Saturday marks the two-year anniversary of Helene. Forty trillion gallons of water or thirty inches of rain in three days poured down on these mountains. Add some gusting winds of up to seventy miles an hour, and there you have it: Destruction. Devastation. I think of the lines by poet Tracy K. Smith: Livid, the land, and ravaged, like a rageful/Dream. I have few words. It’s overwhelming. So much water. So much emotion. But isn’t it fitting of a flood to evoke such a response? As if to say, whatever you have to say is unimportant in comparison to such loss, of life, human and otherwise.

     But I digress. This past weekend we planted a maple and two redbuds. We planted them in the front yard near the sunken spot of soil where the old white oak used to be.  Where the old white oak stood until the morning of September 27^th. 2024^.  It was the morning I woke up from a good night’s sleep to my partner pacing around the house, eyes glued to the radar glaring from her phone. She’d been up all night standing guard. To her dismay, I opened the blinds to watch the trees. “What?” I laughed. “It’s not like these blinds can protect us.”

      “Relax,” I said. “Sit down.” And she did. And so, we sat on our couch in the living room sipping coffee. We still had power and water. The storm was nearly over. We live on a hill above the Swannanoa River. We had no idea of the river raging down below us. My biggest worry that Saturday was that I’d be stuck picking up debris and branches all day. Also, the acorns. I’d be sweeping them up for days. I’d never seen a tree produce so many acorns. Whenever they’d fall on the roof it was startling.

      Suddenly, a gust of wind grabbed that canopy of our beloved mother oak, uprooted her soil-soaked roots and I heard a loud crack and then it was like a train coming right at you and off of its tracks; there was a shudder and a shake like an earthquake and it all happened so fast, it was a matter of seconds—no time to watch that last bit of wick on a dynamite stick right before the explosion— my only thought “Let it be quick” followed by the loudest scream I’ve ever heard, and it was coming from me.  

     “Are you okay?” I yelled while throwing off pieces of sheetrock and insulation which landed on top of me. The pups were moving around in debris below my feet. Our tree was in the living room with a large branch near the coffee table. Was it raining on me? My lap was extremely wet. My pup, Peanut, must have peed on me, or maybe I peed on myself.  Finally, she answers, “I’m okay.”  “We gotta get out of here,” I screamed while running downstairs into the garage.

     My heart was pounding hard, and I was trying to catch my breath as I crouched into the corner of the garage when she came down with the dogs. “I was so scared I’d lost you, what took you so long to answer me?” I pleaded. “I was just checking in with my body,” she said calmly. We are not the same.  

         I told myself that day that I would NEVER take my life for granted again. Or the people I love. But it fades away, doesn’t it?  All of that intensity, all of that insight. And pretty soon I’m stressed out and distracted about the minutiae of everyday life again. I guess that’s human nature. Nevertheless, it’s obvious to say we were spared. If that tree would have fallen a few more feet our way, I wouldn’t be here trying to write about that tree.

         A neighbor across the street told us she has fond memories of playing on a tire swing that hung from a branch as a child. That old tree was over a hundred, maybe two hundred years old. If that tree could have talked, I wonder what she would have said besides, “you humans are making a mess of things, you’re killing us.”

       That oak struck our house with such force that it cracked the foundation. It took out the living room, dining room, bathroom, a bedroom and the camper parked in the back yard. Insurance deemed it a “total loss.” Again, we were lucky. We had good insurance and because it wasn’t “flooded” we were able to rebuild. It took a year, (and that’s an entirely different story). Let’s just say it took perseverance and business savviness. Of that, I am not much use. But I’m grateful to be married to someone who is. I’m more like an emotional support puppy. A lab.

      Anyway, it took four months just to get that tree off of our house. It has been said, natural disasters bring out the worst and best of humanity.  Try getting a tree off your house after a hurricane. You will meet some shady characters. We got one quote for thirty thousand dollars. A coworker heard me complaining and it just so happens her husband owns a tree business and gave us a huge break. I am forever grateful for their kindness. So many people came to our aid and helped us get back into our home. I’ve never received, nor witnessed such a sense of community.

     From our next-door neighbors who took us into their open arms that morning with warm towels when we were sopping wet and scared, to our other neighbors (who we had never met before that day), whose guest room we slept in for two nights. Our neighborhood was like an island surrounded by water. We lost power, water and communication with the outside world. The best party of my life was the night after the storm. The night the entire neighborhood came out from their homes talking, moving debris, and branches from the street. We drank the good wine, grilled the thawing meat from the freezer, and came out into the streets in cohesive camaraderie.  

     Soon after, friends took us in and we lived in their cottage for a couple of months. Followed by an Airbnb host who gave us a great price because she wanted to help others affected by the hurricane. We had the oak shredded into mulch. It was piled high behind our unlivable house. We’d go out on weekends (not my idea) and spread it around the gardens. I cried and spit into that pile of mulch, threw down my shovel a time or two at what I mistook for futility. It seemed the pile would never go down, and it didn’t care about the blisters on my hand or my sore back.  Looking back, it was a good way to let out some steam and frustration and today, my flowers are looking pretty damn good.  A year later and we had a practically brand-new house. I’m not saying it was worth it, but it is interesting to note that none of this would have happened without that tree falling, and not killing us.

         The front yard has been barren for over two years. It needed to be left fallow.  And perhaps, so did we. Everyone around these parts is still recovering. Hidden in the grooves and hollers of these mountains, people are still living in campers and tents. Many people lost everything. They say over two hundred people died from Helene. I don’t know how they got those numbers. And what about the unhoused? The animals?  The bridge to our neighborhood has yet to be repaired. We must take a detour and drive on what should be a one-way road to get here. We are still surrounded by scars: washed out river banks, broken asphalt and concrete. Down below us and closer to the river, stilts stand empty where a home used to be, like pillars of ruin.  Not far from here, a seven-year-old child and his grandparents drowned while trying to seek refuge on the roof of their home as it was taken by the river.    

     In comparison, our story seems small and insignificant. But we planted two redbuds and a maple in the front yard, where the old white oak used to be. We’re not the first to find comfort by planting trees after loss. It symbolizes strength, resilience, the cycle of life and death.  While digging a hole for the maple, I kept hitting the thick and tough lateral roots from the oak, and I had to dig around them. Eventually they will erode and decay, providing more sustenance to the soil.  

     I miss the epicenter of the yard, but the old oak did block the view where now we see mountains. There is bright light in the yard which spreads warmth through the windows of the house where there used to be shade. We planted a maple and two redbuds. The maple looks like an upright cue stick, with a few leaves on the top, but it makes me smile, makes me feel hopeful. It’s a new beginning. I probably won’t be around to see it’s life end, and that’s just fine. For now, I’m learning to slow down and savor these modest moments.  After these last couple years, we all deserve to be a little sappy.   

(Photo taken in Swannanoa, NC. Remnants of where a house once stood. November, 2024.)

Notes:  The quoted lines were from the poem, An Old Story by Tracy K. Smith. The two hundred and fifty fatalities was reported and released by the National Hurricane Center