There But for the Grace of Ike

As most of my readers know, I live in Austin. This puts me several hours from the Gulf Coast, but my family…well, that's another story. My brother's family lives in Cypress, a suburb of Houston; my parents live in a small town in Wharton County about sixty miles from Houston—and all of this area is built on a flood plain.

My sophomore year of high school our parking lot was flooded so badly that my Geo Metro had water up to the steering wheel. It should be considered a testament to Chevrolet's engineering (and the simplicity of the Metro's design, having as it did four working parts including a wheel, a squirrel, and a carrot) that my Metro started right up and suffered no damage from her submersion, aside from funky floor mats.

There was a time when hurricanes meant two things: board up the windows and fire up the grill. I've been through half a dozen hurricanes and/or their collateral damage in my lifetime, and up until Katrina, they were a big deal, but not the end of the world. We had hurricane parties—everyone in the neighborhood without power brought their gonna-spoil food to the big propane grill in our yard. People would climb over fallen elm trees for my uncle Larry's barbecue sauce.

But just like post 9/11 air travel, things have changed, and you hear "evacuation!" on every news channel starting a week before landfall. Panic ensues and the media has another BIG STORY OMGRUN!!!!! It can milk for days and days.

By the time they decided Houston was under a big enough threat to evacuate, it was too late to do so on any large scale without risking a repeat of the Rita debacle three years ago. So the authorities told my family to hunker down and ride it out.

I sat staring at stormpulse.org hitting refresh every ten minutes all day Friday, wishing over and over that I'd insisted on my family coming to stay with me instead of wanting my weekend with Mr. Wednesday—I felt such incredible guilt, moreso than the guilt I usually feel when I don't call often enough or go visit every month—that I was underestimating a Category 2 hurricane because I wanted some booty. But if Mom had said, "We're coming to Austin," I would have thrown the doors open and we'd have had a good time, bet you a dollar, cooking in my tiny kitchen while my nephews asked awkward questions about the books on my shelves.

I spent Friday in a state of low-level panic (okay, mid-level) that skyrocketed over the course of Saturday. Even the arrival of my new kitten, temporarily named Opus, couldn't distract me from my fear of what was going on two hours away at the house I grew up in.

After the judicious application of homemade pizza, low-fat mudslides, a Good Eats marathon, and bone-rattling sex, what finally let me relax was talking to my Mama at about 9 last night.

"We're all fine," she said, with no undertone suggesting otherwise. "The boys are here with Suzie (that's my sister in law) to get the generator and have a shower. The city people said they should conserve water. They got a tree through their garage and that's it. Our house is just fine, not even a plant blown over.  We didn't even lose power. The Lord really looked after us this time."

And I said, to my mother, something she hasn't heard in years: "Yes, Mom, He sure did."

Looking at photos from downtown Houston and Galveston, I suddenly feel an unending gratitude to the universe for answering my prayers. I spent an hour in front of my altar Friday night with a candle carved with protective sigils just praying, please, please, take care of my family. The stuff doesn't matter, just keep them safe.

Then I cried because I thought they should have been here with me, even though it was their decision, not mine, not to evacuate.  And I wished I was there with them, curled up on the couch in the dark reading by flashlight but just there, with them, even though there was nothing I could do about the situation. 

Of course, it's hard to descend too far into survivor's guilt or bad-daughter guilt when there's a small furry projectile launching himself from the couch onto your head.

Meanwhile I've discovered that Stella's "I am one pissed-off cat about to fuck you up" growl sounds almost exactly like Donald Duck.

Comments

[Maritzia]

My sister is in Beaumont, so I spent Friday feeling much the same as you, only I live way to far away for her to evacuate to my house. She could have gone to my brother's in Fort Worth, though. But she decided to stay.

Thank the Goddess that everything is fine at her house, except the lack of power, of course. But the house they just moved into a week ago came through fine and with no flooding.

[Tess]

So pleased to hear that all is well and all your prayers were answered. Living in the UK, we have occasional flooding but not anywhere like such extremes of weather. We're very lucky.
My cat Jess sounds like a rusty door hinge when she cries for food, they're hilarious, aren't they?
BTW, I found you from your book, The Circle Within, which I'm reading and enjoying. You have a lot of good things to say.

[Danmara]

((((Dianne))))

I spent much of Friday night consoling a friend who has much beloved family in Houston. It was a very scary thing for everyone!!!

I'm very glad that your family and you are safe.

Maybe you should name your new cat Ike. :D

[Michelle]

Thank Goddess you are all fine. Blessed Be !

[bohemiangirlpdx]

I am so happy to hear that you and your family are well. And I love your description of your kitty's growl!

[Lee]

So glad that you and yours are safe. Congrats on the new kitty/fur missle.