I just read through our special section on Katrina — the Storm of the Century that hit Simpson County on a Monday like this in 2005. Only, not like this at all.
Today is warm and sunny and calm, and I know that I can do anything I want to do this afternoon. I can go home and turn on lights and read a book, I can make coffee, I can go out and water plants, I can play Solitaire on my computer or text a friend on my phone. I couldn’t do anything like that on August 29, 2005.
The weekend before the storm hit, I had gone with some other ladies from my church to a Kay Arthur conference in Jackson. After the Saturday morning session, we all went to lunch in a restaurant there, where the TV weather report was showing a big red area over the Mississippi Gulf Coast with what looked like a bullseye in the middle. The storm would reach Cat 5 that day.
Some ladies from the Coast that we had met at the conference were eating near us. We asked them if they were going to spend the night in Jackson after our last session.
“No! We’re going home to prepare for the hurricane!” one said, almost gaily. “Hurricane Party, girls!” another laughed.
We didn’t see them again. Later I wondered what they had lost in the storm, whether any of them had died or lost loved ones in the hurricane they were planning to “ride out” with a party.
The coming storm was the main topic of conversation as we left church that Sunday morning. People recalled living through Camille in 1969, as if it had been a fun adventure. I wasn’t here then, but two hours north of the coast, how could this storm be even that dangerous?
The weather reports were looking ominous when we got home and turned on our TV. My husband got me out that afternoon to help him batten down anything that might blow into the house in a strong wind— deck chairs, big flower pots, lawn tools. I filled the bathtub upstairs, recalling that a tub full of water was useful in an emergency— but I couldn’t imagine why at the time. I found out when the water went off later.
I drove here to the paper to work the next morning in a driving rain. We got the week’s edition started, but about 9:30 a.m. the power suddenly snapped off, and we were staring at black computer screens. Our editor, Pat Brown, ran over to City Hall to see how long the power was going to be out, being told that no one knew. When he came back, he sent us all home with the admonition that we were to stay by our phones, that he would call us the minute the lights came back on, and we were to get back to work. “Hopefully within an hour or so,” he said.
When we headed to our cars in the pouring rain and rising wind, I think we all knew we weren’t going to be called back that day, but surely the next.
When I got back home, my husband had already closed the bank and sent his employees home too, also telling them to expect a call back to work later.
That didn’t happen for another two days, and when the bank did open, it was for emergency transactions only, conducted by flashlight.
It was almost exciting at first, something different, a variation in our routine. And it couldn’t possibly be all that bad, could it? These dire hurricane warnings almost always amounted to very little.
We had power at home for only about 30 minutes, then no light, only dimness as the skies got darker and we watched the rain flowing horizontally in great howling gray sheets past our windows. I sat staring out, mesmerized and slowly beginning to realize that what was happening could be worse than I thought.
We heard trees crashing down around us. I went upstairs and brought down some clothes, my Bible and my best jewelry, thinking that if trees fell on our house, they would probably hit our bedroom first. I might never see that room in one piece again.
Having done that little chore, I sat back down. I remember feeling completely at peace, sleepy almost, not so much from confidence that we would be safe but from knowing that I was absolutely powerless in this situation.
We sat there until about 5 p.m., when the rain abated, the howling wind stilled, and the skies lightened somewhat. We decided to drive around to see the results. We eased down the roads in our Old Magee neighborhood that weren’t blocked by fallen trees. The damage was mind numbing. Then we came home to our first of ten nights without power.
In those ten days, I learned that darkness had a power of its own to depress you and make you afraid. I realized how vulnerable we were out there in the dark at night, how accustomed we were to passing the nights in front of the TV or the computer, to being able to walk freely through the house without a flashlight, to cooking a meal, to flipping a switch and lighting up a room.
I learned a lot of things in those ten days— that coffee can be made on an outdoor grill, that daylight is precious, that running water is a treasure. That I never wanted to experience another Storm of the Century again.
