Joy Under Water
Hurricane Helene's destruction. The devastation in my heart. And how to help.
My Mom said “Stop the car.”
Concentrating on navigating the winding terrain of the Blue Ridge Parkway, her command distracted me.
“What? Mom, why?”
“Stop the car, p-l-e-a-s-e,” she said again, sarcastically. “I want to see the mountains.”
I pulled over at the first scenic overlook I found, arguing that I could not literally stop the car in the middle of the road. She opened her car door and turned, leaning on the window to stare out. Ignoring my muttering, she stood silently, tears starting to form at the corners of her eyes. “Leaking”, we called it, when mom cried without knowing it.
Not understanding exactly what was happening, I took this photo from behind. There’s no filter. It was that vibrant, that colorful, all on its own.
“It reminds me of Scotland,” Mom said quietly. “And when I was in Scotland, it reminded me of here.”
Understanding started to creep in. My Mom was dying, rapidly, and unceremoniously. At the time this picture was taken, she had just two months left. COVID was raging in the US, and the only thing she’d asked of me is that she die at home. “No hospitals,” she said, shaking her head. I was desperate to fulfill that one request, which meant full on quarantine, enforced as strictly as I could manage from nine hours away. To offer some respite from the confines of her house, her friend offered to let us stay at her cottage in Asheville. Mom and I spent three weeks there between April and May of 2020.
COVID and cancer limited the available activities, so we walked and we drove. Miles and miles on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Stopping periodically, often without warning, just to look, to breathe, to be in their presence. By that point in her illness, Mom and I weren’t talking much, but in the mountains, there was no need. When you embrace their sentient nature, you feel what you need to.
My Mom loved these mountains. They were truly the window to the world for her. And they were a refuge in her final days, providing peace and beauty and space when the rest of her world was dark, chaotic, and cramped.
I will be forever grateful.
This is what those mountains look like now. Black Mountain, Chimney Rock, Asheville, Morganton, Boone.
Under water.
The paralysis I feel seeing these photos is indescribable.
Joy is under that water, suffocating in that mud. It is in the homes that were forced off of their foundations, it is in the human bodies washed away by those raging rapids, it is in the infrastructure of an entire town that has now become a lake.
No electricity. No cell service. No gas. No food. No diapers. No formula. No medication. And, ironically, what is likely to be most problematic, no water.
Search and rescue teams are redefining heroic.
I am jealous of their action. I am desperate to do something.
And so I write, because I know my physical presence would add one more drain on the precious, limited resources. I write because I am aware that I have limited skills when it comes to mountaineering on a completely clear, trail-guided day. I write because my experience tells me that crises cause a surge of support that dies out quickly but this crisis will require support everlasting. I write because the pain I am containing threatens to leak out my eyes and my attitude every second I am awake. I write because these mountains are not mine; they breathe the stories of generations who have turned to them for salvation. I write because it is what I can do. At least for now.
What do you do when joy is under water? Drowning in the swift rush of a current too strong and too powerful to keep holding on. Stuck under two feet of slippery, sticky mud that dries like concreate. Saturated through all of your worldly belongings. Hungry. Scared. Wet.
As a NC native, I’ve lived through my fair share of hurricanes and tornadoes. It’s a part of life here, a skill set developed through repeated disaster recovery, a healthy fear established while sitting transfixed by the sound of trees snapping like pop rocks, trying to stay as far away from the windows as possible.
When the clouds clear, the people emerge. First to assess, then to get to work.
Devastation first, direction next.
Slowly, even in the yards of houses demolished by downed trees and power lines you hear a laugh. Irony, sarcasm, or just letting off steam, it bubbles up to the people wielding axes, saws, buckets, or just hands. It is a sign that joy survived the storm.
When my house flooded twice in college, the water reaching my ankles, I stood amidst ruined yearbooks, water logged carpet already beginning to smell, and the days of work required to make the room habitable, and started splashing. The water wasn’t going anywhere and the damage was done, so might as well jump up and down in some muddy puddles. Joy finding its way to the surface.
