And as my girlfriend, Sarah, and I have continued to navigate these choppy waters of unknowns, we’d forgotten about our storage unit. It was located along the Pigeon River, in the badly damaged Haywood County town of Canton.

The waterline on the storage unit door from the flooding was four feet high (the river rose over 30 feet). This pungent smell of mud and mold in the air. I tried to lift up the door. It was jammed. Something heavy had shifted and fell onto it from the inside. Finally, it budged and opened.

First thing was a thick layer of sludgy mud on the floor. Antique heirloom furniture and countless trinkets of Sarah’s from her late parents and grandparents waterlogged and ruined. She started tearing up. I tried to comfort her. We stood in awe.

Pretty much all of my memories are gone. Photos from high school, college and adulthood. Images strewn about, stuck together, torn, moist and muddy. My cronies and I on a ski trip to Jay Peak Resort in Vermont, taken when I was a sophomore in high school (circa 2000-2001). Standing next to my late grandfather when I was home for summer break during college. Old flames and long-lost friends.

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Treasured postcards from all over. Ever since I was a little kid, I’d request a postcard from whoever I found out was traveling somewhere. There’s one big box holding my collection from over the decades. I love the idea of describing an indescribable experience abroad in only a few sentences. Sadly, I was only able to salvage a handful, most were badly deteriorated. Words and sentiments from Australia, Spain, Vietnam, India, Ireland and even Antarctica.

Press badges and mementos from assignments. All of those hundreds of articles I’d saved from stories written that meant a lot to me, now simply dripping garbage tossed into the dumpster. Print pieces about interesting people, places and things I’ve been lucky enough to encounter, interact with, write about and share with you the reader. Pick up the soaking piles, search in vain for anything dry to save.

And all of those ticket stubs, hundreds of them. I’ve saved pretty much every single ticket stub since I started going to live concerts when I was 12 (39 now). Those stubs were a physical, emotional and melodic timeline of my existence. Slowly picking through the debris, they became scraps of discarded paper, blank from the ink being washed out in the flood.

Not to mention my enormous concert poster collection. To be honest, that was the hardest thing to uncover. Works of art that I’ve meticulously cultivated for as long as I’ve collected the stubs. In my dreams, I hoped to frame and display some of the key posters in my home someday, whenever and wherever Sarah and I would able to afford a place of own. Now? More mush coagulating with the natural ingredients of the Pigeon River.

In truth, what little of my life that I’ve cherished and physically held onto through the years has crumbled away. Standing there, my clothes also now muddy and wet, the loss hit me deeply.

But, in the muck of the flood, I was somehow able to retrieve this old pocket notebook of mine. From 2007, when I was 22 years old and just starting my journey as a writer. I used to always keep a notebook with me in those days. Jotting down whatever came into my head, whatever I heard or interacted with in passing.

And although most of my big notebooks are safely within reach of me at our home, I forgot about this little guy who ended up in storage.

It was covered in slim and sopping wet. Soaked enough where I was able to peel the pages apart slowly and safely. I couldn’t even read what the pages said. After a few hours, they dried out on a towel on my porch and I discovered what I’d written those many years ago.

Wild scribbles in joyous haste about seeing and hanging out with late legendary jazz drummer Jimmy Cobb (of Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue” sessions) at the Village Vanguard in Manhattan during the fall of 2007. He was also one of my first interviews.

Words, sentences and paragraphs from that same time period when I went and visited Portland, Oregon, in hopes of starting a new life in that city post-college.

And moments captured of those youthful days running around my hometown of Plattsburgh, New York, before I finally headed West and started my first journalism gig at the Teton Valley News in Victor, Idaho, in January 2008.

Although I’m sad at what I lost today, that put a genuine smile on my face. As a friend said to me in solidarity and in comfort when she asked how I was doing, “That shit is tough. But, you got that in your head and in your heart. So, not all is lost.”

But, the wildest thing? The only item we found that was completely dry and untouched was an old Allman Brothers Band T-shirt worn by my late cousin, Nate Arruda. He was like the older brother I never had. It was in this plastic grocery bag atop the pile of mud and debris. Spotless. A true silver lining.

Sitting here at my writing desk, I’m disheartened and deflated. But, grateful Sarah and I are safe in the great scheme of things. Especially as we drove home in a saddened silence through the small community of Clyde (between Canton and Waynesville).

We observed numerous homes overtaken by floodwaters of the mighty Pigeon River, possessions in piles on front yards, the owners of the houses sitting in disbelief on muddy chairs outside.

For us, it could’ve been a lot worse. Gratitude remains.

Love to all y’all. We’ll get through this, together.