We've officially been through a hurricane in Lake Jackson. For Beau and I, it's our fifth named storm; for the boys, their first. I guess RB has a leg up on LJ because he went through one in the womb. I wouldn't count it but knowing their blossoming relationship, I'm sure RB will.
Beryl was his name. An appropriate one considering it barrelled through the area. We'd been watching the weather and thought we knew what to expect. Beau battened down the hatches: potted plants inside, loose debris secured, cars in the garage.
We expected the worst to hit between one and four in the morning. We'd hatched a plan that Beau would stay up and ride out the thick of it, and I would be on baby watch should anyone need some comfort. He laid down around four, and I was up immediately after, unable to sleep, which is very rare for me. I fed LJ and moved my way to the couch to listen to the forces at large and try to doze again should the gods will it. Spoiler: they did not will it.
Turns out the worst of the storm hit us from four thirty up until about seven. I gave up on sleep and sat at our glass front door for a while, waiting for it to burst, watching the wind whip the rain through our street with a vengeance. We lost power around five. At that point, I went upstairs and laid in the hallway that connects the boys rooms. In hindsight, I will never let them sleep in their rooms knowing a storm like that, even the one we originally expected, is coming. We live, thankfully, and we damn well learn.
The boys slept through it. I thank God they did. The experience of a hurricane is something I find difficult to describe. I will try. The wind whistles like a demon seeking a soul to consume. It knocks on your doors, your windows, your walls, and your roof, demanding entrance and ignoring your denial. It screams your name and the names of those you love. In the daytime, it blocks most of the light. It washes the earth in a green, dank hue, creating an apocalyptic environment. It pulls trees from the ground like you might pull weeds. It soaks the earth in tears made of salt water, silent cries, and desperation. The rain finds its way into your safe haven with a perseverance only mother nature could inspire. The changes in pressure settles and unsettles your home. It smells like stale air and sweat, though the outside air never stops moving.
Hurricane Irma was the first and last time I truly looked death in the eye. Every hurricane, for better or for worse, shares that same glint when I see it. Beryl was another painful reminder that we exist here on this planet's willingness to host. Acts of God like this reiterate that should the forces that be decide we are longer invited, it would have no shortage of power and energy to evict us as a whole.
It's hard for me to believe hurricane Beryl was a category one. The damage and destruction in our area seems to me to easily be a category two, possibly even a three. I've seen reports that we experienced an average wind speed of 97 mph, with gusts higher than 120.
We lost power for several days following the main event. The first day we were okay - we'd cooled the house the day before as much as we possibly could and our house held it well. It wasn't long before it started to lose the fight against the blistering heat that is Texas summer. It was 90⁰ the day after the storm, and that night, putting the boys to bed, everything in my gut told me they could not sleep in that environment. Their rooms were probably 80⁰. Heat is a contributing factor to SIDS. I listened to my mom instinct and moved the boys to our room. Originally, and always, my intention was maintaining a sense of normalcy for the boys. It wasn't achievable. It wasn't safe. I kick myself for even thinking it was possible, even with windows open and rechargable fans pointed on them, even having them sleep in diapers only.
Our room was the coolest in the house, even without electricity. Once I let my intuition take over, we immediately set up temporary beds for them in there. After they were finally settled, Beau and I had a meeting of the minds on the porch. We have a mobile generator, but it hadn't wanted to start earlier in the day. Then and there, we both knew either we were at a crossroads. Either we got that generator working, or we could not stay in our home. If it were just Beau, myself , and the dogs, we could've bared it. The boys cannot, and will not. Let me be clear though - when I say we would need to get the generator working, I mean the royal we, as in Beau. I'm not mechanically talented, and he is basically a surgeon when it comes to a machine.
He worked his magic as he does; the boys safety and well-being lighting a fire within both of us nothing else can ignite. He got the generator working. Thank God he did. He hooked it up to the window unit in our room (one I didn't want and will now forever be grateful for), and the boys slept in a cool, dry, and safe environment, the likes of which many people in the wake of Beryl didn't have. We eventually went to bed ourselves once the adrenaline of the previous twenty four hours wore off. The weims joined us, of course, chaotic as always. Actually, just Happy was chaotic. Finley is a fantastic bed companion.
