It's been a while, but it's been a tough couple of weeks for sure. I turned 37 a week ago today and it was a quiet event. Today, though, I received in the mail a gift from an old friend. It was a copy of "The Giving Tree," a book I had once given him and a book that was among those lost to the flood waters. It was one of the best birthday gifts I've ever received and it will always be a reminder to me of what really matters most in all this - the relationships I have with the dearest of friends.
It's hard sometimes to keep that in mind as everything stands still. I'm at a stalling point with the house, just waiting on money and a personal decision about what to do with it. My job is in limbo. Rumor is I might start working from home a little bit in a few weeks. Rumor is my building might reopen sometime around Thanksgiving. Rumor is there still could be massive layoffs and UTMB is hosting job fairs and resource centers for employees. Meanwhile, the paychecks keep getting deposited through Nov. 14, hopefully.
It is nearly impossible to describe the past six weeks of my life. I never imagined that when mother and I left town that morning of Sept. 12, that I was leaving behind life as I knew it. Everything changed. Everything. It's not just the stuff that is gone, it is a way of life that has changed significantly. I'm a border in my mother's house, trying not to invade her space with what stuff I do happen to have. Trying not to invade her routine more than necessary. It's a challenge.
My entire daily routine is different. Unlike some folks who seem to be bored without work everyday, I have managed to find multiple ways to occupy my time. I'd like to go back to work just as a reassurance that I still have a job, but I have discovered I do not need a job to identify who I am.
While some progress is being made, so much is still left to be done. Driving through some neighborhoods this evening after dark was an almost eerie experience. Entire neighborhoods completely dark. No lights on at houses. No street lights. Just empty areas. We drove through the Strand district tonight - that's our downtown shopping and business district that was so hard hit by the storm. It's like a ghost town, probably like what it was like 25 years ago before its revitalization. Trash and debris blew through the empty streets that typically would have people walking them. Police patrolled the streets on the lookout for shady characters and trouble in an area of town so deserted. It was sad to see.
I know the future will be better and I know we can't go back. But living in limbo and living in the present moment of Galveston right now is not easy. We can go a day or two without thinking much about what's going on, doing what so many people have and nearly forget that 6 weeks ago we were struck by one of the single worst hurricanes in our history. But then we drive down a different street or run into someone we haven't seen since we've been back and it's a sad reminder of how far we still have to go to reach normal.
I'll try to post some pictures soon of what the island looks like these days. I've been negligent in that - guess I've just been trying to escape myself. I'm just grateful for the good friends who have been there during this, to listen to me rant about whatever needs ranting that day, and who've helped me smile when I thought nothing but tears lay ahead. To the friends, who like Tree, ask for nothing in return, Thank you.
Take care.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Hope
While cleaning out the garage Thursday morning, I came upon my Obama campaign sign. I had tucked it in the garage for safety during the storm and it’s muddy and a little bent and missing the metal stakes to keep it in the ground, but it is now resting on my porch again, its big letters proclaiming HOPE for all to see. I thought it a fitting sign to put up when we were done with about half of the garage.
As I was going through the pile of stuff, trying to figure out what could be cleaned and what just needed to be told so long, I kept trying to find that place where you can see light again. It’s getting hard. We’re definitely making progress and moving forward, but still, you have to wonder about things.
Each year, I take stock of my life in the weeks leading up to my birthday. I look at where I am, and where I want to be, and figure out how to make up the difference between the two. This year is a tough one. I look at my life, pieces of a home strewn across my curb, and I wonder if this is supposed to be a sign or a message. Granted, those who know me well know I don’t believe in signs. Life is what it is and the only reason something happens is the reason we assign it. I’ve said that before and I stand by it. Yet I’m forced to wonder.
For years, I’ve been looking at a way to escape. To run off on some great adventure. But I always had something holding me back – my house, my mother, my work obligations. But now, with mom doing well on her own, my work an uncertain future and a house filled with nothing to move, do I take this as the sign that now is the time to pack up and move on for something? What I can’t identify. Where I’m not quite sure. Why, I have no idea. I just can’t help but wonder, is the hope I’m looking for in the opportunity presenting itself to me and will that opportunity be lost or wasted? Or is the true hope and strength to be found in staying and rebuilding and being part of something bigger?
I was reading my new Oprah magazine tonight and in her column “What I know for sure” Oprah lists about 20 or so of her top thoughts and life rules. I can agree with every one of them, but at the end, I wonder, what do I know for sure? After sorting through my life’s story in collected keepsakes and water-soaked photos, I can only say I know for sure that hope is the only thing to keep us going. In whatever form it takes.
As I was going through the pile of stuff, trying to figure out what could be cleaned and what just needed to be told so long, I kept trying to find that place where you can see light again. It’s getting hard. We’re definitely making progress and moving forward, but still, you have to wonder about things.
Each year, I take stock of my life in the weeks leading up to my birthday. I look at where I am, and where I want to be, and figure out how to make up the difference between the two. This year is a tough one. I look at my life, pieces of a home strewn across my curb, and I wonder if this is supposed to be a sign or a message. Granted, those who know me well know I don’t believe in signs. Life is what it is and the only reason something happens is the reason we assign it. I’ve said that before and I stand by it. Yet I’m forced to wonder.
For years, I’ve been looking at a way to escape. To run off on some great adventure. But I always had something holding me back – my house, my mother, my work obligations. But now, with mom doing well on her own, my work an uncertain future and a house filled with nothing to move, do I take this as the sign that now is the time to pack up and move on for something? What I can’t identify. Where I’m not quite sure. Why, I have no idea. I just can’t help but wonder, is the hope I’m looking for in the opportunity presenting itself to me and will that opportunity be lost or wasted? Or is the true hope and strength to be found in staying and rebuilding and being part of something bigger?
I was reading my new Oprah magazine tonight and in her column “What I know for sure” Oprah lists about 20 or so of her top thoughts and life rules. I can agree with every one of them, but at the end, I wonder, what do I know for sure? After sorting through my life’s story in collected keepsakes and water-soaked photos, I can only say I know for sure that hope is the only thing to keep us going. In whatever form it takes.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Adjusting to a new way of life
Returning home wasn’t the sigh of relief I expected to feel being back on my island. I didn’t expect life to be like it was, but I certainly wasn’t expecting what I’m finding. It’s a new way of living and it will take a bit of adjusting.
Mom and I returned to Galveston on Saturday after spending 3 weeks in San Antonio, far removed from the reality of life back in Galveston. But seeing the seemingly never-ending piles of rubble in front of house after house is a sad reminder of what the storm has left behind. And after hearing grim news from my employer today, I wonder if we’ve really seen the worst of Ike’s damage, or if more is yet to come.
Every business seems to have a “now hiring” sign up, trying to replace employees who couldn’t wait for their jobs and had to find new ones. What businesses are open have limited hours. Restaurants close before 7 p.m. You have to wait in line at Wal-Mart and Target just to get in the store because there isn’t enough staff to accommodate free-flowing traffic inside. Tonight, Wal-Mart was closed at 7 because the crowd inside would take at least 2 hours to clear out and the store closes at 9. So at 7, no more people were let in.
Trying to get someone by to fix a leaky toilet or something minor, yet annoying, as that, is virtually impossible. And I think you can tell that people’s patience is wearing thin. I’m again reminded how strong those folks must have been in 1900. I’m beginning to wonder if I have what it takes to endure the transition back to normal, not knowing how long that will take. Or should we just give up on the idea of normal as we once knew it and accept life on Galveston Island is something new.
I know city leaders are trying to promote that the island is fast on its way to recovery, and even have two major events planned for the fall. But it’s hard to see that recovery when my appliances remain on my curb, waiting to be picked up. Or when you continue to drive through your neighborhood and see all the signs of so much extensive damage. I drove through last night after dark and there were very few houses with people in them – only the empty shells with piles of worldly possessions, sheetrock and AC duct work sitting on the curb.
Life right now for me is a series of tasks all aimed at moving forward. Today, I spent 3 hours with the folks at the Texas Windstorm Association so I could get an advance on my windstorm coverage’s evacuations costs. I’m finally starting to see some of the aid and insurance money coming in, but still, it’s overwhelming to try and figure out a budget for spending it. What comes first? Clothes, since the only clothes I have are the ones I evacuate with and what I purchased in San Antonio. Or should I pay my outstanding bills for cleanup? Do I try to find somewhere else to live or just ride it out with mom for several months? Do I start to look for a job elsewhere or just consider it a sign if I end up losing my job over all of this? And just how will I continue the nearly full-time job of recovery while returning to work in two weeks?
At least in San Antonio we had a sense of hope that all would be well and normal again. Being back home seems to strip a little of that hope each day. Every time I think I’m doing OK and have come to terms and am at peace about what happened, something pops up to remind me how upside life feels right now and that the life I knew was washed out with the tide.
