Last Wednesday I was watching the weather. There were two storms coming, one big one on Wednesday and then the hurricane predicted to hit Thursday night. I was supposed to have a follow-up colonoscopy on Friday the 27th so I was watching closely because I didn’t want to do that prep and then not be able to get to the procedure. Wednesday morning I decided to cancel. My partner lives in Eastern Tennessee, Greene County, an hour away from Asheville. Between my stress about the colonoscopy and some family stress we have been navigating the last couple of weeks, it felt like riding out the storm over there would be good. I finished work around 2pm and realized if I wanted to travel the winding mountainous roads along a river and a creek and not in pouring rain, I needed to leave immediately. I made it just as huge winds were bringing branches down at their house.

Greene County Tennessee got hit hard, but nothing compared to Western North Carolina. We had the fear of being told by a loud speaker from a fire truck roaming the neighborhood telling us it was a mandatory evacuation and there was imminent danger that the dam 1.5 miles away would break and we could be in the path. But a meteorologist friend in Chicago looked at maps and told us he thought we were high enough. The dam didn’t break. It sustained as it withstood what the Tennessee Valley Authority said was nearly twice the water flow of Niagara Falls. We lost power, and it came back on. We lost water, it’s still not back. But we were safe, supplied, on higher ground, and in the aftermath could access towns further east in Tennessee where we could take a shower, etc.

I was not in my home, with my Asheville community, during and in the aftermath of this unfathomable disaster. I stopped by one day en route to see my dad and Cathy and then to fly to Austin to be with the family here that is also needing support. I am trying to support my loved ones and my Asheville community in ways I can from afar. I listen with my heart open and aching as friends share their stories, I’ve seen the videos and photos people have showed me and the ones online. I saw some of the region for myself. What I’m hearing and seeing is haunting me. And, I’m not even there. I’m not living it directly myself. My body has been so clear to me that now is not my time to be there. My energy is best served in other ways right now and that our community will be on this journey for a long, long time. To trust that there is a role and a time for each of us and if my body is clear that now is not my time to be on the ground, I can listen and trust that. It’s hard. Guilt wants to tell me otherwise.

Imagining the scale of this is actually impossible, I believe. Hearing stories from friends in Swannanoa and Yancey and Transylvania and then those living close to the hospital in Asheville… Connecting dots and stories shows me a scene I could never actually imagine. But I’m trying, because all these communities and all these precious humans deserve our attention, deserve our prayers for the communication becoming more possible, for the roads to be able to reach the water systems that need repairing and reach the hollers that need water restored and the people who live there to be able to access medicines and hugs from their loved ones. For the long journey of food security and cash to purchase necessities, for the trauma and grief support, and the uncomprehendable reality of having to try and make money to live off of while we are also piecing back together ourselves, our loved ones, and our community.

Beth Trigg lives in Swannanoa, was personally impacted, and has been one of those angels in this land of angels supporting one another. She shared the words below and the photo. My brain told me it would be therapeutic to mess with the computer for a moment to try and grasp a scale of what her words actually mean. The other photo is 77 dots, representing homes in ONE neighborhood, places where they eat their meals, where they raise their children, where they try and sleep at night, where they return to after a long and hard day. 66 of them are uninhabitable. 11 survived.

Please keep talking about what is happening in Appalachia. Please share these stories. Please advocate for resources from your communities to be shared with our devastated ones. Appalachia is a historically underfunded region of the country, one not accustomed to natural disasters of this scale. Having experienced what some reports are saying a 1 in 1000 year flood, these communities are not resourced for the scale of infrastructure, community, and life rebuild that we are facing. We are looking out for each other in beautiful and profound ways. Please keep looking out for us. Thank you.

From Beth Trigg

Citizen Times is reporting that only 11 out of the 77 homes in Beacon Village survived. And that people rescued each other in kayaks and canoes, clung to high tree branches, punched or cut through roofs, and tried to swim in the raging current.

Beacon was a mill neighborhood, built for mill workers in the 20s. It is 3 miles from my house.

Photo by
Deborah Allen McDaniel