Scenes from Helene

Wednesday:

It’s been raining hard for days.  I have my car and mom’s car in the parking area, but also my cousin Halcott’s RV. I let him keep it there so that when I’m out of town, he’ll come by to check on it and the house. It’s a good trade.  Halcott and I discuss the plan.

Me: I wanna move my car and mom’s truck down to main street away from the trees. Then you can park your RV closer to the house away from the trees.

Halcott: That  was going to be my suggestion.

Me: The rain is the thing I’m most worried about. We’ve had all this rain before the big storm even comes. I’m worried about the roots coming  free because the ground is saturated.

H: Yes.

Thursday morning:

Halcott and I and Mom meet to take the cars down.

Mom: I don’t think we need to move the cars.

Me: What basis do you have for that? You have no idea what you’re talking about.

Mom: It doesn’t seem bad.

Me: We have trees come down all the time here. Three of them landed on Halcott’s RV two years ago. We get 30-50mph gusts starting November, but those come from the west. I think we’re only going to be getting 10-30mph from this storm, but they’re going to be coming from the south and east and the trees might snap because of that, if they don’t fall over from the ground being soaked through.

Halcott: Yes.

Thursday evening:

Me: I’ll sleep out on the couch. I want you to sleep downstairs in my bed.

Mom: No. I wanna stay upstairs in my bed up there. I have it the way I want it.

Me:  If a tree comes down or snaps, I don’t want you impaled.

Mom: That’s not going to happen. I’ll be fine.

Me: Again…you say that based on what? I live up here. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.  Trees snap all the time. I pay a fortune to the tree guy to cut down trees every year. Your happy feeling isn’t going to stop a tree from coming through and spearing you.

Mom: How about I stay up there, but if you really think it’s an issue later, I’ll come down to the couch if you tell me to?

Me: And you’re not going to argue if I do that?

Mom: No.

Friday morning (about 5am; dark)

Me: Mom. Time to go downstairs. Wind’s picked up.

She complies.

Power goes out about 6am. I hear cracking and snapping outside

7am. Daylight.

I get a text from my cousin William that maybe we should move our cars since the wind is whipping and he’s worried a branch will get his corvette or new truck. I text back, “Too late. I did that yesterday.”  

I go to the dining room door and video out back. It’s raining heavily.  The tarp Halcott put over the RV has been blown off some. 

The tree tops are whipping around. 

There are leaves all over the porch and the porch is soaked, but nothing major appears to be happening.

 I empty the freezer and fridge into my marine cooler.  I look out the front door window and it looks like a tree is down in my neighbor’s yard across the street.  Mom’s tooling around on her iPad. I tell her she might wanna conserve battery,  but she says she has two backup battery packs. She’s watching radar, so cell signal is working.

10am.

The wind has not let up. Surprising that it’s lasted this long.

Noon.

The wind appears to have died down. I hear beeping like maybe from a power truck. It’s still raining, but lighter. I put on ratty old sneakers, basketball shorts, and a camo gortex jacket.  My back yard is strewn with leaves. 

As I walk down the driveway, I look at my heavily wooded side lot. I spot a tree (I think a Locust) that snapped half-way up. 

At the end of the driveway, a powerline is down across it.  At the street,  I look down one way; it’s messy with leaves. There’s a snapped power pole in front of my side lot. 

I turn the other  direction. There’s a mini-excavator at the top of the hill.

I look over and my neighbors’ largest tree has gone right the hell over and wiped out the majority of their front porch and part of their great room. I take a picture and text them (they’re out of town), “I have terrible news for you.” I text the picture.

As I get to the top of the hill, the mini-excavator isn’t the power company. It’s my tree-cutting guy and his worker.  I express shock at the amount of trees down. He guesses it may be weeks before the power comes back on. He heads off to open up more roads.

I go to my other neighbor on my side of the road and check out their house. There are two trees down in the back yard, but there’s minimal damage. I text them (they live in Sumter), “No damage to your roof. Tree came down in your back yard. Messed up under porch trellis.”

I come back to the street and look across to other neighbors.  My heart sinks. There’s a gigantic tree that’s gone into their house, about where I know their bedroom is.  

Am I going to find dead folks?  I knock on the door. Nothing. I knock louder. Nothing. I try the handle and the door opens. “Susan? David? It’s me, Andre.”

I hear noise from kitchen. I come in. Susan is getting herself out of the nest of couch cushions she’s set up on the floor in there. She doesn’t look traumatized, per se. She looks tired/weary. 

“We’re okay. It came through the bedroom while we were in bed. But we’re fine."  She walks past me and indicates for me to follow. We go to the bedroom. There’s the other angle of the gigantic tree. Right above their bed. 

I leave.

I walk past Halcott’s house. He’s in his garage fidgeting with a generator.  He and his wife are okay. I tell him I’ll be right back. Need to check on the cousins' houses. 