Mom and I returned to Galveston on Saturday after spending 3 weeks in San Antonio, far removed from the reality of life back in Galveston. But seeing the seemingly never-ending piles of rubble in front of house after house is a sad reminder of what the storm has left behind. And after hearing grim news from my employer today, I wonder if we’ve really seen the worst of Ike’s damage, or if more is yet to come.
Every business seems to have a “now hiring” sign up, trying to replace employees who couldn’t wait for their jobs and had to find new ones. What businesses are open have limited hours. Restaurants close before 7 p.m. You have to wait in line at Wal-Mart and Target just to get in the store because there isn’t enough staff to accommodate free-flowing traffic inside. Tonight, Wal-Mart was closed at 7 because the crowd inside would take at least 2 hours to clear out and the store closes at 9. So at 7, no more people were let in.
Trying to get someone by to fix a leaky toilet or something minor, yet annoying, as that, is virtually impossible. And I think you can tell that people’s patience is wearing thin. I’m again reminded how strong those folks must have been in 1900. I’m beginning to wonder if I have what it takes to endure the transition back to normal, not knowing how long that will take. Or should we just give up on the idea of normal as we once knew it and accept life on Galveston Island is something new.
I know city leaders are trying to promote that the island is fast on its way to recovery, and even have two major events planned for the fall. But it’s hard to see that recovery when my appliances remain on my curb, waiting to be picked up. Or when you continue to drive through your neighborhood and see all the signs of so much extensive damage. I drove through last night after dark and there were very few houses with people in them – only the empty shells with piles of worldly possessions, sheetrock and AC duct work sitting on the curb.
Life right now for me is a series of tasks all aimed at moving forward. Today, I spent 3 hours with the folks at the Texas Windstorm Association so I could get an advance on my windstorm coverage’s evacuations costs. I’m finally starting to see some of the aid and insurance money coming in, but still, it’s overwhelming to try and figure out a budget for spending it. What comes first? Clothes, since the only clothes I have are the ones I evacuate with and what I purchased in San Antonio. Or should I pay my outstanding bills for cleanup? Do I try to find somewhere else to live or just ride it out with mom for several months? Do I start to look for a job elsewhere or just consider it a sign if I end up losing my job over all of this? And just how will I continue the nearly full-time job of recovery while returning to work in two weeks?
At least in San Antonio we had a sense of hope that all would be well and normal again. Being back home seems to strip a little of that hope each day. Every time I think I’m doing OK and have come to terms and am at peace about what happened, something pops up to remind me how upside life feels right now and that the life I knew was washed out with the tide.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Heading home
Just a quick entry for those keeping up.....I'll write a bit more later. Mom and I are heading home this morning. Home being her house for me. We'll be without AC, but we have power and will be back around friends and at home. I'm still on leave from work until Oct. 20, with the possibility it could get bumped a week either way. I'll be spending this week sorting through what little is left in my garage, and shopping for some new work clothes. Even on the island shorts and t-shirts (the extent of my current wardrobe) don't work in the office.
Our land lines are still uncertain and internet access is spotty if it even exists. So it might be a while before I can log on again. Best way to reach me will be my cell phone or mom's cell phone.
Take care and I'll post more when I'm back home.
heidi
Our land lines are still uncertain and internet access is spotty if it even exists. So it might be a while before I can log on again. Best way to reach me will be my cell phone or mom's cell phone.
Take care and I'll post more when I'm back home.
heidi
Friday, September 26, 2008
To persevere
Persevere — to maintain a purpose in spite of difficulty, obstacles, or discouragement; continue steadfastly.
An old friend recently offered one simple word — the only word of comfort and advice she felt she could offer that was appropriate. Persevere she told me. I thought of that Thursday when we left mom’s house to go see my house and I looked up to see a squirrel scurrying across the power line carrying some food source in its mouth. That squirrel didn’t wonder why any of this happened. Nor did it sit back and wallow in the self-pity that can so easily come after such an event as a hurricane. That squirrel did the only thing it knows to do – scavenge for food so it can survive. And I realized that’s exactly what I have to do — take care of what faces me now and move forward.
Exactly two weeks after I boarded up my house, I returned to take down the boards and see first-hand the damage left behind by Hurricane Ike. Without question, Thursday was a tough day — the end of two weeks of wonder at exactly what the inside of my house looks like and what damage I sustained. Today, I feel a bit of relief, mixed with sadness, grief and a host of other emotions. But I know now that from this point forward I’m on the way to recovery.
Mom and I left San Antonio at 6 a.m. Thursday and returned sometime around 2 a.m. Friday. On the drive in, it was obvious that we were getting closer to the coast. As we approached Houston, we began to see tarps on roofs, fences being braced temporarily and trees down. The tarps became more frequent the closer we got to Galveston. The fences were soon just gone and not braced. And then we began to approach the causeway to Galveston and the signs of Ike were everywhere.
Debris still lined the freeway. Boats still washed ashore along the roadside. Piles of trash and debris sitting in front of houses. Every bit of greenery – now brown. Our wetlands leading into the island – brown. The trees that line Broadway, our main point of entry, stood without leaves.
It was sad. Terribly sad to see my island in such condition. A friend today told me that it’s considerably better than what it was when she first went back a week ago. There’s progress that can be seen she said. That amazes me. The pictures in the news don't even begin to convey what the island really looks like right now. Trees still sit uprooted around the block from me. My neighborhood looks like a slum out of some bad movie. Furniture. Appliances. Clothing. Personal effects. They all line the streets of my neighborhood while more is being add by people sporting the latest in island casual wear — waterproof boots, masks, heavy-duty gloves.
We got to mom’s house and found it to be in fairly good shape. In face, other than the place where she lost a window upstairs, the inside looks exactly as we left it last Friday. She did have a window blow out and it messed up her upstairs landing. She had a little flooding in her garage, but it mostly affected stuff I had left there. Her chimney is crooked, a piece of fence is broken and lots and lots of tree debris and other trash fill her yard. She took water beneath the house and likely lost one air conditioner unit and perhaps both. We are waiting on an electrician to inspect her property to determine the extent of that damage and how long it will take to repair. When the electricity is cleared at her place, we’ll move in there while my house makes its slow road to recovery.
About my house - it was bad. Nasty, slimy, smelly and trashed beyond comprehension. It's amazing what water can do, but I have been reminded that it was water that carved the Grand Canyon. The force of water is remarkable — items just floated through the house and landed in different places. The front door was blocked by living room furniture. My back door blocked by the refrigerator. My laundry room by the washing machine.
The stench of the air is indescribable. The best I can do is some blend of sewer and dead fish and something unidentifiable. It’s a dank nasty smell that just lingers anywhere in town where it flooded. My yard has about ankle-deep sludge settled on it. Some of it has dried on the surface while other areas are still soft and slick. It’s slipperier than any mud I’ve ever encountered. And it smells. Bad. When I opened the door to my house, I discovered that same mud providing a 2-3 inch coating on my floors. The smell permeated a mask and Vick’s VapoRub that I had smeared below my nostrils.
It was weird, the air in mom's house felt different. My house felt damp just walking in. Everything inside still feels damp. Mold had grown up some three feet on my walls already. Pieces of sheetrock were bubbled and peeling. A thick coat of the sludge lined any surface where water sat. Some containers still had water in them. Furniture was tossed and moved all over the house. Bookshelves collapsed. My piano not only was on its back but was also smashed. I had to move lots of furniture just to try to get around. Couldn't get in my front craft room/study because bookshelves collapsed and blocked the door. I could get in enough though to see my bike buried beneath the rubble. My bed blocked my bedroom door. The tub is coated in a nasty filth. Door were coming off the hinges.
Amid the rubble of my house, I would find strange little pockets were stuff was spared. A table floated just slightly away from the fall and none of the vases resting on it looked like they even moved. Two sand dollars that I had just sitting flat on top of my piano landed safely on the ground, still intact. A ceramic sculpture of my house that was on the piano again, landed safely and did not break. The piano is smashed but delicate items on top of it were safe. The behavior of the water is amazing. The big heavy furniture was thrashed about, but the small items that floated about were gently let down as the water receded.
A ring my father made remained in the glass container in which I kept it. Photo albums I placed on the dining room table survived for the most part. Those at the bottom of the pile received water, but the rest were dry. Much like pockets of the island that received no significant damage. You have to wonder.
I was able to meet with my flood insurance adjuster and will likely received the full amount of my insurance policy. Essentially my house was totaled in his professional opinion. The exterior of the structure is mostly unharmed – it’s just the inside that needs to be taken to the studs and renovated from the beginning, again. I’m still waiting to hear about my windstorm claim, the second of three insurance policies we have to have on our houses here. I’m hoping that will supplement with some external damage.
Not long after mom and I arrived at my house, a crew came by offering to clean up the landscaping debris in the yard and trim my trees. We went ahead and hired him on the spot, and from what I understand, my yard has already been cleared.
