I try to think of the many house fires that I covered during my days as a journalist.
Except it makes me feel all the guiltier.
They lost everything in one fell swoop. I discovered my losses over a period of months, yet people felt sorrier for me because mine was a widespread event.
It’s been a year since I posted this photo and ‘prepared for the storm’ status on social media.
Even as Hurricane Harvey — a Category 4 monster — barreled its way toward southeast Texas, I was taking it all in stride. Afterall, the winds were high but were forecast to hit a few hundred miles south of me.
I’ve chased tornadoes in the piney woods of northeast Texas. I dared winds over barrier island bridges during nor’easters. Though I’m afraid of drinking straws and daddy longlegs, I’ve always considered Mother Nature to be a kindred spirit. My only worry with Harvey? A few days of rain.
Harvey approaches
We had concert tickets for that Friday night to see Coldplay. Six of them, in fact. I’d been a fan from the get-go and had passed along my enthusiasm to my wife and the brood.
But it was not to be.
Instead, we entertained ourselves by watching the doom and gloom forecasts on every television network.
“These guys get paid for ratings,” I reassured Catherine. “If they don’t say ‘We’re all gonna die,’ people switch to the other station. This is nothing.”
Just for giggles, I made certain my generator was in working order. But my collection of suede shoes remained neatly tucked away at floor level. My collection of Hess toy trucks — still pristine in their original boxes — were safely stacked in corrugated cardboard containers.
Oh, how I regret my passivity.
The aftermath … It continues
Harvey was downgraded and continued to move to the northwest as a cluster of storms here and there. This is what usually happens with such behemoths. I remember cutting my grass in northeast Texas as the remnants of Katrina passed over with fast-moving clouds and occasional drops, all while people six hours away were still searching for loved ones who had been swept away by ferocious floodwaters.
I was luckier in 2017 because I only lost things.
“I’m so sorry,” I said to my wife between sobs. “I’m so sorry I wanted to move down here. It’s all my fault.”
She looked at me like someone who felt my pain while also grieving for me. It was comforting at first. But she also lost almost everything, and that has compounded the singes to my conscience. I was responsible for bringing us to this place.
A year later, we are back to normal on the surface. The repairs — they’ve cost more than the house itself — are mostly complete. When you drive by, there is green grass, healthy palm trees and a new set of gutters. The interior now features beautiful (mostly stormproof) ceramic tile floors, quartz counters, and a new shabby chic flair.
But the fear remains. Every time the skies turn grey.
So does the regret. And tears.