William won’t answer his door. I beat on the door. Nothing. I go around back and a tree has fallen on his house, but it appears to have just messed up shingles. I go back to his door. I try the handle. It’s open.

“It’s Andre. Don’t shoot!”

I have to keep hollering because he’s hard of hearing. As I get near his bedroom, I hear him.

“I’m fine.”

“You have tree resting on the house, but all things considered, you’re okay. Vehicles are fine too. I have to get over to Reola and Camp David and see how they’re doing.”

“Okay.”

I leave his place and walk over to “Reola”, the house my great-great-grandfather built. Tree's down in the road. Snapped.

I walk the property. Miraculously, it’s fine.  Pfew.

I walk back to Halcott.

“Generator’s fine, but the battery for it is kaput.”

“Your RV is fine. The tarp got moved,  but other than that, it’s good.”

“If I can move the RV to a flatter spot, I can get its generator going.”

“Sure. Go ahead. But keep it on the gravel.”

“Can we do that now?”

“Give me a bit.  I need to get to my uncle’s house first.”

The rain is not heavy, but it just keeps coming. As I walk the third of a mile over to Camp David, it’s mostly branches down.  There's a top of a tree that snapped on my property and nearly crushed my mail box.

Walking down my street, a deer comes out of the woods and looks at me.

As I get closer to my Uncle's house., there are trees down on the road. One of uncle’s trees fell, taking out the power line and blocking  the road.

I get up to his house and walk around. There are trees down in the woods around his house, but none on the house or any blocking his driveways.

I call his daughter and in garbled transmission, try to let her know the house is fine. The call drops and I can’t get it to go through again. I text her that the house is fine.

As I walk back, cars are trying to get around the downed trees and power lines there to get out of town. I text mom, “You need to get packed, ASAP.”

I go back to Halcott and we go to get his RV moved to flat land. As we’re doing that, Teddy and Jennifer, friends who live up on a nearby hill come by with their dogs.  They had some flooding in their downstairs, but no tree damage. We talk about how bad things are. We had no idea the wind would be so strong up here, this far away from the coast.

“Only way out of town is down to Henderson and then around to Ozone. Charles is completely blocked. We had to duck through trees to get through that way.”

Mom comes out on the porch while we’re talking. 

“Are you packed?”

“It doesn’t seem so bad,” she says, looking at my yard.

“You haven’t seen it. It’s bad. Trees went through the neighbors' houses. Power lines are down everywhere.”

I don’t want to do this in front of  Teddy and Jennifer. We make our goodbyes. They leave.

“We have to get you out of here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good decision.”

“I don’t mean to be harsh, but you literally have no usefulness, whatsoever, here. You’re a 75yo woman.”

“I’m stronger than I look. Like someone in their fifties.”

I look at her.

“I can help!”

“How?”

“I can cook.”

“Cook? With what power?”

“Oh.”

“Right now there’s no power and limited food. No. You gotta go.”

“Well how do we know that I can?”

“Cell service has gone wonky. I’ll follow you to South Carolina and when I get a signal, I’ll confirm the path is clear.”

“I only have a quarter tank of gas.”

“We’ll get you to a gas station down there.”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“You need to go. All this rain up here is going to flood the SC river systems and wash over the interstate like it did last month and we need to get you home before that happens.”

3pm

We walk down Charles street, through the downed trees, and get to the vehicles on main street.

Other than leaves plastered on them, they’re fine. We get up to the house and I get her loaded up. She follows me and we head out of town. As we get to the exit, we stop at the gas station. The power’s out and dozens of cars are there. I tell her to follow me and we’ll head to exit 1 in SC.   As we’re going down the mountain, I see NC DOT stopping westbound traffic to cut trees off the road. The westbound lanes are packed.  It’s going to take me a long time to get back up to Saluda.  As we get to the Landrum exit, all the gas station signs I can see from the interstate are not lit up. No power so no way to pump gas. I pull over on the edge of the exit ramp and walk back to mom.

“You’re going to have to keep driving until you see power.”

“I only have a quarter tank.”

“That should get you far enough to find power and gas. I have to head back up. I was able to get signal on the maps app and you’re clear to Charleston.”

“Okay. Well, other than this, I had a good time this trip. Love you.”

“Yeah. Sorry to be brusque, but you need  to get home. I’ll check in when I can. Love you.”

I get in the car to head back up; almost immediately, I’m stuck in the westbound jam. 

It takes me 45 minutes to get back to the Saluda exit, partially because signs are saying that everywhere past the Saluda exit is blocked off. I get back to town and park the car back on main road.

I see people congregating by the pub. I knock on the door and the owner lets me in. There’s a lantern.

“Want a beer?”

The CO2 system is working, but the beer’s warming. It’ll be ruined soon enough.

“I guess 'why not?'"

