ring around the rosies

Exile in Greenville

Sorry it has been so long since I've written. I didn't mean for my return to be so dramatic. I've had blogapathy for a while, but now I have a real reason to write. Many wonderful friends have emailed me wondering if I'm okay and rather than try to write about the events of the past few days in detail to each person, I thought, well, if anything is blog-worthy, this is.

Of course, as my friends know but some of you may not, I live in Ocean Springs, MS, on the MS Gulf Coast, a town situated across the Bay of Biloxi from the casinos, pawn shops, and bars that line the streets of Biloxi. We live a little farther east of Ocean Springs, actually, but still in the O.S. school district. Our brand new house is situated about 20 ft. above sea level one mile inland. My husband and I were just transferred down there in January, but I didn't move until June due to obligations in our hometown of Birmingham. So we haven't lived there long, but as this hurricane season has been a rather eventful one, we've had some experience in preparation and evacuation--and complacency. In fact, as of Saturday, I was determined to stay and ride out Katrina and the Waves, my stupid joke I'd started to make, reflecting the lack of seriousness with which I took this storm. I'd left for Dennis and frankly wasn't looking forward to riding for two hours with a howling cat and leaving my husband behind to ride out the storm at the power plant where he works. I don't like being away from home since I'd not gotten to live there very long and spent too much time on the road. It was an attitude nearly everyone I talked to shared. Neighbors, people in my yoga class, cashiers at Wal-Mart. We just didn't relish the thought of packing up again. The refrain was "I survived Camille, so I'll be alright this time." Camille is mentioned in Mississippi more often than the Civil War, college football, or the coming of riverboat gambling, so you know it must have been serious.

Well, my in-laws had come to bring us some stuff on Saturday, driving all morning to get there and my husband debated about whether he was going to board up the windows or not. We, of course, knew that he would, being the engineer nicknamed "Mr. Safety," so he and his dad went to Lowe's and contrived a system to board up the upstairs windows, the albatross of a two story house with no preexisting hurricane shutter system. If you've ever tried to, or even watched someone try to, raise up a sheet of plywood while standing on a 26 ft. extension ladder and screw it to the side of a house, you know how daunting this task can be. It definitely requires two people and one of those people cannot have the upper body strength of a tsetse fly. His dad, however, is the perfect candidate to help. Their completely coincidental visit on that particular day was blessing #1.

BTW, our new house has 27 windows, two doors and two garages, so boarding up is no small task. However, that night until 11 P.M. and the next morning starting at 4:30 A.M. they were able to get everything secured. Waking up on Sunday morning, I saw that the storm had gotten much worse and I started to accept the fact that I'd have to evacuate.

Jim Cantore, storm target that he is, stood on the beach of Biloxi and promised it would never look the same again. Inciting panic, though he might have (and causing my husband to want to go kick his ass for that very reason) we nonetheless listened to him. I've never known a weatherperson to inspire so much animosity amongst storm-battered residents. I heard Orange Beach, AL, has a billboard telling Jim Cantore to stay away. If the Weather Channel anchors are standing in your backyard, you've got problems.

Anyway, we then brought in all objects in the yard that could be projectiles and braced the garage doors, while I took pictures of every item in my house, waving goodbye to each drawer, closet, book, chair, and doodad as I did so. I did not know if I would see it again and had to assume that I probably would not. It was hard, but I knew that it could all be replaced. The important thing was to leave as soon as possible. The waters had already started to rise in nearby bayous and swamps ahead of the storm, reaching out towards the roads and threatening to overtake them. Though the skies were blue, the ocean warned of imminent danger.

Still, several people I talked to said they weren't going to leave. Their house had been okay during Camille, so they felt safe. Later I heard that 40% of Biloxi residents didn't leave. That figure was probably higher in my little town of 20,000 people, but I can't be sure. I just know that no one could conceive of a hurricane rougher than Camille and that's the bottom line. It seemed too unreal. Now we know what unreal is.

So, I grabbed clothes for five days, shoved a kitty valium down the cat's throat and considered taking the other half myself, kissed the hubbo goodbye and drove off. The entire state of Louisiana, my new best friends, and I rode together for a couple of hours over and up the interstate to the little town of Greenville, AL, where my extended family resides and where I now sit in a little coffee shop that has wireless access (blessing # 347--miracle of miracles) typing away.

I talked to the husband many times by two-way radio (what many around here refer to as "beepbeep" radios) as he settled in for the night at the plant on Sunday evening. The next morning we spoke and everything seemed windy but okay down there in Gulfport at Plant Watson next to I-10. With thick concrete walls, steel hurricane shutters, etc., we felt he would be safe there. However, a few hours later, around lunchtime on Monday, the mood had changed significantly. I called to check on him and he said the water had risen suddenly, though they were five miles inland, and he and the other fifty or so workers had to evacuate not to the second but to the THIRD floor of the plant, submerging all the cars in the parking lot, the switchyard, turbines (which therefore threw them in the dark), offices, and everything else. Any higher and they'd have to climb the boilers. The noise I was used to hearing in the background was not the turbines for a change, but the wind and he asked me if I could hear the glass breaking, for the wind was busting out windows in the upper reaches of the plant, raining glass down upon their heads. They were concerned too about hydrogen leakage and what would happen if it caught fire. Because they'd certainly be goners.

