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.