The next day, we hooked the refrigerator up to the generator and Beau braved Home Depot and secured a portable AC unit for the living room. We were able to make the bottom floor of our home habitable and comfortable. Again, when I say we, I really mean Beau. He worked hard to ensure our family was safe and comfortable, in that order. I focused on keeping the boys calm, fed, and distracted (also in that order).
Beau cleaned up our yard and a few neighboring yards the day after the storm. We were already aware water had come into our house through our exterior doors and had cleaned up as best we could. Prior to the restoration of our electricity, we couldn't really audit what, if anything, had happened upstairs. Our second story had easily heated all of 110⁰, and maybe higher. I'd go up for clothes and diapers, but other than that, we did not venture up the stairs. It was odd every time I did go up. There were toys dropped where they'd been played with. There were towels hanging in the bathroom from bath time. There were closet doors partially open, laundry in the dryer, and an open bottle of children's allergy medicine on the bathroom cabinet. It was all the signs of an active life sudden paused, abandoned in an evacuation. The air was hot and humid. The life that fills those halls was stifled, a mere memory with what we'd experienced dimming it more by the minute. While this whole ordeal lasted just a few days, every hour felt like a day itself, so the experience feels stretched over a much longer period of time. We were confined to our living room and bedroom. The rest of the house was either inoperable or uninhabitable. RB was frustrated we couldn't go play in his room. He kept saying "Up! Up!" and asking for doggies on the TV. No power and definitely no Internet meant to Puppy Dog Pals for our guy, which he eventually accepted but wasn't enthused by.
Thankfully his daycare reopened just a few days after the store, so he was able to keep much of his normal routine. I personally believe predictable routine is very important for children. They don't know this world or their emotions. It helps our boys know they can at least predict what comes next in their day. That's not to say we don't have fun and do different things, but I really strive to keep structure at the core of our lifestyle. When RB went back to daycare, I focused on cleaning the house as best I could and getting LJ some extra naps.
We were without power for five days, I think, and when it came back on, we were overwhelmed with gratitude. When Beau and I went through hurricane Irma on St Thomas, we lost power on September 7th, and it was finally restored on Christmas day. Anytime we've ever lost power after that, that is where my mind goes - I spiral with fear it will be too long before it's returned. I'm so grateful that was not our reality this time. Once we had fire in the wire, we were able to cool the house and survey any damage. We found some water damage in the laundry room ceiling resulting from water coming in through a vent in the attic. We also realized the carpet in our downstairs guest room was soaked. I rented an industrial carpet water to try to recover it but we had been without power for too long, so despite the hours I spent trying to save it, Beau ultimately ended up having to rip it out. In terms of exterior damage, we got off easy; we had a palm tree tip, but not fully rip, out of its spot, and Beau resecured it immediately. I make this sound easy, but it wasn't; comparatively speaking though, it was not the undertaking most people in our area had to take on. We had some other limbs, but from what Beau has told me, that was minimal too.
The area we live in has many huge trees. It's not uncommon for one to be 70 years or older. So many were ripped out of their roots, thrown to the side like ineffective paperweights. There are piles of wood and leaves higher than five feet lining the streets that lead to our neighborhood. The city was inundated with the sounds of chainsaws and their operators hollering over the noise. Linemen were sporadically placed in the areas of priority, like hospitals and grocery stores. Citizens drug chunks of logs to their curbs and cursed the heat. Some trees still lay on their sides with their roots attached, begging to return to the comfort of the ground. Electrical lines were threaded through branches like overcooked spaghetti. Fences folded like a deck of cards, now providing views into backyards that feel like an invasion of privacy. Blue tarps provide a pop of color throughout the area as they triage roofs in need of repair. Street lights were purely ornamental and drivers shared a silent understanding that every intersection was now an all-way stop.
The destruction is here is heartbreaking. The silver lining is seeing the community come together in this time of need. No matter what divides us as people, it is a beautiful thing to see the togetherness that follows a devastating event like this. Neighbors cleaning others yard without asking for praise. People clapping and waving at linemen like the celebrities they are. Renewed appreciation for all that we have and take advantage of.
Our internet was restored today, the last piece of our puzzle, but my heart is with those who are nowhere near the end of their journey in the wake of this storm. I thank the men and women who responded to restore utilities for people they will never meet. I'm grateful we fared as well as we did. I grieve the lost and I hope their families find a way to heal, whatever that may look like for them. My heart is heavy thinking of the homes damaged that will never be the same. I appreciate the lessons I learned and will carry forward with me.
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