A friend who renovated my bathroom and kitchen has crews on the island offering clean up services. They arrived at the house today and will finish the job tomorrow. They’re cutting sheetrock up four feet. They’ll clean my floors. Trash the stuff that can’t be salvaged. They’re going through the pieces of my life that sat on shelves in boxes or piled in baskets. But my house will be clean and the next step is to get my furniture out of there into a controlled climate environment where it can dry slowly and where I can clean the mold off of it. If I can do that, I’m hoping that some of my old antiques can be salvaged.
My house will be emptied and renovated and it will be a fresh start. As with any loss, the time for grieving passes and the time to move forward comes slowly. But I’m closer to that point every day and I know that I will persevere, as will our tiny island. What choice do we have but to persevere?
NOTE: See pictures of the damage inside my house here.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Gotta have a dip-tet
Monday continued the process of readying ourselves for the trip home on Thursday. It began with a trip to a local HEB where a kind pharmacist updated our tetanus shots. Not as painful as I remember, although my arm is still a bit sore. Then it was the painful process of assigning a value to everything I own. At least now I know where all my money has gone over the years.
It is a difficult process to describe, making a list of everything — absolutely everything — in your house and then assigning a replacement value to it. How do you put a value on Christmas ornaments that have been in your family since childhood? How do you value the trumpet your grandfather played? How do you value the piano on which you learned to play? How do you value albums and boxes of photos from family vacations, friends, important life events? How do you value the original artwork done by family and friends? It’s impossible to attribute a value to everything in my house. But I’ve done what I could. And each day I seem to remember something else.
Little things I see will spark a memory of something in my house that I realize is now gone. Today, it was the Shel Silverstein book “The Giving Tree” that I saw in a shop in Comfort. I realized all of my favorite books are gone. My childhood copies of Dr. Seuss classics. My Beatrix Potter miniatures. My favorite book of nursery rhymes. My Shel Silverstein books. Almost all of them I pull off the shelf from time to time to read and feel better about life.
Then I saw a trumpet for sale in a shop and it hit me – my trumpet and my grandfather’s trumpet were in the garage that took about 6 feet of water. Granted, I haven’t played either in years, but the idea of losing them is heartbreaking to me. I had to leave the shop. I keep thinking of things. The shirt my mother embroidered for me as a child that I still have. My favorite childhood quilt. The dress I wore home from the hospital. Original photos of my grandmother. Not stuff of great monetary value, but of extreme sentimental value to me.
A friend and I were talking the other day and it helped me realize why this is so painful. I’m such a sentimentalist. I keep so many little things that remind of good times in my life. I will always have my memories of the events of my life; I know this. But it’s the loss of all those little everyday symbols of those memories that is painful. Things that connected me to my past. Things that made me feel part of the bigger picture, things that connected me to the world around me.
Perhaps this is lesson I take from all of this. Those symbols are just that – I do not need them to remember the family trip to Pittsburgh with my Gram, or the trip to Florida and the Ringling Bros. winter home. None of that is what makes my memories worthwhile. They are merely trinkets of a lifetime of experiences. Perhaps I will take this opportunity to declutter my life and collect more memories instead of stuff. It’s the only thing I can’t lose.
Coming tomorrow...printing pictures of my house before Ike hit and packing the car for the long drive home
It is a difficult process to describe, making a list of everything — absolutely everything — in your house and then assigning a replacement value to it. How do you put a value on Christmas ornaments that have been in your family since childhood? How do you value the trumpet your grandfather played? How do you value the piano on which you learned to play? How do you value albums and boxes of photos from family vacations, friends, important life events? How do you value the original artwork done by family and friends? It’s impossible to attribute a value to everything in my house. But I’ve done what I could. And each day I seem to remember something else.
Little things I see will spark a memory of something in my house that I realize is now gone. Today, it was the Shel Silverstein book “The Giving Tree” that I saw in a shop in Comfort. I realized all of my favorite books are gone. My childhood copies of Dr. Seuss classics. My Beatrix Potter miniatures. My favorite book of nursery rhymes. My Shel Silverstein books. Almost all of them I pull off the shelf from time to time to read and feel better about life.
Then I saw a trumpet for sale in a shop and it hit me – my trumpet and my grandfather’s trumpet were in the garage that took about 6 feet of water. Granted, I haven’t played either in years, but the idea of losing them is heartbreaking to me. I had to leave the shop. I keep thinking of things. The shirt my mother embroidered for me as a child that I still have. My favorite childhood quilt. The dress I wore home from the hospital. Original photos of my grandmother. Not stuff of great monetary value, but of extreme sentimental value to me.
A friend and I were talking the other day and it helped me realize why this is so painful. I’m such a sentimentalist. I keep so many little things that remind of good times in my life. I will always have my memories of the events of my life; I know this. But it’s the loss of all those little everyday symbols of those memories that is painful. Things that connected me to my past. Things that made me feel part of the bigger picture, things that connected me to the world around me.
Perhaps this is lesson I take from all of this. Those symbols are just that – I do not need them to remember the family trip to Pittsburgh with my Gram, or the trip to Florida and the Ringling Bros. winter home. None of that is what makes my memories worthwhile. They are merely trinkets of a lifetime of experiences. Perhaps I will take this opportunity to declutter my life and collect more memories instead of stuff. It’s the only thing I can’t lose.
Coming tomorrow...printing pictures of my house before Ike hit and packing the car for the long drive home
Monday, September 22, 2008
Refugee supplies
Mother and I might single handedly be keeping the Wal Mart and Target here in business. Seems to be a daily routine to make our run to one or both stores. It’s amazing the little things you think of when you don’t have access to your own closet.
Today we went in for our supplies to come home. Or at least come home for a day of salvage and minimal clean up. We plan to leave San Antonio Thursday morning for a day-trip to Galveston. We’ll open both houses, photograph and document everything, assess the damage, meet with our flood claims adjusters and begin the process of moving forward.
We might as well have bought hazmat suits for all we got to protect ourselves from the mildew and mold I’ve seen in other people’s pictures. We purchased masks with some special OSHA and NIOSH rating. We purchased work gloves. Latex gloves to wear beneath those gloves. PVC coated gloves for when we’re working with nasty sludgy gunk and the slime I’m sure has grown in the refrigerator. There are the boots, mine happen to be a stylish purple plaid. Believe it or not, they simply fit better. We have bleach, trash bags, enough paper towels to wallpaper my house and two plastic boxes in which I will hope to place the things I can salvage. I’m not optimistic I’ll be salvaging much, can you tell?
While in Wal Mart, we saw our fellow refugees doing the same thing. Met Alberta, another employee at UTMB. She was wearing her UTMB Recycles t-shirt and we stopped to visit. She lives in a part of town that was horribly flooded as well and is living in a hotel here. They were buying food for the hotel room, waiting on word of when they’ll go home. We’re sort of blending into the scenery up here now. Other than the occasional word about the food and supply drives, or the fact that the island still isn’t open, we’re just part of the San Antonio landscape now.
I think I mentioned the other day, we’re on a first-name basis with our hotel staff, which is among the best hotel staffs I’ve ever encountered. We’re getting Westin service at a La Quinta rate, not too bad if you ask me. They say good morning, ask how we’re doing, wonder if we’ve heard anything on our houses.
The community here at the hotel is tightening. Kelli, a fellow animal lover from the San Leon/Bacliff area, has even offered to take my boys for the day when we come home. Mind you, she has a house to clean up as well, yet she offered to take my two dogs in with her 6 to help us that day. It’s those kinds of bonds we’re forming. I’ve met neighbors for the first time. People who live just a few blocks away are in this same hotel. I’ve lived in my house nearly 14 years and never met them until this.
It’s a strange phenomenon how in the midst of a crisis, people open their lives and hearts to what were once strangers, but are now people who share the same story with them. We’ve all lost so much, and despite whatever else our backgrounds were, we now share that. It would be nice if we didn’t have to have the disaster to make that happen, but I’ll take the sign that humanity still exists either way.
Granted, some people still suck – like the Baytown woman who I heard was blogging about how wonderful a hurricane is because she can get so much free stuff, when she didn’t have a lick of damage at her place. Or the people we’ve heard were arrested for trying to burglarize our abandoned, muck-filled houses. Yeah, those people still suck but I’m convinced more than ever, the goodness in people shines through in times like this. The offers to help we’ve received from friends, family and strangers shows that. And it keeps me going each day as we prepare to go home.
Today we went in for our supplies to come home. Or at least come home for a day of salvage and minimal clean up. We plan to leave San Antonio Thursday morning for a day-trip to Galveston. We’ll open both houses, photograph and document everything, assess the damage, meet with our flood claims adjusters and begin the process of moving forward.
