Without a TV or internet, I’ve only seen blurry images on my phone of families escaping the floodwaters of Hurricane Harvey; I’ve listened to stories on the radio about volunteers, like the Cajun Navy, arriving with their personal boats to rescue an elderly woman floating face-down in a stream that was a street, to save a three-week old baby, who will not remember the worry in her mother’s eyes but who’s very cells will carry the story of swollen rivers and rain measured in feet.
The stories make constant the Seward rain seem light. A mere lace curtain of grey mist.
Our lack of electricity and running water, a small obstacle, considering we own a dry house for shelter. We own a generator that can give us power when we need it. We drive past a mountain spring, every day, and can fill our water jugs when needed. Our wood stove is not yet connected and we are waiting to hear back from the insulation guy, but Nick hooked up a small propane heater that we huddle around on our forty degree mornings and in the evening before bed, when we crawl into our bunks in our travel trailer, with multiple soft blankets for warmth.
Luxury in the form of basic needs met.
“I’m glad its not flooding here!” Elias says this morning, as we listen to reports of Harvey on NPR. He says it in that excited way of his, his voice not capturing the heartache, the trauma, the the lives lost or changed forever.
“Yes, but I’m sad for all the people affected by the storm in Texas.” We talk about the floods and the rescue effort underway as Elias and Olive eat their french toast, with gluten-free bread for our boy, full-gluten for Olive, with extra syrup.
“Mom who’s dropping bombs?” Olive asks, as the story changes from Harvey to North Korea and their latest missile launch over Japan.
“North Korea tested another missile. It landed in the ocean though.”
“But why did it fly over families?” she asks, after hearing about the alarm that sounded in Japan. After she imagined the people hiding in their homes prepared for a possible strike. “That’s mean.”
People are either nice or mean in Olive’s second-grade world, where the grey lines of politics and economics do not yet intersect her understanding of human relations.
“Why would they drop bombs?”
Yes, why?
Why?
So over an early morning before-school breakfast, I find myself telling Olive and Elias that our country drops bombs too, that we aim for so-called “insurgents” and sometimes hit families sitting at coffee-stained tables like ours, tables with pencil marks and scratches and years of conversations steamed into the pores.
“Sometimes the bombs miss the target and hit families like ours.”
“And babies and dogs and cats?” Olive asks, as Elias looks down at the floor, his fork on his plate, with bites of french toast still left.
“Yes, babies and dogs and cats too.”
“Mom are you crying?” Olive asks with a wry smile, as if tears were uncalled for in matters of wars and natural disasters, as if the flood waters can’t bring my own salted downpours and wash me to my knees, as if the stray explosions can’t force me into the fetal position, as the land cracks open with my heart.
As if I should merely pack their lunch bags and zip their red and purple backpacks closed.
After all, there are Leggos on the table, in Olive’s small hands, for building shelters or guns, anything is possible with small plastic bricks at your disposal— and we can’t smell the horrors I speak about from our unfinished home, not with the aroma of melted butter and maple in the air.
And on this late August day, I hold the privilege to protect my children from disaster scenes, to turn the lens back to the Cajun Navy and the man known as "Mattress Mack" who turned his furniture stores into shelters, offering his recliners and couches and mattresses to the families who lost their blankets and pillows and so much more.
“There are so many people helping,” I say. “Every time something bad happens there will always be people who rush in to help. We need to be those people. We need to always be ready to help.”
And so as we drive to school, the kids plan a big party at our house on the hill, if Lowell Point ever floods, a possibility not as remote as they think, just an earthquake away, in a state full of fault lines, they smile at the thought, still unaware of the repercussions, still children in a world where "mean" is always defeated by "nice" and a natural disaster can lead to an unexpected celebration with hotdogs and Smore’s for all.
As I approach the bridge below the failing Lowell Creek diversion tunnel, I wonder how long their rose frames will last, how long will they carry their innocence in their packs, with their individual lunches, rain jackets, and water bottles filled from a mountain spring.
(Summer artwork by Olive)
And as we make it safely across the bridge I realize that despite all that I know, all that I’ve seen, all that I’ve experienced, I still hold onto the hope that nice will win, that when the ground opens, when the water rises, when the wind ravages, the human response is to care for our neighbors, regardless of politics, race, or economics, our hands will reach for each other, and we’ll all land, slumped together, legs and arms intertwined, in the same tattered but somehow afloat human-made boat.
Christy, I love to read your writings, they are so thought provoking of life, children and the beautiful words through the eyes of your children facing many of life's facets whether we want to take part in the dance or not. Thank you for sharing
Posted by: Nancy Yeaton | 08/30/2017 at 09:34 AM
I too love to read your writings. Thank you!
Posted by: Toni | 08/30/2017 at 10:22 AM
I love having readers like both of you, thank you!
Posted by: Christy | 09/08/2017 at 01:45 PM