This must be the place: 'Don't it make you feel bad, when you're tryin' to find your way home'
Kure Beach, North Carolina. Garret K Woodward photo
(Editor’s Note: Amid the chaos of the recent floods from Hurricane Helene, this column wasn’t able to run in the Oct. 2 issue of The Smoky Mountain News due to space issues in the midst of crisis.)
Hello from Room 13 at the Seabirds Motel in Kure Beach, North Carolina. Saturday morning.
It’s 83 degrees. Sunshine with a slight breeze. And yet, my restless thoughts and haphazard emotions are constantly swirling around my friends and loved ones back up in Waynesville and greater Western North Carolina.
But, for the last couple of days, I’ve been nauseous. Stomach queasy. Lack of appetite. Sporadic, short bouts of high-strung stress when something irks me out of the fog overtaking my field-of-vision: from a honking car behind me at a traffic light when I take a moment too long to proceed through the intersection as the light turns green or the cashier behind the café counter who asks if I want a receipt.
I didn’t plan on landing here on the Carolina coast, nor did any of us in WNC winding up anywhere by any circumstance over the recent events of the previous weekend, for good or ill (but, mostly ill). The utter madness and unpredictable chaos of people, places and things as Hurricane Helene roared through Southern Appalachia.
Homes destroyed. Lives ravaged. Roads uprooted. Bridges collapsing. Mountain landslides and pavement caving in. Widespread flooding. Massive power outages. Lack of clean water and groceries. Lack of diapers and toilet paper. No flushable water. No internet or cell service to make contact with the outside world.
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This must be the place: ‘Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious’
Between the endless radio silence from everyone within the danger zone of destruction throughout the weekend to the endless unknowns of what tomorrow may bring, it’s been an exhausting journey — physically and emotionally, literally and figuratively — for any of us with roots in this region, either through family, friends, work ties or simply a timeless love for the area.
As it stands, while I hover at my aunt’s house near Charlotte (aiming to finally return home tomorrow), my humble abode apartment is seemingly fine off Russ Avenue in downtown Waynesville. Others weren’t so lucky just down the hill and over the bridge behind AutoZone or the new apartment building where the former Bi-Lo used to be on Richland Creek. Waterlogged buildings and debris scattered everywhere. Furniture and vehicles. Guitars and mementos. For them, it’s all gone.
Reports from other friends in Asheville, Swannanoa, Black Mountain, Weaverville and points nearby. Words like “catastrophic,” “horrific” and “tragic” are thrown around often and for good reason.nIt’s the damn truth. It is that bad. Perhaps worse. Most definitely worse. Chaos and confusion. Sadness and anguish. It’s all there.
My girlfriend, Sarah, and I ended up at Kure Beach somewhat by chance. Throughout the summer of my work obligations and nonstop travel across the country, the two of us made plans to hit up the North Carolina coast for a couple of days of fun in the sun before the fall rolled in with cool night air and leaves changing.
I was also in attendance for last week’s International Bluegrass Music Association (IBMA) award show in Raleigh. Not only to cover the gathering, but also keep my fingers crossed as to what may or may not happen with my own IBMA nomination for “Writer of the Year.” Once again, I didn’t win. But, no matter, there were (and remain) far more important matters at home.
Once the awards ended Thursday evening, I found myself in constant contact with colleagues at the newspaper and friends around Waynesville about the latest with Hurricane Helene. “It’s getting pretty bad out here” and “If you don’t have to come home yet, don’t” were the heavy, truthful realizations coming via text.
Stuck in a hotel room in downtown Raleigh on Friday morning, my phone buzzed with a tornado warning as dark clouds and thick raindrops enveloped the skyline of the capital city. An F-3 twister rolled through nearby Rocky Mount. A hard wind and more rain while packing up my pickup truck and bolting for the coast.
Meandering along Interstate 40 towards Wilmington, it was about 45 minutes into the trip when I realized I hadn’t put any music on the car stereo. Normally, I’m constantly blasting an array of rock, jazz, folk and country tunes. But, in the here and now of my thoughts and concerns, I’d lost track of it all and found myself drifting off into the ether of what may come to pass moving forward.
Sarah was asleep in the passenger’s seat. I began to reflect on the gratitude and appreciation for, well, the little things in our world. Food in the fridge. Fresh, clean water from the sink. Enough water to flush a toilet and take a shower. Electricity for the heaters when it’s cold and air-conditioning for when it’s hot. Let alone the love and compassion shared by one and another in dire times.
My first encounter with the wrath of Mother Nature came when I was 12 years old growing up on the Canadian Border. It was January 1998. I was a middle school kid on Christmas Break when a horrendous ice storm overtook Upstate New York and the greater northeast. Our family went 21 days without power in the freezing cold, with a good chunk spent staying with relatives until help came.
We spent much of our time huddled around the fireplace in my parents’ farmhouse listening to a battery powered radio, awaiting word from the outside world as to when power would be restored and the National Guard would arrive to clear fallen trees and powerlines so we could finally leave the house and find supplies.
And then thoughts of the havoc wreaked upon the small communities of Cruso, Bethel and Canton when Tropical Storm Fred tore through Haywood County in August 2021. For days and weeks, I found myself interviewing flood victims and trying to make sense of everything in the midst of it all for our readers.
A little more than three years later, here we are again. With that, I find myself rereading my column about the 2021 devastation. The words and sentiments remain the same, as does the intent and purpose. Remember, we’re in this together.
From my column, “This must be the place: Ode to the green peppers, ode to the people of Haywood,” dated Aug. 25, 2021:
“Now will begin a colossal cleanup effort that may take months (perhaps years) before some sense of normalcy returns to Cruso, Bethel and Canton. It was shocking and horrific. But, also uplifting with everyone coming together to help their neighbors. My heart is heavy and filled with sorrow and compassion for the citizens of Haywood. Western North Carolina is hurting so deeply right now. And yet, the fine folks of these mountains hold steady, and will eventually transcend this tragic day.”