We might as well have bought hazmat suits for all we got to protect ourselves from the mildew and mold I’ve seen in other people’s pictures. We purchased masks with some special OSHA and NIOSH rating. We purchased work gloves. Latex gloves to wear beneath those gloves. PVC coated gloves for when we’re working with nasty sludgy gunk and the slime I’m sure has grown in the refrigerator. There are the boots, mine happen to be a stylish purple plaid. Believe it or not, they simply fit better. We have bleach, trash bags, enough paper towels to wallpaper my house and two plastic boxes in which I will hope to place the things I can salvage. I’m not optimistic I’ll be salvaging much, can you tell?
While in Wal Mart, we saw our fellow refugees doing the same thing. Met Alberta, another employee at UTMB. She was wearing her UTMB Recycles t-shirt and we stopped to visit. She lives in a part of town that was horribly flooded as well and is living in a hotel here. They were buying food for the hotel room, waiting on word of when they’ll go home. We’re sort of blending into the scenery up here now. Other than the occasional word about the food and supply drives, or the fact that the island still isn’t open, we’re just part of the San Antonio landscape now.
I think I mentioned the other day, we’re on a first-name basis with our hotel staff, which is among the best hotel staffs I’ve ever encountered. We’re getting Westin service at a La Quinta rate, not too bad if you ask me. They say good morning, ask how we’re doing, wonder if we’ve heard anything on our houses.
The community here at the hotel is tightening. Kelli, a fellow animal lover from the San Leon/Bacliff area, has even offered to take my boys for the day when we come home. Mind you, she has a house to clean up as well, yet she offered to take my two dogs in with her 6 to help us that day. It’s those kinds of bonds we’re forming. I’ve met neighbors for the first time. People who live just a few blocks away are in this same hotel. I’ve lived in my house nearly 14 years and never met them until this.
It’s a strange phenomenon how in the midst of a crisis, people open their lives and hearts to what were once strangers, but are now people who share the same story with them. We’ve all lost so much, and despite whatever else our backgrounds were, we now share that. It would be nice if we didn’t have to have the disaster to make that happen, but I’ll take the sign that humanity still exists either way.
Granted, some people still suck – like the Baytown woman who I heard was blogging about how wonderful a hurricane is because she can get so much free stuff, when she didn’t have a lick of damage at her place. Or the people we’ve heard were arrested for trying to burglarize our abandoned, muck-filled houses. Yeah, those people still suck but I’m convinced more than ever, the goodness in people shines through in times like this. The offers to help we’ve received from friends, family and strangers shows that. And it keeps me going each day as we prepare to go home.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Occupying the hours
One of the big dilemmas of an evacuee is figuring out how to occupy the hours of your day. There are only so many visits to WalMart and Target you can make (and we are definitely approaching the limit). And to avoid cabin fever both for me and for the boys, I took the dogs out to play yesterday.
We made our first visit to a dog park and it was a most successful outing. I actually found a dog who could not only outrun Rocky, but also run him to the ground. After about 2 hours, my boys were plain exhausted.
I am so pleased with how well the dogs and cats are dealing with this. I can’t imagine what they understand of the situation, but I’m sure they are confused. But just as I am creating a new routine out of life at the hotel, so are the animals. Rocky and Barkley are back on a normal eating schedule, and they are quick to let me know when I’m off. Rocky even knows where he eats now and will go wait by where his food dishes go.
We found other refugees at the dog park, and my boys were quick to make friends with all but one dog there. It was a nice escape from the hotel and from the constant reminder of what we need to be doing and what we face ahead. The dogs need some time to play, too. And we could probably learn from their adaptability. They’re just going with it day by day and I supposed I should be, too. Weather permitting, I do believe we will venture back toward the park. The play is good for all of us.
Other than tending to the dogs and playing in the park, we’ve been spending our days shopping for essentials or just to kill time. I joked with mom on the way here that everything of value was in our cars and anything else can be replaced at WalMart. That is more true than I thought – apparently everything you need in life can be bought at WalMart. Throw a lumber yard in and you would never need to go anywhere else.
Last night, we enjoyed a wonderful dinner with friends from Houston. They too are on the road from Ike. We continue to explore the area around our hotel and are so excited when we recognize where we are. That to me is a sign we’ve been here too long.
Unpacking my belongings
I had what I suspect will be the first of several emotional and hard days. Spent my morning unpacking what I’ve brought with me and putting clothing in drawers and trying to organize my hotel room into something resembling a comfortable place to call home. It seems we might not be back on the island for at least another week. Unpacking is a surreal experience. Being on a first-name basis with our hotel staff and other guests is a surreal experience. This entire thing is a bit surreal as a matter of fact. Still not sure it’s really happening. That maybe, just maybe, the water line is something else. That maybe I don’t really have that much damage. Or maybe I was in some fluke dry spot. I know this to be unreasonable
But while laying the clothes on the bed and folding them it hit me, that’s likely all I own. Most of what is in my house and garage is likely severely damaged if not ruined. I’ve seen pictures of what the inside of friends’ houses looked like after the waters receded and everything is just tossed around from the water. Refrigerators turned on their sides. Heavy wooden dressers tipped over. Clothing rods collapsed in closets.
Then I started wondering about whether my insurance will begin to cover everything. How do I even begin to start over and clean everything. A friend happened to call in the midst of this minor meltdown and in her kind way, she reminded me it will all be OK. She tells me that just like the main character of Under the Tuscan Sun, I’ll take my house room by room and carefully clean and renovate and make it my home again. It will take time, but it will get done piece by piece. I trust that is true, but right now it’s just difficult to imagine.
I also realized today that this is all still a bit distant, not quite real. I worry about actually walking through my front door and seeing it in person — my house as part of the storm damage. Seeing the pictures and everything on television still keep it at a distance. It’s not quite happening to me just yet. When I see it in person, then it will be undeniably happening and quite personal.
But as I keep trying to remember, and as others have said and others have reminded me, this is our chance for a fresh start. I’ve wanted to simplify my life, but being forced to simplify isn’t how I intended to accomplish it. But I guess it simply is what it is. I can’t change anything about it. I can only accept that it is happening and go from here. I know this in my gut. I’m just waiting for the rest of me to catch up with that.
But while laying the clothes on the bed and folding them it hit me, that’s likely all I own. Most of what is in my house and garage is likely severely damaged if not ruined. I’ve seen pictures of what the inside of friends’ houses looked like after the waters receded and everything is just tossed around from the water. Refrigerators turned on their sides. Heavy wooden dressers tipped over. Clothing rods collapsed in closets.
Then I started wondering about whether my insurance will begin to cover everything. How do I even begin to start over and clean everything. A friend happened to call in the midst of this minor meltdown and in her kind way, she reminded me it will all be OK. She tells me that just like the main character of Under the Tuscan Sun, I’ll take my house room by room and carefully clean and renovate and make it my home again. It will take time, but it will get done piece by piece. I trust that is true, but right now it’s just difficult to imagine.
I also realized today that this is all still a bit distant, not quite real. I worry about actually walking through my front door and seeing it in person — my house as part of the storm damage. Seeing the pictures and everything on television still keep it at a distance. It’s not quite happening to me just yet. When I see it in person, then it will be undeniably happening and quite personal.
But as I keep trying to remember, and as others have said and others have reminded me, this is our chance for a fresh start. I’ve wanted to simplify my life, but being forced to simplify isn’t how I intended to accomplish it. But I guess it simply is what it is. I can’t change anything about it. I can only accept that it is happening and go from here. I know this in my gut. I’m just waiting for the rest of me to catch up with that.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
In search of a hazmat suit
Yesterday, I received three separate confirmations plus photos of the little house on Church Street. It was not good news. The water line on the exterior of the house is visible and is about a foot above the base of my window sills in the house, and virtually all of the garage. Estimates are between 3 and 3.5 feet in the house and 6 feet in the garage.
Imagine if you will getting word that virtually everything in your house is now guaranteed to be sitting in a sludge of silt, mud, sewer backup and who knows what else. Friends who went in their house two blocks away said it smelled like someone had used the house as a toilet for a week. I imagine it will be worse by the time I make it home to open the house. Granted we haven't even seen the inside of my house. But based on reports of others in similar situations, I have no reason to doubt that I will open my door to an overwhelming stench and the muddy sludge on everything.
Based on where the water line is in relation to my windows, I lost everything I put on top of my dining room table in one failed attempt to save something from rising waters. All of my photo albums are now gone. The pictures of my house before renovation. The pictures from those fun days at Mizzou. Pictures of my friends' kids. My photos from that once-in-a-lifetime trip to Cuba. Everything. Every photo I ever took before the days of digital - gone. Floating in a pool of sludge.
My new sewing machine I loved so much. Rocky's kennel (I haven't broken the news to him, he has a strange attachment to his stuff and the reaction isn't likely to be good). My clothes. My shoes. Every piece of furniture will need to be refinished. The piano I learned to play on will be ruined beyond repair. Every CD I ever purchased. The afghan a friend's mom made me when I graduated high school. The blanket - my favorite blanket - I bought when my folks and I went skiing in Colorado. The afghan my Gram made for my other grandmother. Gone.
