Like much of the country, I have been watching the media for news of Helene, the latest hurricane to hit the US for the past week. Many of my readers know that I once owned a home in Camden County, Georgia, down on the state line, just north of Jacksonville. After I moved, I remember watching news from the area as Irma pounded it in 2017, seeing friends posting pictures of neighborhoods further inland than mine that were completely flooded, and knowing that because of my own stupidity not to carry flood insurance, I had probably lost everything. What a huge relief it was when I saw where the next door neighbor took video and showed my little house, high and dry. After that scare, I maintained flood insurance until I sold that house in 2020.
In 2018, I thought the local schools were being stupid for closing school when Hurricane Michael made its way up through Georgia and the Carolinas before being stuck right above us here on the Virginia line in the middle of the state. I drove my little rear wheel drive sports car to work instead of my Rubicon. The stormed dumped rain on us for 12 hours, causing multiple roads to wash out, including the bridge nearest to our home, so my six mile commute home that evening turned into 26 miles. I had an employee who’s house was washed off of its foundation. After that, I won’t laugh at the school system for making decisions about the weather.
While Helene’s impact was minimal here and in Southeast Georgia, that isn’t the case for the Blue Ridge Mountains in Western North Carolina and Eastern Tennessee. What many people don’t know is that my parents once owned a farm in Pisgah National Forest in North Carolina, just across the line from Erwin, Tennessee. That area is the heart of Appalachia, and whatever drove two young city slickers from Memphis to buy a tobacco farm in an area that was only just beginning to get electricity and running water in the early 70s, they did. We spent summers there when I was a young girl. Dad built a house on stilts that he had drawn out on music staff paper, with the help of some of the locals. He wired it to code using a book from Sears. We had no phone, and we would go to the local store once a week to use the phone to call my Mama, collect of course.
Over the last week, I’ve seen pictures and videos that old, childhood friends from the area have posted and my heart is breaking for that part of the country. I can’t help but wonder if that old house on stilts is still standing, and I find myself wishing I could drive down there to see for myself, hoping that once the mud and rubble has been cleared away, I will be able to drive up there and see her still standing at the top of the holler (that’s “hollow”, for those who aren’t familiar with the local dialect). So many of the places I remember are not.
The Toe River was the place where we would go swim and play, and Mom and Dad would tube down it with Pat, Mom’s old art teacher. I would ride on Dad’s lap, and whenever we came to rapids, we yelled, “Butts up”, as we went over them. There was a little “beach” in the shallows at Huntdale where we would find bits of Mica, gleaming like gold in the sun dappled water. Last week, the Toe River turned into a rushing, turbulent maelstrom that left its banks and washed away anything that was in the way. The Huntdale Church was a landmark for me that meant we were getting close to Phin’s store, where I would surely get a hotdog from the roller, a Mountain Dew from the cooler, a Smarties Double Lolly, or if I was really lucky, a Biltmore ice cream sandwich. The church is completely gone now. I haven’t seen any picture of Phin’s, but I imagine that it is gone as well. The railroad tracks that were across the road from the river have been washed away in a number of places, and the people up in Bailey Settlement are stuck, with no way in or out, including my childhood friend Beth’s 94 year old mother. I’ve thought of little else since the news began trickling out of the area about how sad this makes me, knowing that these quiet, unassuming people who live a simple existence are so cut off from the world now. They were cut off when I was young, but like many places, technology caught up and they had internet, phones, and Amazon deliveries. They are a strong people, and they’ve been through rough times before, but I know how hard it is once you’ve been connected to suddenly find yourself unconnected. It seemed like time forgot them when I was younger, but I can only hope that time remembers them now.
My heart goes out to everyone who was affected by the devastation from Helene, but especially to that one little slice of the world where time stood still as we played outside along the banks of the river…
Thank You for sharing.
Just a couple of nights ago, your dad and I were going through all the people we had the pleasure of meeting while we spent the years there. As he and I look out onto the expanse of Horseshoe Lake, we remark about the beauty of this day… at the same time, we imagine that those folks up there may not see the day, even as the sun shines, as beautiful as we do. We pray that God will give them the strength to struggle through these dark times to better days ahead.
Thank You for sharing