September 27, 2024
After a sleepless night spent listening to the wind and reports of the hurricane as it came tearing in from the Gulf, we started our morning resigned to the fatigue of knowing there wouldn’t be any more sleep. At about 7:30 (with the boys’ alarms set for 8am to begin e-learning), Roberts opted to start making coffee just in case the power went out. V is somewhat of a light sleeper, and upon hearing the coffee grinder, he rolled out of the top bunk to come join me in in the back of the house while Roberts worked in the living room.
As the now-weakened tropical storm passed to the west of Greenville, the winds abruptly switched from NW to SW – and trees fell all over our town, including the 135 year-old water oak in our front yard. It sounded like a train, felt like an earthquake, and was over in seconds.
The enormous trunk smashed through the front corner of the house, its fall only arrested by a large limb that came down directly on the chimney. As a branch came through the roof in the front bedroom, the top bunk (vacated just 10 minutes previously) stopped the ceiling from falling on L, still asleep in the bottom bunk. In the living room, Roberts had a front row view out our front door – where the tree and front porch were now settled – and luckily was on the opposite side of the room from where the ceiling collapsed. The other boys’ bedroom’s ceiling remained intact.
As soon as safe to do so, we evacuated to our neighbors to wait out the last of the dangerous wind, but were soon back, trying to save as much as we could from the water that was now pouring into the house.
Over the next days we found out just how remarkable our community of friends and neighbors is, as they housed us, fed us, supported us, took in the kids for days at a time while we worked to mitigate the damage and start our recovery. Many of them had trees fall on their homes, their cars, their sheds and fences – yet they still came in endless streams with boxes & totes, food & supplies, kind words & hope. To move our belongings to their homes for safekeeping, to help us carry, clean, cry.
The water oak was perfectly healthy: roots, crown, trunk. Despite what had happened, it was heart-breaking to have to cut additional trees that had been damaged when the oak fell. Then more hurt, as I was trashed on social media for wearing a dress in photos that were taken when the governor, mayor and councilmember stopped by on their tour of Greenville. Then months of pain as we set about to stabilize the house and try to work with our insurance company. The struggles to replace the essentials we had lost, to restart some sense of normalcy with things like mail delivery and other logistics.
The entire front half of the roof was crushed, the back end of it shifted off the house. Walls remain canted, windows unopenable, cracks appearing in the plaster throughout. There is no ceiling to the front 1/3 of the house. We can not even begin to understand the full extent of the water and electrical damage, as we have not yet been able to start repair work. But the foundation stands. And thankfully the master bedroom & bath are an addition to the original structure and emerged mostly unscathed.
Eight days later the tree was finally removed from the house. Thanks to our wonderful community, we found a crew to put a temporary roof on by week 3. Yet 12 months later, here we are – temporary roof still holding as a pair of hurricanes approach from the Atlantic, house still uninhabitable, belongings still mostly in storage. I still mourn, not just for the front porch swing and the kids artwork that was stored in the attic, but for the 2 years that the boys will not be able to select a favorite book from their bookcases. For the perennials lost to machinery. For the shade and birdsong that was a gift from our oak. For the independence day celebration that went unhosted, all the time lost to worry & stress. For all the times I have to say “no” because it is all just too much.
One year, one story. Thank you for reading.