Everything. Gone. My new bathroom, ruined. All my pots and pans beneath the cabinets. My film cameras. My knitting basket. All of my scrapbook supplies. All of my personal paperwork and records. My copies of special sections I worked on at the newspaper. Every record of my house I have - all stored in boxed beneath my desk. All of my CD backups. Discs of photos that I'm not sure if I put on my external hard drives, which are with me here. My cedar chest full of every baby item mom gave me to keep - my first blanket, my lock of hair, my first tooth lost. They're all in there. In the garage, my Christmas ornaments that I remember hanging as a child with mom, dad and Nanny. Ornaments mom and I made together. Ornaments mom and dad made together. Ornaments I made in school. All of these records of my life, washed away.
On an intellectual and reasonable level, I know it is just stuff and it can all be replaced. But on an emotional level, it’s an incomprehensible feeling to accept that everything that makes your house a home is gone. Destroyed. Covered in a sludge that I’m going to have to walk through. Someone told me I can get a hazmat suit or something like it at the Bass Pro shop down the road. Might have to investigate that.
I don’t even know how I’ll begin to clean it up. Do you just bring in a hose and wash it all outside? Do you shovel? Do you just cut the house off at that level and let it fall? I’m a bit overwhelmed, but am determined to create a plan — the only thing I can do right now — so I can get started as soon as we are allowed back and have water.
I did talk with the representatives from the National Flood Insurance Program and filed my official claim. When I told her the water level, her response was a very somber “Oh.” Not an encouraging feeling when the woman with the national flood program gives a sympathetic “oh” as in “oh, you poor thing, your house is totaled.” My gut tells me, my gut hopes, the adjuster will just write the claim for my full policy.
We did not make it to the island yesterday for the look and leave. We’re just too far to risk not being able to get back because of gas shortages in the greater Houston area. But we talked to a friend who finally got to leave the island yesterday and he said we don’t want to be there anyway. He described a scene that I cannot even begin to appreciate. The search parties started going door to door looking for bodies. With the help of cadaever finding dogs, they are systematically searching the island because some of the neighborhoods are getting that smell. Add to that the smell of sewage and dead fish and my friend says it’s horrible and getting worse every day. The conditions are horrendous still.
It makes me admire those folks in 1900 even more. Think about it — waking up one morning to find a pile of debris as tall as a house lining the island, walking over the rubble and seeing arms and legs extending from beneath it, and the smell. The horrible smell of death. And then deciding to rebuild. I cannot even imagine when I’m wondering how to being the recovery just at my house. Here were people who rebuilt not just their homes but then the entire island. I admire and respect that and hope I can muster even a drop of that courage and determination.
Note: See photos friends sent me here
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Reality sets in
Reality is definitely setting in for this refugee. The communications today have slowed, as there isn’t much new to report to those of us isolated out here in refugee land. I keep getting pieces of information about my house, and even saw a satellite image of the place after the storm and I’ve gotta say, the sludge in front of my house concerns me.
A friend drove by today and said she didn’t see a mark from the water level on the outside of my house. That offered a temporary bit of joy until I was informed by someone else later, that the rains following the flooding washed the exterior evidence in many cases.
This slowing of communication and word that we might not be back in the city for at least a month dampened the ligthened spirit of yesterday, where we were laughing at what we could in the situation, joking about how we needed to paint anyway or goofing around in a puddle in a San Antonio parking lot. That spirit diminished as the reality set in about what we face when we do get to return.
Mother and I are official FEMA evacuees at this point — we’ve been issued our FEMA ID numbers, a number we were told by one extremely friendly and helpful FEMA employee is more important than our Social Security number. We saw more of our fellow hotel guests leaving for home today. Met others in line at WalMart buying cleanup supplies. Even ran into people from Galveston, our first encounter with fellow islanders. They did not bring good news of course, more tales of extreme flooding in my neighborhood. They did tell us however that we are staying in a FEMA approved hotel, so that is a good thing. The nights are starting to add up. They also are familiar with the “I’m so sorry” look from people when they hear we’re from Galveston. I’m growing weary of that look.
I finally spent some time on the blogs today, as well, and it was enough to get the blood boiling. I won’t be reading the Houston or national blogs again….already people are questioning whether the island should rebuild. Hell yeah it should rebuild – if the country’s deadliest natural disaster didn’t stop it, why should a small storm named Ike be any different?
Althought I do wonder, while we rebuild, what happens to the jobs in Galveston? What happens to people who work in the small businesses who are faced with building from the ground up? What happens to people who work in McDonald’s or Wendy’s or any of the national chains in town who aren’t up and running yet? Where do these people go? Where do they earn money? I worry about the future of the island in that respect.
I fear that we will return to the equivalent of a third-world country, although the big difference being that we do have hope of a brighter tomorrow. It’s not like the poor folks in Haiti. I wonder, do they still have hope left?
I cannot stress enough how grateful most of us are for the generosity we are finding here. Already, people are pouring into relief drop-off sites, donating countless supplies for people like me, displaced from the storm. People are encounter out in San Antonio are always quick to offer kind words and support. Friends are offering to open their homes across the country to take us in.
I’m also grateful to the generosity of friends who, despite enduring 3 days on a storm ravaged island, are offering drive-by reports of property damage and opening their home to people who need a phone on the island.
And again, it’s hard not to feel helpless. I talked with a friend tonight who said it’s hard for her to not feel survivor’s guilt. I understand that. It was a quick decision to leave when we did and had we not made it, we too would be among those living in what appears to be miserable conditions. But I also continue to feel the helplessness of someone who simply can’t do what she needs to in order to move on with her life. I have no idea whether there is a foot of sludge in my house or not, whether I sustained any damage at all, though I’ve heard from several people I should expect a pretty bad situation at the cottage on Church Street.
So to combat the feeling of helplessness, we begin to make plans – we plan how we’ll get home, what we’ll do with the animals, where we’ll stay, what we’ll need to do first, how we need to register for FEMA– all the things we can maybe do to regain control of our lives and a situation that is so far out of our control.
Yesterday, I saw pictures for the first time of people who stayed behind. They look tired and worn and ehxausted, but overall OK given the situation. I certainly don’t want to complain about life isolated here as an evacuee. It could be far worse. I wish some of my fellow evacuees would remember that as well. I’ve heard several complaining about conditions. I saw reports of people complaining about sleeping on the hard floors in some shelters. I’ve seen people in this hotel complain when rooms weren’t cleaned promptly or something else needed attention, despite the hotel being extremely overbooked this weekend, fitting many more than 4 people in each room. I wonder, do these folks ever stop to think about someone else? As hard as it is not knowing, I can only imagine how difficult it is knowing and living it first-hand. I can’t help but wonder, would I have the strength of character to endure what those folks are enduring back on the island right now? And could I endure that and still have hope for a brighter tomorrow?
Storms like this remind me what a treasure we have in our seawall and how it protected the island from even worse devastation than this. That of course always brings me back to the people who, after waking on that September morning in 1900, chose to stay and rebuild and didn’t let the damage get them down. I’m sure some did, but overall, a spirit of the island prevailed and that alone is the inspiration needed to get through the dark days ahead.
A friend drove by today and said she didn’t see a mark from the water level on the outside of my house. That offered a temporary bit of joy until I was informed by someone else later, that the rains following the flooding washed the exterior evidence in many cases.
This slowing of communication and word that we might not be back in the city for at least a month dampened the ligthened spirit of yesterday, where we were laughing at what we could in the situation, joking about how we needed to paint anyway or goofing around in a puddle in a San Antonio parking lot. That spirit diminished as the reality set in about what we face when we do get to return.
Mother and I are official FEMA evacuees at this point — we’ve been issued our FEMA ID numbers, a number we were told by one extremely friendly and helpful FEMA employee is more important than our Social Security number. We saw more of our fellow hotel guests leaving for home today. Met others in line at WalMart buying cleanup supplies. Even ran into people from Galveston, our first encounter with fellow islanders. They did not bring good news of course, more tales of extreme flooding in my neighborhood. They did tell us however that we are staying in a FEMA approved hotel, so that is a good thing. The nights are starting to add up. They also are familiar with the “I’m so sorry” look from people when they hear we’re from Galveston. I’m growing weary of that look.
I finally spent some time on the blogs today, as well, and it was enough to get the blood boiling. I won’t be reading the Houston or national blogs again….already people are questioning whether the island should rebuild. Hell yeah it should rebuild – if the country’s deadliest natural disaster didn’t stop it, why should a small storm named Ike be any different?
Althought I do wonder, while we rebuild, what happens to the jobs in Galveston? What happens to people who work in the small businesses who are faced with building from the ground up? What happens to people who work in McDonald’s or Wendy’s or any of the national chains in town who aren’t up and running yet? Where do these people go? Where do they earn money? I worry about the future of the island in that respect.