He pours me a beer. I go out back where the locals are huddled up. I see Teddy and Jennifer again. There’s talk of lake lure’s dam failing. People say the power might be out weeks. People on town water have water, but then the folks on wells have no water because their well pumps require electricity. I drink my beer. My phone rings. It’s a  different cousin. First time my phone has worked in hours. Explain that it’s a catastrophe. Call drops. I head up the hill to the house. I could clean up, but I’m exhausted. I crawl into the bed.

7pm. 

I get up and go to walk back to town. They’ve already cleared Charles street of the trees, if not the downed power lines. One of the downed trees off on the side of the road has water bubbling out near its roots, where it tore out the water line as it fell.

At the top of Charles street, my phone erupts with every notification it could possibly make. I’m startled. I don’t move an inch though. As I scroll through the texts of worried family and friends, I see that the texts I thought I’d sent much earlier, all just went out right then. That spurs another round of frantic texts from neighbors and cousins. I call who I can to explain what’s going on. 

Mom’s husband calls while I’m standing there. Tells me Mom made it to exit 38, but there wasn’t gas. They had power though.

“I’ll go get her.”

“She says no. She’s going to wait there until the next gas comes. They said they’ll let her stay there while she waits.”

“Okay.”

A woman who lives on Charles street walks up.

“I just got a signal RIGHT HERE,” I tell her.

“I’ve got Verizon but I haven’t been able to get any calls or texts out. I can only receive texts.”

“Yeah, me too. Until just now and right here.”

“Well, it’s too late to fool with it now.”

“Welcome to the 1800s.”

“I guess so.”

It’s nearly dark so I go back to the house. I find my candles and a lantern to put one in. I pull brats out of  the cooler and cook them on my grill. I eat in my living room. 

Later I read under the candle light. I get to bed early. The house is damp because the dehumidifiers are off, of course.

Saturday:

I decide there’s not much point in me being up there with no power. All I’m going to do is be an extra person straining emergency services. I pull my bar off the porch and tidy up some and pack. I have an electric water tank, so I guess, correctly, that there’s still hot water. I take a hot, dark shower.  I go to get my car. I spot folks I know and we chat. They mention that there was a prepper’s convention in town and the preppers staying at the AirBnBs and Inn are all panicked about the power being off. We laugh and laugh about that.  They also mention that someone had stolen a chainsaw and gas can out of a trunk yesterday.

“Yeah, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but I’m worried some of these people out driving around aren’t just lookie-loos. They might be scouting to loot.” They nod.

I get the car and as I’m driving to the house, I look at the other neighbor’s house, Ms. Thomas’. I didn’t check it yesterday. I hear a generator coming from her house. One of my trees fell across her driveway though. She’ll be fine, I tell myself. Then I say, no. Make sure. I park my car and walk to her house. I knock on the door.

“Ms. Thomas, do you have anyone looking after you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’m your neighbor, Andre Rembert…”

“Andre Rembert! We’re kin!”

“Yes, well, one of my trees is blocking your driveway.”

“It’s an awful mess.”

“I hear you have a generator, but I’ll get you cut out so you can leave.”

“Leave?”

“Yeah. Power’s going to be out for a long time. You know anywhere you can go?”

“I know people  in Charlotte,” she says hesitantly.

“I’d really recommend getting out and going to them.”

“Oh.”

“Well, let me get you cut out. I’ll be back.”

I go over to Halcott’s. We try to get his chainsaw working but it won’t start. Dangit. As we’re walking to my house, some off-duty fire fighters are walking around, assessing the damage. We mention needing to get Mrs. Thomas out. They tell us they can help us in thirty minutes or so. We nod.

 I get an axe from my house and Halcott gets a saw.  I start chopping on one end and he starts sawing the other.  Chopping wet wood is HARD. My pulse spikes and I’m worn out fairly easily. Still, it’s got to be done. 

I get 80% of the way through the damned thing and Halcott suggests wrapping a chain around it and pulling it free with his truck. Good idea.

Bad idea. Chain popped. But right about then, the fire fighters showed up and buzz buzz buzz made quick work of the thing and we got her driveway cleared, save for the downed, dead power line she’d have to drive over. 

I go back up to her house.

“I don’t think I’m going to go.”

“I don’t recommend that, but okay.”

“I haven’t been able to get in touch with my daughter.”

“I’m leaving to go to Charleston now. If you give me her number, I’ll call her once I get a signal and let her know you’re okay.”

“You’d do that?”

I nod.

“Oh, thank you.”

She hands me a scrawled note with her daughter’s name and number on it. She also gives me a loaf of pumpkin bread for being “her hero.” I demure but she insists. I carry the pumpkin bread to the fire fighters who are still at the end of the driveway.

“She wants y’all to have this for getting her driveway cleared.”

They happily accept it.

I take another only lukewarm-now, dark shower, pack up the car (including my weapons. Don’t want looters getting those).  

I have three quarters of a tank; more than enough to get to the lowcountry. I get to the interstate, point the car east, and away I go.