However, soon the worst passed over and as we all waited nervously for word from them, the men saw the waters recede and started to venture downstairs, though cautiously because of the still high winds (over 100 mph). Over the next few hours (calling us to let us know, fortunately still able to use their radios), they gradually accepted their fate and do what men do in times of crisis--pulled out the grill. While we were worried about their having basic necessities, they cooked steaks and hamburgers, part of the stash of food the company had put away to feed them in the duration. Turns out there could be no better force to combat the cruelties of nature than the power that is the power company. And no one to know better the restorative power of meat.

But wait, it gets better.

So out in the parking lot, my husband's company minivan packed with tools sat beside the personal vehicle he had brought to keep just in case...the military humvee bought thirdhand a few years ago. A former Eagle scout, my husband believes in being prepared, and that includes the vehicular equivalent of a Swiss Army knife. Plus, a really manly vehicle is always good to keep around for impressing your friends and pulling out teenagers from nearby ditches, as we have also done on numerous occasions. As you may know, hummers are one of the few machines that can tolerate being submerged in water, so when he crawled in its soggy interior, he was able to crank it right up. (blessing #146)

After slapping on some Mississippi Power stickers on the doors, just to make him look more official, he tried to drive up onto I-10 to drive the 20 miles or so to our house, but debris--someone's roof, he thinks--blocked his path. A cop came by and escorted him up the wrong side of the interstate (Blessing #43) where he drove for three miles until he could cross over to the east bound lane to make it to our exit. He forded deep water to drive the six miles of backroads to our subdivision where he found houses in various conditions. I can't imagine the suspense he must have felt when he passed all of them on his way to the back where we live. However, when he arrived, he found our house to be one of the least damaged in neighborhood. Shingles and some siding missing, one piece of plywood from an upstairs window blown off, but the window unbroken. Inside inspection found everything to be relatively okay, too. A small roof leak in an upstairs bedroom (preexisting problem made worse), but what was truly miraculous was no flooding ! That's right, No Water. At. All. I am still writing this in disbelief because I had simply convinced myself that at least the downstairs was ruined. I'd already picked out my new flooring and decided I didn't really need those wedding pictures anyway. Sadly, it was the Vespa I was most heartbroken about. So red and shiny in its garage, unable to drive itself to higher ground. What had that little scooter ever done to deserve such treatment? What that says about me, I'll never know.

Anyway, turns out, though, we're almost completely unscathed. And us only one mile off the Gulf. Here he is FIVE miles off the Gulf in Gulfport, and he could have been wakeboarding out of a third floor window. Compared to the total loss of property and even of life others have experienced, that's truly wonderful. (Blessing #28,927,838,948)

So hubbo, having arrived in the house and found it to be dark and quiet but otherwise okay, decided to sleep there, getting all Mad Max in the process. The neighborhood totally abandoned, he found it a bit eerie, especially when the banging on the front door started and the person yelled, "Hey! Hey! Anybody in there?" Drawing his weapon (see? Mad Max.), by the time he found the composure to make it to the front door, he found not a soul there, the streets all dark and to all appearances deserted. We still don't know who it was. Looter? Lone resident who stayed? Someone needing help? Maybe just someone who saw his flashlight and noticed the boards removed from the front door and wanted to talk to another human. Disasters tend to remove the need for awkward introductions. People in the line at Wal-Mart become your best friend and the stranger in the boarded up house in your zip code your only connection to the outside world.

Anyway, Glenn made it through the night at our house, and stayed to clean up around there this morning, not knowing when he'd be able to return. We feel certain that once road crews and emergency vehicles go out to assess the damage in Jackson County, they'll start blocking off roads and won't allow people to return for several days. I have borrowed a generator and a small AC, in anticipation for the coming weeks with 95 degree weather and no electricity. I've even begun planning a nifty outdoor shower in our backyard that may make us the most popular people on the block. So here I sit, exiled in Greenville*, family around me, waiting to go home. I'm personally just grateful to have something to go home to, and to know already that, from our standpoint, everything's going to be okay.

I just wish my heart knew that. With so much destruction, we feel terrible for all the others, especially our neighbors a few doors down who my husband just informed me lost their homes to storm surge. Why we were spared, I just don't know.

Please pray for those in need, and know that I may not have internet for a while, so don't be concerned if I don't post. I may have to drive to Mobile or points north to get connected, so how that will work remains to be seen.

My husband also just informed me that people are starting to return to the neighborhood, so I'm going to try to go back today after all. He says that the further east he drove, the destruction was considerably less, so the roads may be passable. If I encounter water, a tree, or the authorities, I'll try to find an alternate route, or turn around and go back north.

Wish me luck! Sorry this was so long, but it's felt good to write it all out and express my sincere thanks. Hope you were able to hang in there until now. Thank you and God bless.

* Exile in Guyville is one of my favorite albums ever. Liz Phair will surely forgive me for appropriating her title.

Posted by Rachel at August 30, 2005 08:38 AM