I fear that we will return to the equivalent of a third-world country, although the big difference being that we do have hope of a brighter tomorrow. It’s not like the poor folks in Haiti. I wonder, do they still have hope left?
I cannot stress enough how grateful most of us are for the generosity we are finding here. Already, people are pouring into relief drop-off sites, donating countless supplies for people like me, displaced from the storm. People are encounter out in San Antonio are always quick to offer kind words and support. Friends are offering to open their homes across the country to take us in.
I’m also grateful to the generosity of friends who, despite enduring 3 days on a storm ravaged island, are offering drive-by reports of property damage and opening their home to people who need a phone on the island.
And again, it’s hard not to feel helpless. I talked with a friend tonight who said it’s hard for her to not feel survivor’s guilt. I understand that. It was a quick decision to leave when we did and had we not made it, we too would be among those living in what appears to be miserable conditions. But I also continue to feel the helplessness of someone who simply can’t do what she needs to in order to move on with her life. I have no idea whether there is a foot of sludge in my house or not, whether I sustained any damage at all, though I’ve heard from several people I should expect a pretty bad situation at the cottage on Church Street.
So to combat the feeling of helplessness, we begin to make plans – we plan how we’ll get home, what we’ll do with the animals, where we’ll stay, what we’ll need to do first, how we need to register for FEMA– all the things we can maybe do to regain control of our lives and a situation that is so far out of our control.
Yesterday, I saw pictures for the first time of people who stayed behind. They look tired and worn and ehxausted, but overall OK given the situation. I certainly don’t want to complain about life isolated here as an evacuee. It could be far worse. I wish some of my fellow evacuees would remember that as well. I’ve heard several complaining about conditions. I saw reports of people complaining about sleeping on the hard floors in some shelters. I’ve seen people in this hotel complain when rooms weren’t cleaned promptly or something else needed attention, despite the hotel being extremely overbooked this weekend, fitting many more than 4 people in each room. I wonder, do these folks ever stop to think about someone else? As hard as it is not knowing, I can only imagine how difficult it is knowing and living it first-hand. I can’t help but wonder, would I have the strength of character to endure what those folks are enduring back on the island right now? And could I endure that and still have hope for a brighter tomorrow?
Storms like this remind me what a treasure we have in our seawall and how it protected the island from even worse devastation than this. That of course always brings me back to the people who, after waking on that September morning in 1900, chose to stay and rebuild and didn’t let the damage get them down. I’m sure some did, but overall, a spirit of the island prevailed and that alone is the inspiration needed to get through the dark days ahead.
Getting a FEMA ID
We’ve all heard the horror stories of dealing with FEMA, and I’m certain all of my FEMA experiences will not be as pleasant as today’s, but overall it’s not a terrible process.
Granted, filling out the application for aid before even seeing the property is almost comical. I was asked to describe the damage; I just checked them all to cover my bases. One question after that asked if my house received damage. For that one I had to check unknown. They seem to be in direct conflict with each other, but you have to admit, it’s amusing.
But after a 15 minute application process, I have my official FEMA ID for disaster 1791, Ike’s official code name in the FEMA system. And within a few hours, I had received approval for assistance with hotel costs. Not a bad deal. I just wonder how difficult it will be to change the unknown to known once I am back on the island? Guess we’ll figure that out then.
For others out there in the disaster area, register for FEMA today. Even if you don’t end up needing it, it’s better to be registered and ready to receive funds than trying to figure it out when you’re desperate for them.
Granted, filling out the application for aid before even seeing the property is almost comical. I was asked to describe the damage; I just checked them all to cover my bases. One question after that asked if my house received damage. For that one I had to check unknown. They seem to be in direct conflict with each other, but you have to admit, it’s amusing.
But after a 15 minute application process, I have my official FEMA ID for disaster 1791, Ike’s official code name in the FEMA system. And within a few hours, I had received approval for assistance with hotel costs. Not a bad deal. I just wonder how difficult it will be to change the unknown to known once I am back on the island? Guess we’ll figure that out then.
For others out there in the disaster area, register for FEMA today. Even if you don’t end up needing it, it’s better to be registered and ready to receive funds than trying to figure it out when you’re desperate for them.
Scenes from the hotel
Well as would be expected, Rocky and Barkley have made themselves quite at home here. They are already known by several hotel employees and guests, and they even greet the front desk staff by placing their paws on the counter. I suspect they are looking for the treats that are usually on such counters. After all, they are always there at the vet’s office or PetSmart. I might have to give the staff some treats to give my boys when they come by. Oh how they’d love the attention from other people. The dogs also are settling in a routine and might be adjusting a little too well to life in the hotel.
There are a lot of dogs in this hotel and aside from a few grumpy dogs and even grumpier people with them, things seem to be running smoothly. I expected to fight for a walking spot or dodging other animals in the hall. But so far, the only unpleasant thing is that hardly anyone is picking up after their animals. I’m out there with my baggies and it would be nice, with the number of dogs here, if everyone would remember the other guests, but then again, that might be asking a lot these days. I’m just grateful La Quinta has waived its 35 pound limit on animals….I just don’t think I could have gotten the boys to suck it in that much to pass for 35 pounds. Just more credit to the friendly and courteous staff we’re blessed to be staying with here. For being overwhelmed this weekend, they’ve been there to make sure we’re not any more uncomfortable than we already area.
As far as the people, they’re making themselves at home too. We go searching the cabinets for extra food stores and supplies. You see folks walking to vending machines in bathrobes and slippers, walking the dogs, chatting.
There is plenty of lobby and sitting area conversations, almost always centered around our current situation. We’ve encountered two men from Galveston here with family. We’ve met the head of Evergreen Aviation, who will be venturing to the island tomorrow and says he’ll bring back pictures of our property for us.
I ran into a woman who works at UTMB, but lives in Dickinson.
While we all come from different places and we all have different stories, we all share one commonality and that is creating a bond that I’m sure is similar to that of those who stayed behind.
It’s simply a never-ending reminder of what a small world we live in.
There are a lot of dogs in this hotel and aside from a few grumpy dogs and even grumpier people with them, things seem to be running smoothly. I expected to fight for a walking spot or dodging other animals in the hall. But so far, the only unpleasant thing is that hardly anyone is picking up after their animals. I’m out there with my baggies and it would be nice, with the number of dogs here, if everyone would remember the other guests, but then again, that might be asking a lot these days. I’m just grateful La Quinta has waived its 35 pound limit on animals….I just don’t think I could have gotten the boys to suck it in that much to pass for 35 pounds. Just more credit to the friendly and courteous staff we’re blessed to be staying with here. For being overwhelmed this weekend, they’ve been there to make sure we’re not any more uncomfortable than we already area.
As far as the people, they’re making themselves at home too. We go searching the cabinets for extra food stores and supplies. You see folks walking to vending machines in bathrobes and slippers, walking the dogs, chatting.
There is plenty of lobby and sitting area conversations, almost always centered around our current situation. We’ve encountered two men from Galveston here with family. We’ve met the head of Evergreen Aviation, who will be venturing to the island tomorrow and says he’ll bring back pictures of our property for us.
I ran into a woman who works at UTMB, but lives in Dickinson.
While we all come from different places and we all have different stories, we all share one commonality and that is creating a bond that I’m sure is similar to that of those who stayed behind.
It’s simply a never-ending reminder of what a small world we live in.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Day no. 3 as an evacuee
Well after a very good night’s sleep, the world was seeming a bit better today, despite it all. I slept soundly and actually awoke before my worn-out dogs, so life definitely isn’t normal but it’s getting into hotel normal. Actually got a good breakfast, a hot shower and got dressed to be out in public – the first time in several days. Since about Wednesday, I’ve been wearing the work clothes look, and it was nice to actually feel somewhat normal today. I even ventured out into the world on a few errands. Mom and I decided it might be prudent to stock up on prescriptions. After all, we have no idea when mail service or the local pharmacy will be back up and running. Also found some new shirts since all the clothes I packed were for cleaning up after and enduring life without AC. And I just explored the area we might be calling home for a few weeks.
Tomorrow, mom and I intend to register with FEMA and call our insurance companies. Have no idea what we tell them since we don’t know, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt to get our names on what I imagine is a very long list.
Throughout the day, we’ve watched as several of our fellow hotel occupants packed up their cars and headed home. Many knew they were going home to life without electricity but figured that wasn’t such a bad thing to deal with. Several had already heard they had no damage, just no power and when they hear about us, they are definitely happy to be returning to just power outages.
The hotel is a little more empty tonight and I have heard from others they are planning to return home tomorrow. Some in the Seabrook area, some in La Marque, Texas City but most in the Houston area. I’m almost a bit jealous to watch them go home, although a part of me is still so nervous about that journey and what to expect. I still have no official word on my house – no one I know has been by. We have a few requests out there, but I know checking on my house is the lowest of priorities for folks trying to endure life without electricity, water or gas service in homes covered in the mud and silt left behind by the flood waters.