But I always had water, electricity, food, and a way to get out.
So, I don’t know what happens to joy when it is completely washed away. I suspect it is struggling to survive too. I imagine it climbs up on a porch to sit with a dog whose house is floating and jumps up and down when the rescue crews find him. I suspect it is in the shouts of triumph as the hauling and sawing and tugging and cutting finally result in a cleared path. I know it is in the sagging relief when a mother receives a one-line text from her son away at college after forty-eight hours of tortured waiting…”I’m safe.”
There will be moments where joy can help. And there will be moments where the water will win.
Help me help joy.
I no longer live in NC, and it feels much harder to do anything other than give money from up here. And while I will, and I have, I want to fucking DO SOMETHING. My husband has put a block on the Amazon purchase of a chain saw and a backhoe, so I’m looking for other options.
The list below includes reputable and creative ways to help that may not involve money, and, at the end, all the ways to help financially, because that is a very real and prescient need.
Volunteer to foster a cat or dog from the Forsyth Humane Society. This branch of the Humane Society has partnered with BISSELL Pet Foundation to take over 100 dogs and cats from the Asheville Humane Society. They flew two routes on Monday to take supplies in and pick up animals to bring them out.
Photo from BISSELL Pet Foundation Donate blood. I originally thought this was a silly one that people just do out of habit any time there’s a crisis. The people in the mountains aren’t bleeding. BUT, the number of blood drive events that will have to be canceled across FL, SC, GA, NC, and TN as a result of the devastation could leave those states with a dangerously low supply. Find a blood donation center near you at the American Red Cross.
Fly a plane. Operation Air Drop is asking for volunteers with access to a plane to help deliver critical supplies needed in areas that are hard or impossible to reach by road. They are staging out of the Concord Regional Airport.
Buy food boxes. The Ashe Food Pantry in Ashe County, NC, one of the hardest hit areas, received a $100,000 matching donation, so any amount you donate will be matched up to $100,000. Yes, this is just giving money, but its DOUBLE the money. They started distributing food boxes yesterday. The need will be immense. Double matters.
Babies Need Bottoms. This is the one that requires me to swallow my stomach. To think of all of the babies without diapers, wipes, formula. Their parents’ desperation. I just…ache. Their Amazon Wish List is simple and will be shipped directly to them for distribution.
Donate Now and Later. Every single relief organization involved in this will need money. And while I feel so impotent just flashing my credit card at the problem, plastic is what they need right now. So give liberally and, most importantly, GIVE AGAIN. Put it on your calendar right now to donate again in three months and in six months.
What am I going to do? Besides several of the above (that plane thing is also on the Amazon ban list), one of the things I love most about this area of NC is their creativity. Asheville, Boone, Blowing Rock, they are artistic havens taking inspiration from the natural beauty of the surrounding area. It is no surprise, really, that other NC artists would come to their aid.
Blue Barn Design Co (@bluebarnddesignco) is a little graphic design outfit in Ayden, NC. Ayden is in the Eastern part of the state and often the recipient of the worst of our hurricanes. They get it. They designed this sticker that captures the awe of the sunrise over the mountains in Western NC.
They are selling them for $3 each to raise money for the relief organizations serving the affected areas.
For every person that taps the little 💓 down below to Like this post, I will buy one in your honor.
I don’t have a limit; I’ll keep buying until I run out of money. This will help to support a small NC business while sending funds directly to the Community Foundation of Western North Carolina. So, if you don’t know what to do, start by clicking the 💓.
Let’s DO SOMETHING. Let’s get joy out from under water. Let’s help her rise.
Oh Jess -
My heart - it's bursting with all the feelings after reading this; thank you for such a beautiful piece. And thanks for providing us with some excellent ways to help.
Thank you for your beautiful writing, Jessica. I miss my friend.Joyce