Dark Times, by Hurricane Helene

Creek, far beyond its bounds.

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Well, my goodness. I've lived in upstate South Carolina for ten years, I grew up in the western North Carolina mountains, and I've never seen anything like Hurricane Helene. 

We have a bit of guilt, actually, those of us who live inland from the coast. Of course we all have friends and family who live at the beach, maybe at Myrtle, or Charleston, or Wilmington. Our coastal relations regularly have to prepare for hurricanes. They regularly have to decide whether to evacuate or hunker down and endure. It's part of southeast beach life.

So when we hear a hurricane is coming, up here in the upstate, we check on our beach folk, encourage them to come visit us for the weekend, and then silently look forward to a nice, windy, rainy few days. There's a little twinge of guilt, knowing that we're looking forward to the same storm that will hurt people and do property damage. We discuss this guilt, sometimes.

Growing up in the mountains in western North Carolina, hurricanes were an even remoter danger. We knew that the mountains would break up tornadoes, knew that earthquakes were for California, and that hurricanes might bring rain. That couldn't even be counted on. They just lose steam before they come this far. Everyone knew it. We were safe in the mountains.

Every hurricane season for the decade I've lived here, we've worried over spaghetti models and worked up a froth over projected rainfall totals and wind speeds. Things could get bad, we tell each other. And then things never get bad. After a while, I think the most paranoid among us could be forgiven for relaxing her guard.

So hardly anyone expected anything different from the stay-in-and-read weekend we've had with every other hurricane we've ever experienced here.

When it rained all day Thursday, we thought little of it. Flood warnings had been issued, but we live in a rainy place. Five or more inches of rain have fallen in the course of an afternoon shower on more than one occasion. The wind began to pick up in the early hours of Friday, and we thought little of it. Sometimes these toothless hurricanes bring a little wind.

Our electricity winked out before dawn. We didn't even stop opening the refrigerator door. Always the electricity has been back on within minutes. The longest stretch we'd experienced was most of the day one winter a few years back. We were confident things would return to normal quickly.

As dawn broke and the wind didn't die down, I finally thought of securing the benches on the front porch. They were beginning to knock around and I was worried about the windows. I opened the front door and was blown back by the hard wind and rain slicing sideways through it. I abandoned the benches to their fates and struggled the door closed. I've got decent arm strength, I like to think. I'm a farmer. That was some wind.

The trees on the farm are far from the house. Trees line the two creeks that line the back of our property. As it got light enough to see, we could tell the trees were in a fight for their lives. The wind tossed them, bent them, broke branches and whole tops, and then, whole trees. The trees that had grown large root systems by growing right on the banks of the creeks were too susceptible, too heavy, the soil too wet, and they went down like dominoes. The sound of Hurricane Helene was the rain pelting the windows, and the creak, groan, and snap of breaking trees.

And then, there was sunshine. The wind died away. Helene had moved on. We put on our boots and went to see how high the creek had flooded. It was a beautiful day as we explored the back of our property, our daughter and cat scrambling up and down the now-horizontal trees. Dozens of trees had fallen from each side of the creek to the other, making a tangle where the two creeks meet like a pile of giant pick-up sticks.

The peonies are planted on high, dry ground, and could not have cared less about a hurricane. The water drains between, around, and through them, and heads down here to swell the creek.

An excursion was made to see how the outside world had fared. Video and photos were brought back to me of places, close places, where the trees had been closer to important things: sheds, houses. Power lines. It was clear from the number of trees in power lines that it would be a long cleanup. We stopped opening the refrigerator door.

I'm not sure if I can describe to you the next six days. If you've been in a power outage, and who of us hasn't, you know what it is. The million little workarounds for the dead appliances in your home, the realization of how easy your life was before, the constant uncertainty about how long this will last. Food and its timely preparation become a constant preoccupation, as do sanitation and water. It's a rustic camping trip, but one that you didn't plan, and with your silent house as your tent.

Still, it was hard and fascinating and joyful and tedious, and many things that everyday life is, but in a different way. Our neighbors were lovely, checking on each other, lending us a generator, letting us fill up our water jugs, offering generator-powered showers. Bored children scattered around the neighborhood, helping pick up sticks and clear debris. Evenings were candlelit. Candlelight is delightful, especially if it's a novelty you're sure is temporary. Bucket baths really are very nice, with water warmed on a camp stove. Toilets that won't flush on their own are not so delightful. Darkness takes finesse to navigate without stubbing toes and spilling hot wax.

Slowly our damaged communications began to come back online, and we began to understand the kind of disaster that's happened in the mountains to the north of us. Floods, broken roads, people stranded, loved ones missing...it made our disaster seem comfortable by comparison. How could it happen? The mountains stop everything. They're too far inland. But it did, and their worries are far worse than trees snarled in power lines.

As power came back on for those around us, they offered over and over the kindest, best thing anyone could think of. "Would you like a hot shower?" they said. "Who wants a hot shower?"

This time the beach folk got a reprieve. There was rain at the coast and nothing more. They offered us homes with showers and lights, a reversal of the usual order of things. They're familiar with the needs of hurricane refugees, and eager to fill them for once. They may not get the chance again. We sincerely hope they don't.

This morning, six days after Helene blew through, the ceiling fans that had been still for all that time began to turn. The lamps we'd had on before dawn on Friday lit up again, offering strange lighting for almost lunchtime. Appliances beeped and woke up again, asking what time it was. 

And our blackout was over, just as suddenly as it began. We rolled up the tangle of extension cords that had kept our vital items going, raced for showers, loaded clothes in the washing machine, turned on the blessed air conditioning. And I thought how odd it is that you can be so wistful for something you wished so much would end. Wistful within minutes of its ending.

Tonight our house is lit up with more light than we've seen in nearly a week. I'm holding that dark and quiet time in my mind, wondering where it goes on my mental shelves. Was it magical or miserable? Was it an adventure or a hardship? Was it new or very, very old? Yes.