Mom did get a call from our friend Marion, who was there with another friend. She went by mom’s house and while she did not go in, she did say it looked dry from the outside. She had a lot of tree limbs in the yard, but everything else looked good. The fence was still standing. Her tree was still standing. The back yard didn’t seem to be too bad. All in all it was a very good report. She did, however, say that The Strand still had water on it at 3 p.m. today. That makes me sad to hear.
I also heard from another friend who learned from a neighbor who stayed behind that her house got 4 feet of water in it and her husband’s car burned.
We keep getting reports from people and it’s so wonderful to get news of any kind. I cannot stress that enough. I actually got to surf the net today, too and see more photos of what my island looks like and I’ve gotta say, it’s a strange and surreal feeling. I’m used to seeing those images on the news from other places. It’s entirely different when you know you are looking at what was your town, your home. It makes you wonder how a simple storm could do such damage. But then a friend we evacuated with reminded me that it was water that carved the Grand Canyon. He’s right , the force of water with the added destruction of debris can be a terrible thing. Knowing that, we’re lucky it wasn’t any worse.
Then I saw reports of the people in Haiti who have endured I think it’s four back-to-back storms now and have had no time or resources to recover. People are turning on one another, fighting for bits of food. Relief has not been able to make it to the island yet and it makes me sad to see what those folks are going through. Another reminder that this could have been a lot worse and no matter what I find at my little house on Church Street is nothing compared to the devastation others have endured.
Tomorrow, I’m thinking about perhaps going to volunteer at the shelter here, if they need extra bodies. There are some 4,000 evacuees here already and they are expecting more as they try to get the rest of the people off of the island. I need something to do to keep my mind off of things and feel like I’m doing something productive. If mom will agree to tend to my boys, that might be just what I need. A good dose of it could be worse to remind me how lucky I truly am in spite of it all.
Tomorrow, mom and I intend to register with FEMA and call our insurance companies. Have no idea what we tell them since we don’t know, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt to get our names on what I imagine is a very long list.
Throughout the day, we’ve watched as several of our fellow hotel occupants packed up their cars and headed home. Many knew they were going home to life without electricity but figured that wasn’t such a bad thing to deal with. Several had already heard they had no damage, just no power and when they hear about us, they are definitely happy to be returning to just power outages.
The hotel is a little more empty tonight and I have heard from others they are planning to return home tomorrow. Some in the Seabrook area, some in La Marque, Texas City but most in the Houston area. I’m almost a bit jealous to watch them go home, although a part of me is still so nervous about that journey and what to expect. I still have no official word on my house – no one I know has been by. We have a few requests out there, but I know checking on my house is the lowest of priorities for folks trying to endure life without electricity, water or gas service in homes covered in the mud and silt left behind by the flood waters.
Mom did get a call from our friend Marion, who was there with another friend. She went by mom’s house and while she did not go in, she did say it looked dry from the outside. She had a lot of tree limbs in the yard, but everything else looked good. The fence was still standing. Her tree was still standing. The back yard didn’t seem to be too bad. All in all it was a very good report. She did, however, say that The Strand still had water on it at 3 p.m. today. That makes me sad to hear.
I also heard from another friend who learned from a neighbor who stayed behind that her house got 4 feet of water in it and her husband’s car burned.
We keep getting reports from people and it’s so wonderful to get news of any kind. I cannot stress that enough. I actually got to surf the net today, too and see more photos of what my island looks like and I’ve gotta say, it’s a strange and surreal feeling. I’m used to seeing those images on the news from other places. It’s entirely different when you know you are looking at what was your town, your home. It makes you wonder how a simple storm could do such damage. But then a friend we evacuated with reminded me that it was water that carved the Grand Canyon. He’s right , the force of water with the added destruction of debris can be a terrible thing. Knowing that, we’re lucky it wasn’t any worse.
Then I saw reports of the people in Haiti who have endured I think it’s four back-to-back storms now and have had no time or resources to recover. People are turning on one another, fighting for bits of food. Relief has not been able to make it to the island yet and it makes me sad to see what those folks are going through. Another reminder that this could have been a lot worse and no matter what I find at my little house on Church Street is nothing compared to the devastation others have endured.
Tomorrow, I’m thinking about perhaps going to volunteer at the shelter here, if they need extra bodies. There are some 4,000 evacuees here already and they are expecting more as they try to get the rest of the people off of the island. I need something to do to keep my mind off of things and feel like I’m doing something productive. If mom will agree to tend to my boys, that might be just what I need. A good dose of it could be worse to remind me how lucky I truly am in spite of it all.
Life as an evacuee
Life on the road always seem much more glamorous than it really is. I can say that everyone I speak to feels grateful to have a place to stay, electricity, air conditioning, running water and all the other creature comforts that folks back home do not have. But we also are exhausted — mentally and physically.
My mother and I left Galveston Friday morning after getting very little sleep the night before. We spent Wednesday night and almost all day Thursday trying to prepare our homes. When we finally finished around dinner time Thursday, we were beginning to wear down. Leaving at that point seemed to daunting.
We woke Friday morning, again after having a fitful night of little rest, only to discover that perhaps we should leave. We did. And last night, Saturday, Sept. 13, was the first good sleep I’ve had since Wednesday.
All along the way, we would encounter other refugees on the road to safety. They hailed from Houston, from Freeport, from Angleton, from Texas City, from La Marque, from Clear Lake. They all were piled into their vehicles driving west toward safety. Lines at convenience stores were long, but no one complained. Hotel rooms weren’t always ready when they arrived, but folks just waited. Too exhausted to make a fuss and too grateful to have a place to call home until they could return to what they left behind.
A trip to Wal Mart turned into a similar sight, where people were filling grocery carts with the essentials they just didn’t bring with them because they forgot or just didn’t have room. People who packed for a few days were buying clothing and laundry detergent to help make it through however long we have to be here.
The days blur together and conversations almost always involve remembering what day we’re on.
The halls of our hotels are filled with the barks of dogs, all getting along as well as their accompanying people.
Life on the road is comfortable, but it isn’t easy. Our conversations in the lobby or walking the dogs or over breakfast always return to home. Have you heard anything? Do you know when we can go home? These are the typical questions. We share internet access when we have it. We share information as we get it, always trying not to exaggerate or change what we know.
The first question though is always “Where do you live?” and I wish I could describe the look on people’s faces when they hear Galveston. It’s definitely the look of someone who just doesn’t know what to say or what words to offer for comfort. They don’t dare ask what part of the island or anything about our homes – they know we don’t know. They’re seeing the same images they know we’re seeing and what can you say? But it is an interesting phenomenon watching that reaction.
It is a new community built to help combat the otherwise chaos and uncertainty of our worlds. My life is packed into the corner of my hotel room – one laundry basket of clothing, supplies for my pets, and one small box of sentimental items. I thrive on the information I hear coming about my neighborhood and I wonder how much if any water did my little cottage endure.
Last night, a friend called to say my house was on a report on FoxNews. I was delighted to learn it is still standing and it seems my oak trees also withstood Ike’s beating. Still no word on mother’s house, or her neighbor’s, but we wait. That’s about all you can do when you’re an evacuee. Feel helpless and wait.
I think I will find a dog park to take my boys today, perhaps catch up on some knitting and reading and then just wait for the word to come home.
My mother and I left Galveston Friday morning after getting very little sleep the night before. We spent Wednesday night and almost all day Thursday trying to prepare our homes. When we finally finished around dinner time Thursday, we were beginning to wear down. Leaving at that point seemed to daunting.
We woke Friday morning, again after having a fitful night of little rest, only to discover that perhaps we should leave. We did. And last night, Saturday, Sept. 13, was the first good sleep I’ve had since Wednesday.
All along the way, we would encounter other refugees on the road to safety. They hailed from Houston, from Freeport, from Angleton, from Texas City, from La Marque, from Clear Lake. They all were piled into their vehicles driving west toward safety. Lines at convenience stores were long, but no one complained. Hotel rooms weren’t always ready when they arrived, but folks just waited. Too exhausted to make a fuss and too grateful to have a place to call home until they could return to what they left behind.
A trip to Wal Mart turned into a similar sight, where people were filling grocery carts with the essentials they just didn’t bring with them because they forgot or just didn’t have room. People who packed for a few days were buying clothing and laundry detergent to help make it through however long we have to be here.
The days blur together and conversations almost always involve remembering what day we’re on.
The halls of our hotels are filled with the barks of dogs, all getting along as well as their accompanying people.
Life on the road is comfortable, but it isn’t easy. Our conversations in the lobby or walking the dogs or over breakfast always return to home. Have you heard anything? Do you know when we can go home? These are the typical questions. We share internet access when we have it. We share information as we get it, always trying not to exaggerate or change what we know.
