Read by Michael Flamel

We interrupt our regularly scheduled garden story . . . because we have been severely interrupted ourselves.

By Hurricane Helene.

North Carolina’s Asheville—and our outlying community of Fairview—were the areas hardest hit by that monstrous tropical storm. We were featured on the national news for days in a row.

At least that’s what they tell me (helicopter overhead). How could we know? We had—and have—no power, no cell phone, no internet. Most roads are impassable due to landslides, fallen trees, downed powerlines, and washouts (helicopter overhead). No stores—none—were open.

My wonderful wife, Becky, and I were stuck at home. But, hey, we still had our home! Our church pastor and his family had to evacuate theirs after two trees fell on it. (“We were huddled under our dining-room table. Noel and I drank our last two beers; the kids ate the last of our cookies.”)

We still had our lives: a good number were lost. We could cook on our gas stove. And for the moment we had lots to eat—especially fridge and freezer food before it went bad. (“What two meats do you want for breakfast today, dear? How about liver and hot dogs?”)

We had light: head lamps, candles, kerosene lanterns. (“Want to play gin rummy by candlelight again tonight, dear?”)

What we did not have was running water. A huge 150-foot landslide completely scoured the little cove our spring was in, down to bare rock and mud. Not a piece of wood or section of pipe was left. So, nope, no water.

We also no longer had driving access to our home. The bridge that spans our tiny creek was broken: one side had dropped five feet. I mean it when I say our creek is tiny—it’s normally about eight feet across and trills soothingly below our back deck.

Not on Friday, Sept. 27, 2024. That morning a roaring brown maelstrom of water raced down the creek bed as fast as water out a fire hose. The rumble of rolling rocks underwater sounded like thunder.

Curious what was happening to the dirt road our drive runs into, I walked across our bridge and started down the road (helicopter overhead). It was covered with running water, like a flat river. I went a little way, got nervous, and turned around. When I got back to our bridge, water was rushing over one side!

It was about eight inches deep. My wife and house were on the other side! I felt pretty sure I could cross it—and did. Ten minutes later that side of the bridge collapsed. No crossing it now! Step into that miniature Grand Canyon and your body would show up some day downstream.

The good news is that the night before, we had driven our cars out to a neighbor’s higher-ground farm, left them there, and walked home. (Yes—Stone did something right for a change!) So at least we still had the ability to drive places (when the roads clear). What with all the hundreds of broken bridges, homes, and roads in our area, it may be a year or more before we can get our bridge fixed. We’ve set a ladder up so we can climb up from the low side of the bridge to our house side of the driveway. We’ll put in stairs soon to make that easier (helicopter overhead).

You know, we all read and see footage of disasters everywhere from forest fires in California to destroyed homes in Gaza. We feel horribly sorry for the victims for a few moments—then check the sports scores or movie listings.

How different it is to be inside a disaster, one where you can’t change the channel and have it go away. (Helicopter overhead—we hear them throughout the day, transporting bodies, moving hospital patients, evacuating trapped communities, bringing in supplies.) The effects of Helene will be with us for years. Some people have family losses that will never go away. Businesses, homes, even small communities have been wiped out. Much of the landscape will never be the same.

Two overall impressions. One is the weird sensation of holding two contradictory feelings at once. Becky and I are extremely grateful for how well off we are. Things like toting toilet-flush water up from the creek are inconveniences, not real problems. We have enough food for now. We can go out to a local ‘hot spot’ to make calls or use the internet. At the same time, we do feel traumatized by the large-scale horror of the event. I’m often anxious, unsettled, like my lungs are buzzing. I have—regretfully—snapped at Becky a few times. Apologizing afterwards is not as good as if I hadn’t done it.

My other impression is gratitude—for how much people have reached out to help. One neighbor brought over a five-gallon jug of drinking water and a Costco-sized package of fresh wipes. Another showed up with two five-gallon jugs of gasoline (precious stuff). Freezer jam and bagels. Boxes of nonperishable foodstuffs—beef jerky and powdered milk, anyone? People come by, walking up our bridge ladder, just to see how we’re doing. I can’t tell you how touching it is to have such caring human interaction. Yesterday, my neighbor Franklin Sides showed up in the morning and said, “Pat, today we’re going to get you water!” Sure enough, Franklin and a strong young man he knows spent the entire day helping me snake hundreds of feet of black plastic pipe through the woods and up to one of Franklin’s three springs. (I spent a lovely afternoon belly crawling through rhododendron hells, 200-foot section in hand; it’s a good thing I have a deep fondness for rhododendron.) By 5 p.m.—Eureka!—we had it! If I turn a spigot in our home now, guess what? Real, wet, clear water comes out.

I told Dane, Franklin’s friend, that I thought I’d open one of our last six beers that night at home to celebrate—and the next thing I knew bushy-bearded, good-old-boy Dane had handed me his last three beers and insisted I keep them. “Only if you drink one with me right now,” I said. He did, then went off in his monster truck to Craigtown, the most hard-hit area of Fairview. “If I can help someone find a missing body of a family member so they’ll at least have some feeling of resolution . . . ” he said as he drove off.

Another helicopter passed overhead.

God bless. ❖