I’m having a hard time really wrapping my brain around exactly what is happening in Nashville right now, but I know that a lot of people I care very much about are having a really hard time. And they are scared. And I feel so helpless out here in Shelby County, offering small bits of moral support in tweets and texts and blog posts, but I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do.
I just hope that our rain-free day today will be good news for our friends to the east tomorrow.
Stay safe, everyone. This, like all things, will pass.
And if there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask.
There comes a time every spring in the Mid-South when the outdoors just gets damned hostile. We had such a beautiful and mild and relatively dry April. Then here comes May, thrashing like an atmospheric adolescent, tantrum after tantrum after tantrum.
It feels like we’ve been under siege from the outside for days, but it’s only been about 24 hours. Still, those 24 hours have brought, what, half a dozen tornado warnings in my ‘hood? Flash flooding all over Memphis and Middle Tennessee and in my back bedroom?
Apparently the limb that fell this past weekend did major damage to my roof. Who knew?! So Saturday morning at about 4 a.m. when I woke up to the eerie soundtrack of a tornado siren, the sky opened up and dumped lots and lots of rain into what are apparently two holes in my roof. And that resulted in water dripping down through my air register and, as I can tell from the damage now becoming visible, settling on top of the ceiling and just seeping into the drywall all around the room. Gross, gross, goddamned gross.
Pots contained the drips as best they could (had to empty the bigger one once), but I can’t even describe how it felt to stand there alone in that room with tornado sirens blaring and water pouring into my house and no idea what to do to make it all go away. It felt like part failure, part invasion, all terrifying. Living alone has its benefits, but when the atmosphere starts to collapse in on me like that, I sure do pine for a housemate to help me stave off crippling panic.
I snoozed off and on for a couple of hours. The leaking slowed to an occasional drip and the sun finally came up, at which point the entire city seemed to be underwater. My mom called to check on me and when I described what was going on in my back bedroom, my dad insisted, in no uncertain terms, that I better get my ass to Home Depot and get a ladder and some plastic and get up there and cover the damage ASAP. Or else that sheet rock ceiling was going to come down.
Sometimes it takes a dad to get one’s ass in gear.
So I swung by Phil’s and drug him to Home Depot with me. $150 later (ladders ain’t cheap!), we were back at the house, trying to psych ourselves into getting up on the roof. It doesn’t look that high from the ground but goddamn, the fall seems long from the roof. Ever the go-getter, Phil got up on the shingles and reported that I had two football-sized indentions to cover. I fed the plastic and tarp up the ladder to him and he methodically and neatly laid out two layers of plastic and covered it with a big blue tarp. I found bits of brick in my shed and flowerbed and handed them up to him. We were lucky that the rain held off so that he could get everything covered in time for the next deluge. And I am lucky that I have such a good friend who will help me out with this kind of shit when I just get so overwhelmed and can’t handle it. He’s been that good friend for me for so long. I am very lucky.
I left a message with a roofer and now I play the waiting game. And the hoping game. Hoping that the tarp stays put, that is. Because it has just kept storming all day and night and it’s supposed to rain tomorrow some more.
Work was insane. Sunday papers are bigger than the rest of the week anyway, but we were dealing with live flooding/weather stories and Beale Street Music Festival coverage. Plus we were down a designer on the desk. Shit got real when we had to head to the basement around 10 or so when a nasty-looking cell headed directly for downtown. Nothing came of it, and when we got back upstairs we busted ass to get our pages out and edited and we did it on deadline. And we put out a damn fine issue, if I may say so myself.
I’m spent. My bones hurt now that I’ve released all the tension I’ve been holding all night.
Tomorrow, I’m slated to go to BSMF to cover it for the paper’s website. Yes, I am batshit insane.
The limb‘s on me, the insurance company says. (I inquired because it appears that I now have a leak in the ceiling in, curiously, the exact spot where that bastard hit the roof.) Just because it fell from a neighbor’s tree doesn’t make the neighbor responsible, seeing as how it was “an act of God” and all. Bokay. So begins my quest to find a roofer who will either come in way under my deductible or slightly above it. Homeowner roulette, round one! Whee!
I guess I shouldn’t bitch. People down in Yazoo City were killed, for God’s sake. Half a dozen crumpled shingles pale in comparison.
My aunt and uncle’s property down in Decatur County was hit, I’m told. My aunt, once the storm had blown over, chronicled the whole affair on Facebook, which is how I was able to keep up with it (welcome to 2010). There’s even video (not hers, but still really interesting). My family has lived through so many tornadoes and bouts with ornery straight-line winds that you’d think we’d be used to it. But every time, it’s uniquely terrifying. This time it scattered my aunt and uncle’s collection of port-a-potties (they own a business) throughout their pasture. I’m really hoping to see a picture of that before all is said and done.