The first question though is always “Where do you live?” and I wish I could describe the look on people’s faces when they hear Galveston. It’s definitely the look of someone who just doesn’t know what to say or what words to offer for comfort. They don’t dare ask what part of the island or anything about our homes – they know we don’t know. They’re seeing the same images they know we’re seeing and what can you say? But it is an interesting phenomenon watching that reaction.
It is a new community built to help combat the otherwise chaos and uncertainty of our worlds. My life is packed into the corner of my hotel room – one laundry basket of clothing, supplies for my pets, and one small box of sentimental items. I thrive on the information I hear coming about my neighborhood and I wonder how much if any water did my little cottage endure.
Last night, a friend called to say my house was on a report on FoxNews. I was delighted to learn it is still standing and it seems my oak trees also withstood Ike’s beating. Still no word on mother’s house, or her neighbor’s, but we wait. That’s about all you can do when you’re an evacuee. Feel helpless and wait.
I think I will find a dog park to take my boys today, perhaps catch up on some knitting and reading and then just wait for the word to come home.
Should you stay or should you go....
My mother and I fled Galveston at 9 a.m. Friday and are now evacuees, living in a hotel in San Antonio. We go from being calm and feeling resilient to bewildered and overwhelmed in a moment’s notice. We are concerned about our friends who stayed. We are wondering what we will face when we come home. We wonder when will life seem normal again. And from what I can tell from conversations with other refugees here, and along the travels here, we are not alone.
Life as an evacuee is not simply a matter of feeling relieved that we are safe. That’s not to say we don’t. We all feel a tremendous level of gratitude that we made it out, are safe and out harm’s way. But at the same time, being an evacuee comes with a great feeling of helplessness.
Our friends who remained might need help and we cannot be there. Our homes could be flood-soaked wrecks and we’re not there to clean them and begin picking up the pieces. We thrive on information. Those of us who have Internet access are glued to our computers hoping for emails from other evacuees we know, scattered across the state, hoping to hear anything at all from our connections back home. We sit and wait for any word from the island. We watch television coverages, paying attention to see if we see our homes or someone we know to have a little peace of mind that it is all safe. We want any amount of accurate and reliable information to know what to expect when we are finally allowed to come home. And most importantly, we all sit and wonder when will we be allowed home.
We also sit and watch as elected officials and emergency officials chastise and ridicule those who decided to stay, and as someone who was prepared to stay, and as someone who knows people who did stay behind, I am offended by their lack of compassion. The decision to evacuate is not simply a matter of heading a mandatory order. People who stay behind are not simply stubborn free-willed people who think of themselves as bullet-proof as our governor called them. How many of these people on blogs and on the news who question that decision and call it foolhearty or stupid have ever had to face that decision?
People fail to realize that the call to evacuate doesn’t simply mean get in your car and go. You have to secure your property before you leave. You have to gather what you need for life on the road for an indefinite amount of time. You have to sedate your animals to make it easier on them. You have to say good bye to a life that you’re not sure will be there when you return. You have to have a place to go.
It’s not just going. There is an emotional price paid for evacuating. It is an unsettling feeling to be hundreds of miles from home and not knowing whether I have a home, or whether my home has been inundated with water, to borrow the catch-phrase from this storm.
I feel fortunate because I am safe, I am in a position that I do not have to worry how long I can live in a hotel. I do not have to worry as another woman I met here does. She wondered how long do we have to stay away and what do we do if the money runs out. I know there are a lot of people wondering that same thing. What do you do when your resources run dry? I suppose there will be enough shelters for everyone, but we are still left to wonder.
People are still scarred from their Rita evacuation. And we are still not confident our elected officials have it right. We wonder do they even communicate with each other before issuing evacuation orders? We wonder do they take into consideration people might be hesitant to leave on the day the storm is coming in?
Houston Mayor Bill White said Friday morning I believe that those who did not head the warnings and waited until the last minute would have an unpleasant experience evacuating. Does he think there is a pleasant experience in this no matter when you leave?
I don’t like to be one to blame the media, but at times, I question their judgment, or lack thereof. Scare tactics and repeating again and again the phrase “20 foot wall of water” does absolutely nothing to help those of us trying to decide what to do. The decision to evacuate isn’t just about following a mandatory order – it is about trying to decide what is best for you personally based on the information you have a the time. It’s about weighing all of the options – the known versus the unknown, the probable against the possible. If you do not have calm, rational information, without the hype, scare tactics, or conflicting reports, you cannot possibly make a rational decision in enough time.
I am glad to know that most of the people I know who stayed behind are safe. We are still waiting on word from some of them. And I know these people are not the stubborn or foolish individuals they are being portrayed as. These are tough people who rode out a nasty storm because for them, the decision to stay seemed the best alternative for them based on the information they had. Everyone is different and everyone’s choices are not the same.
What is more important now is to focus on what we do next. It is important for Galvestonians to muster the spirit of those who came before us and find the resilience and optimism to clean up the mess, rebuild what we can and move on better and stronger than before. A storm named Ike cannot destroy what makes Galveston the town we choose to call home. It is the people, people like those who stayed behind and those of us who will return to help clean up. It is a place that rebuilt after this country’s deadliest natural disaster and it is a place that will get through this, as well.
Life as an evacuee is not simply a matter of feeling relieved that we are safe. That’s not to say we don’t. We all feel a tremendous level of gratitude that we made it out, are safe and out harm’s way. But at the same time, being an evacuee comes with a great feeling of helplessness.
Our friends who remained might need help and we cannot be there. Our homes could be flood-soaked wrecks and we’re not there to clean them and begin picking up the pieces. We thrive on information. Those of us who have Internet access are glued to our computers hoping for emails from other evacuees we know, scattered across the state, hoping to hear anything at all from our connections back home. We sit and wait for any word from the island. We watch television coverages, paying attention to see if we see our homes or someone we know to have a little peace of mind that it is all safe. We want any amount of accurate and reliable information to know what to expect when we are finally allowed to come home. And most importantly, we all sit and wonder when will we be allowed home.
We also sit and watch as elected officials and emergency officials chastise and ridicule those who decided to stay, and as someone who was prepared to stay, and as someone who knows people who did stay behind, I am offended by their lack of compassion. The decision to evacuate is not simply a matter of heading a mandatory order. People who stay behind are not simply stubborn free-willed people who think of themselves as bullet-proof as our governor called them. How many of these people on blogs and on the news who question that decision and call it foolhearty or stupid have ever had to face that decision?
People fail to realize that the call to evacuate doesn’t simply mean get in your car and go. You have to secure your property before you leave. You have to gather what you need for life on the road for an indefinite amount of time. You have to sedate your animals to make it easier on them. You have to say good bye to a life that you’re not sure will be there when you return. You have to have a place to go.
It’s not just going. There is an emotional price paid for evacuating. It is an unsettling feeling to be hundreds of miles from home and not knowing whether I have a home, or whether my home has been inundated with water, to borrow the catch-phrase from this storm.
I feel fortunate because I am safe, I am in a position that I do not have to worry how long I can live in a hotel. I do not have to worry as another woman I met here does. She wondered how long do we have to stay away and what do we do if the money runs out. I know there are a lot of people wondering that same thing. What do you do when your resources run dry? I suppose there will be enough shelters for everyone, but we are still left to wonder.
People are still scarred from their Rita evacuation. And we are still not confident our elected officials have it right. We wonder do they even communicate with each other before issuing evacuation orders? We wonder do they take into consideration people might be hesitant to leave on the day the storm is coming in?
Houston Mayor Bill White said Friday morning I believe that those who did not head the warnings and waited until the last minute would have an unpleasant experience evacuating. Does he think there is a pleasant experience in this no matter when you leave?
I don’t like to be one to blame the media, but at times, I question their judgment, or lack thereof. Scare tactics and repeating again and again the phrase “20 foot wall of water” does absolutely nothing to help those of us trying to decide what to do. The decision to evacuate isn’t just about following a mandatory order – it is about trying to decide what is best for you personally based on the information you have a the time. It’s about weighing all of the options – the known versus the unknown, the probable against the possible. If you do not have calm, rational information, without the hype, scare tactics, or conflicting reports, you cannot possibly make a rational decision in enough time.
I am glad to know that most of the people I know who stayed behind are safe. We are still waiting on word from some of them. And I know these people are not the stubborn or foolish individuals they are being portrayed as. These are tough people who rode out a nasty storm because for them, the decision to stay seemed the best alternative for them based on the information they had. Everyone is different and everyone’s choices are not the same.
What is more important now is to focus on what we do next. It is important for Galvestonians to muster the spirit of those who came before us and find the resilience and optimism to clean up the mess, rebuild what we can and move on better and stronger than before. A storm named Ike cannot destroy what makes Galveston the town we choose to call home. It is the people, people like those who stayed behind and those of us who will return to help clean up. It is a place that rebuilt after this country’s deadliest natural disaster and it is a place that will get through this, as well.
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