It’s a version of myself. The loss I’m mourning isn’t for the physical items. It’s who I was when I went to bed on September 26. I can’t get that person back. None of us can. I’m so sorry.

 

Still, I’m telling you the story of Hurricane Helene — how it happened to me — in hopes that it might shake me loose in time, help me return to the present. To pick up where we left off in Part 2:

 

When I left the Airbnb in Weaverville where I had been staying, I took a right turn onto Reems Creek Road. It wasn’t so much a road as a causeway, with water on either side, like driving over Lake Ponchartrain or something. In the water, shipping containers and trucks wedged themselves between trees, piled on each other. Bridges crumbled into the mess. If you live in Asheville, you don’t need me to describe it. You saw something like it.

 

Still, the voice in my head lingered, “Maybe it’s just really bad here.”

I didn’t have a destination in mind. I was just going to drive until I couldn’t drive anymore. The sun was out, and neighbors were everywhere clearing trees with chainsaws. The roads were busy with other people like me, without phone service or power, just trying to make sense of the new world — a world less than 12 hours old. A world still in the making. Waters were still rising in some places, although I didn’t know that yet.

When I got to I-26 at Newstock Road, I decided to look for Sophia, our studio manager, who lives in Weaverville. I was still very much in work mode, which seems a bit odd to me now, but it was 1 p.m. on a Friday, and for me, that’s work time! 

 

I arrived at Sophia’s apartment, but no one came to the door. In a world without cell phones, I was at a loss. I turned to leave, but as I was going down the stairs I saw Sophia and her boyfriend getting out of their car. I was so happy to see them! People I knew! It felt like reestablishing contact with my world was a major milestone. They had just come from Publix and Lowe’s, which inexplicably were open and running on generators. Good thing too since so many people were completely surprised at the needs for food, water, tarps, basic necessities, myself among them. I had a couple of bottles of water and a pocket full of granola bars. I had bought a sweet potato the night before, which was absolutely no good to me in a world without cooking fuel.

 

There wasn’t much to say, honestly, and I was eager to see if I could get to the flower shop. Sophia was going to be my safety buddy — stay in safety and if I didn’t come back, call — someone — somehow. There was no phone service.

 

Once I was on the road to Madison County, I couldn’t believe how normal everything seemed. Traffic lights were out, and no one knows how to do a four-way stop, especially with turn lanes involved, so Weaverville was a bit hairy, but once I was on the open road that is 25/70, the four-lane into Marshall, everything was smooth and clear. The road is prone to landslides, but there weren’t any. Not even trees down.

 

The Ivy River was overflowing its dam, and water was shooting out the spillways in dramatic fashion. People were standing on the bridge taking photos of the dam. The Ivy itself was in flood stage, which was to be expected, and Ivy River Road was closed. “That happens all the time,” I reasoned.

 

As I approached Marshall, I considered the best way in. Although it looks flat, the town actually sits on a small rise, so the entrances to the north and south flood first. There’s a very steep road that descends the mountain called Hill Street, which is an understatement. It used to be called simply, Corkscrew, which is a lot more accurate. I wound downward, wondering what I would find in town. On the way, I passed Rhesa and BD, who own the brewery. Rhesa was hunched forward, arms crossed, eyes down. It was a warm day, but she looked like she was freezing. That’s how I knew it was bad.

They were with their son — I can’t remember his age. 10 or 12? Rhesa choked out that it was worse than expected. Get ready. Her son said, “We watched The Depot lift up and float into the bridge.” He said it like only a kid can say it — with interest and fascination and freedom from the weight. In a way, his spirit refreshed me, primed me for an experience that truly was interesting and fascinating, even if I can never escape its weight.

 

At a certain point, it becomes impossible to turn around on Hill Street, the corkscrew, so I parked and walked the rest of the way, bracing myself to have to go through the big reveal with other people around. And there were plenty of people, but they all seemed really far away, like trying to talk underwater. There’s sound, but you can’t make it out — nothing registers and nothing makes sense.

 

There was the town — our town — inundated with 12 feet of water in some places. Something like 9 buildings ripped off their foundations and washed away. The rest battered by flood debris, ripped apart, windows shattered and swept away. Water licked awnings, submerged cars. It wasn’t tranquil. It rushed along Main Street, faster than the river on a normal day.

 

I perched on a partly submerged porch at the bottom of Hill Street, which is right across from our shop, and watched the water lap at the bottom of our sign. I remembered the day the sign went up in February 2020, before we knew COVID was coming, long before we knew this was coming. I thought of my great grandmother’s Christmas cactus, sitting just inside the front door on a high shelf, now obscured by water. “How hard would it have been to move it?” I muttered. I thought of our books, on a shelf just above my head — not high enough. A collection of everything there is to know about flower growing and design. I imagined how the pages would feel slick and sticky, the colors running. I did not think of the incredible cost — those thoughts would come later.

 

I am one of the numb people. I can look on a scene like this and feel nothing. I can register the oddity of feeling nothing. I can rationalize the despair of the calamity before me, but I can’t feel it. I suppose this is a strange kind of blessing. It’s an efficient way to react. I worry if I ever surpass the limit of the numbness, I will have no idea how to be.

 

This response does not endear me to others who are able to feel fully the weight of the crisis in a moment. My composure was alien, so I left.

 

The farm, I knew, could break my heart.

All night when I awoke amidst the storm, I prayed for the farm. For the shop too, but deeply, the farm is what I love, even if that makes no sense from a business perspective. The shop is worth way more than the farm.

 

When I rounded the bend and saw our high tunnels standing, I felt everything would be OK. During high wind events, it’s very common for plastic to tear, especially if it’s old or in less than perfect condition, which was the case. Sometimes, the plastic can ensnare the metal structure beneath and pull it off the ground, twisting and maiming it. I expected that carnage.

 

I discovered a slightly windblown farm with no damage to speak of, a few rain droplets still clinging, glittering in the afternoon sun. Breezy, beachy, humid, in the way hurricanes are. I celebrated by walking around, looking at all the flowers, reveling in their beauty and promise. Who would I be without them?

 

With no phone service or companionship, I started making these manic little video memos, which I do not plan on sharing with the world. Odd artifacts of a very bad day.

 

Now, to get home, south of Asheville. A whole different adventure.

 

That’s for next time! — when we will have to speed up time, try to reconnect with the present moment. There are a few important things to know about cleaning up a natural disaster that I reckon are worth saying.