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I reacquainted myself with I-40 Sunday to spend some time with Kristin and Lonnie and Amber, who was in town for the marathon. Lonnie makes a mean steak. And he makes a mean batch of ice cream, which just floors me. Monday I spent some time with Lesley and finally got to meet Cecilia, who was pretty chill and let me hold her without freaking out. Don’t tell Chris, but I think Cecilia is basically Lesley’s clone. I decided to stay in town long enough to go to the Preds-vs.-Blackhawks playoff game six — my first hockey game ever. Chris lent me his lucky jersey. Which means, obviously, that the Preds lost. But shit, I had a great time screaming ridiculous crap at the ice three thousand feet below and booty dancing to the music with Amber. Major props to her dad for the tickets; David Bryant is responsible for pretty much all of my Nashville sporting experiences as well as my first Bonnaroo tent experience.
I decided not to chance trying to sneak the 50D in, so I didn’t get any good photos. I did get some video, however. Check out this rude energy after the Predators scored a goal:
The first period packed the most action and all but one of the goals for the game. I’ll be honest, I don’t know a damn thing about hockey but I could tell the Predators were out-skilled, especially on offense. They reminded me of what a middle-school basketball team looks like in action. All flailing and little actual meaningful contact with the ball (puck). There were no fights, I am sad to report, although there was plenty of chest puffing and near-fighting, which inspired me to scream “KISSSS HIMMM!!!!” at the top of my lungs. Look, people, you can’t take me places.
The loss sure did suck but how encouraging to see the Preds make it into the playoffs for the first time. That paves the way for more playoff action in the future. And you bet your ass I’ll be back to a game. Nasty fans with rude chants? CANADA, DID YOU MAKE THIS GAME FOR ME?
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Beale Street Music Festival is this weekend. For the first time in a couple of years, I won’t be covering it for the paper every night. Just Sunday. Yes, I’m disappointed. But we’ve had lots of layoffs since last year, so we’re super stretched in my department, and there’s no way I can get out of the office Friday and Saturday. Welcome to the brave new world of a night desk run by 15 people. Once I figure out where my dispatches will live (other than on Twitter with the #bsmf hash tag), I’ll let you people know. I’m sure you’re clamoring for my updates. And for me to get trampled again. I hope I don’t disappoint. SANS TRAMPLING.
I had just gotten off the phone with my mom (“So far, so good!” I’d told her) when I saw (well, heard, first) this limb come down with a smack to the roof and a thud on the ground. The impact shook every piece of glass in my house. It fell at a fortunate angle; it could have easily busted through my back bedroom windows.
When the rain let up, I went outside to see if it did any damage to the roof or siding, or even the fence (it’s from my neighbor’s tree). Far as I can tell, all is well, except it landed on and around my central unit, so I’ll need to make sure everything’s kosher with that before the horrible Memphis summer sets in.
Last night as the storm kicked up and the thunder rattled my bones, I was fairly on edge. It’s one thing to fear death by whipped wind and electroshock (which I do), but it is another acutely uncomfortable feeling when you fear financial ruin because Mother Nature likes to break shit during her hissy fits.
It would seem I got off light this time. Phew.
On the bright side, now I totally have an excuse to buy a chainsaw.
I woke up at 6 a.m. to get ready to take Tamara to the airport, and checked Twitter (a regrettable but sometimes useful ritual), only to see @mdinstuhl telling everyone to look outside. I hadn’t been keeping up with the news and usually if there is any chance of solid precipitation coming, its impendingness is a major, major deal and everyone spends the entire night prior making milk-and-bread jokes. But nothing, not a peep. So I rose and out the window it looked like a freaking Thomas Kinkade Christmas card. In the best possible way.
Tamara’s flight was on, then canceled, then back on, then delayed again. I drove her to the airport in between the flurry of delays, white-knuckled and crazed from too much orange juice and not enough sleep. I really hated to see her go; we had a lot more talking in us, but it’ll have to wait until next time. It’s kind of remarkable that I was up so early because I got to see the snow at its prettiest on the drive back. I took a road I’d never been down before to get to get home and ended up going through a part of town I didn’t even know existed that’s literally just a few blocks south of my house. Amazing how you can live in a place and have no idea what’s around you.
Snow is a great equalizer, though. Even rundown shotguns with crap in the yard have a quiet dignity when covered in snow.
It’s been raining for days straight now. On the first night of storms, two of my favorite potted plants were blown off onto the balcony, sending clay and foliage everywhere. I keep finding storm casualties everywhere.
It is nearly late July and I have my apartment windows open because the weather is the nicest it could possibly be. Like, it’s so nice that I’m having a hard time trusting it. So nice that it has to have ulterior motives. So nice that I’m pretty sure it’s scamming me one way or the other. So nice that I’m afraid I will come home and it will have left town with all my electronic equipment in its back seat.
Just cant get my poor self together,
I’m weary all of the time
So weary all of the time
“Stormy Weather” — written by Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler
(I am partial to the Etta James version)
