The Sounds of a Hurricane

(I'm okay)

Thursday night: You fall asleep to the sound of light rain, heart and belly full from dinner and a movie with friends. You think maybe it won’t be as bad as “they” think.

At 4:18am, a loud crack wakes you, sends your cat jumping from your arms. You know a tree has fallen nearby. Then you become aware of the intense gusts of wind whipping the trees with violence and force you couldn’t previously imagine. The winds die as quickly as they come, and in the silence, you hear the rain, yes, but more, the sound of insects. They trill their nightly chorus as if this is business as usual. A normal night. The sound comforts you, even as you see lights on the road outside your window—neighbors in front of their house, the tree that fell was theirs and thankfully fell only into the street and in front of our driveway.

You try to sleep and block out the howls of the gusts kicking up with a pillow, wondering if another tree will fall. You think about going to the basement but know it would stress out the cats (especially the two cats you adopted only a couple of days before).

Friday morning: The storm continues to blow but the winds come less frequently. Rain becomes a patter instead of a downpour. The sky is brighter. Soon, it abates. You hear sirens—ambulance, fire, or police, you don’t know—all around. Near and far, the sound pierces the air. Neighbors poke heads out of their homes. “Are you okay?” we ask each other. People are safe. Homes are safe. After noon, there is no cell signal to communicate with each other.

Bird chirps and song return; they’ve come back to the yard feeders, which somehow withstood the winds that battered the tops of the trees.

Your neighbor’s generator sputters and then roars to life, overtaking the stillness.

Saturday morning: The faucets spit and hiss as they deliver the last of the water. You fill containers while you can.

Chainsaws vibrate in the distance. The neighbors are getting to work on the fallen trees, removing them from the roads.

You take a walk. You talk with others who heard a morning news broadcast. You learn how bad it is in other parts of Asheville and Western North Carolina, but you can’t wrap your head around it.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything” we ask each other.

Sunday morning: Work trucks rumble. The specific beeps that signal equipment moving in reverse is a comfort. Help is here, all around you. Then the whoosh of an occasional plane, the whir of helicopter blades.

Your phone buzzes. You’ve preserved battery long enough to get the first texts and communication from the world since the storm. You let your loved ones know you’re okay.

You drive to a place you might be able to charge necessities and see how areas you knew and loved were washed away by the river.

“How are you? Do you have power? Do you need water?” we ask each other as we share news and resources.

Monday to now: “Are you doing okay? What do you need? Can I give you some water? Do you have enough food?”

“Look for the helpers,” Mister Rogers said. And then, if you have the bandwidth, be a helper.

amy_geek

A post shared by @amy_geek

I’m safe. I’m okay. I’m so grateful. Gratitude, connection, resilience, rustic—these words all spring to mind about the past week. We don’t have power or water, and we may or may not have broken our internet line while digging a hole in the backyard… for reasons. But we are good. Blessed. Our neighborhood is kind and has come together to help us and each other. I can’t count the number of kind gestures I’ve received or witnessed. I’ve been moved to tears often.

This community is strong. Asheville hasn’t been wiped off the map as some news reports make it sound like, though some areas have been totally obliterated. It’s heartbreaking. It’s a lot to see the devastation; I can’t imagine experiencing the loss of my loved ones, homes, or business.

We’ll persist, though. The city will just look a bit different as we rebuild, so will all of Western North Carolina.

If you have the means, please donate to relief efforts. It’s going to be a long road to recovery for the region and for so, so many. This list of resources is solid.