Quest for The Hurricane Playbook: An Uncaffeinated Account

By Elizabeth Schulte Roth

Today is a very special day for a group of Asheville creatives because Stronger Than the Storm: Hurricane Helene in Western North Carolina is out and available to purchase. More than two dozen of the region’s finest writers and artists contributed to this collection edited by Shelley McKechnie that benefits local recovery efforts. We highly recommend stopping by Malaprop’s or clicking on this link to support our local independent bookstore. Here is my contribution that begins on page 67.

It is early Wednesday evening and the rain has been pounding on my windshield for about an hour, which is about as long as I have been talking my friend off the ledge through her impending divorce. Offering advice-while-driving is my favorite pastime. Got a problem? I’ve got the podcast that can solve it. I pass the entrance gate to the Biltmore Estate and move into the center of the two lanes to avoid the water that is filling up and covering the sides of the street. The sky has faded to black long before it should and I’m afraid if I actually make it to my writing class, the road will be flooded when it’s time to drive home.

I turn around and go with my gut, something I am trying to do these days but must defend. I am a rule follower, and ditching class for weather is not in my playbook. I feel guilty when I send my teacher an email that night to apologize for my absence. “Blaming the weather” is a very foreign phrase for me.

The following day’s news is filled with photos of flooding in Biltmore Village and hints of an impending storm called Helene. My friends are emptying their boutiques and placing sandbags in front of their doors. I text to offer help and one responds that she should be fine because the rain has stopped, falsely assuming that this storm had passed through yesterday. A real estate colleague says that she is booking showings for the afternoon in case of morning rain. When my hairdresser texts her clients to reschedule in case of bad weather, one responds that the Weather Channel predicts only 30 to 35 mile-an-hour winds during her appointment so no need to cancel.

Born and raised in South Florida, I snicker at the alarm as I grew up around hurricanes. In sixth grade, I cried for days because Hurricane David postponed my first day of school and delayed my nine-year plight to strap and click that bright orange school patrol belt onto my uniform, my quest for keeping the rules overshadowed by the title of “super dork” now earned for the foreseeable future.

One of the many reasons we relocated to my husband’s Asheville hometown in 2012 was the climate protection we craved. It’s a bit ironic that our moving day temperature of 100 degrees is still the hottest on record. Now he is at a conference in Dallas and our teenager is away at boarding school, so I am relishing my empty-nester status with our fox terrier Tracy until 7:12 am on Friday when the oven beeps to alert the loss of electricity. No power means no coffee and the last text before I lose cell service is a cancellation of a meeting that morning, the person fearing that the weather may be an “issue”. I am so unprepared that the only candles that light up my home are scented and gifted, wafting the sweet smell of an overcompensating spa director.

I stumble out to the living room while Tracy hides under the bed, the rain pummeling the gutters with a series of gong-like bangs. The trees are swaying from side to side, with a “Weeble Wobble but they don’t fall down” kind of cadence. Sheltered by our covered porch, a squirrel is perched outside on the couch pillow, hiding under the ceiling fan to take advantage of a few dry minutes. Instead of running or being chased or barked at like usual, it’s rubbing its ears, shaking and scratching off the drops of water from its fur while fighting with the wind to keep steady.

There is one tree that worries me, because its twin fell a few years ago during a violent storm. Our then six year-old was sitting in this very same spot on the couch when we heard a thunderous crash. I noticed the tree had fallen into the historic graveyard that sits just between our yard and our neighbor’s home, smashing the fence but protecting the headstones of those buried there. Our community’s developer is sworn to protect it so we don’t have a Poltergeist situation, although we did tell our child that it was a tree farm until they turned thirteen and begged to have a Halloween party there.

When the tree guy arrived to clean up the debris, he said the tree was not supposed to fall that way. He pointed to the distended and curled roots, noting that the weakened side coupled with the soft soil would indicate that it should have crushed right through our house, specifically the exact spot where our child was sitting that day.

As this twin tree sways, I pray that those same guardian angels kick in again while distracting myself with Miranda July’s latest book All Fours. Not sure if this much-talked-about menopausal romp is appropriate reading material and I feel guilty that I’m not enjoying it more. The book that everyone is gushing about is totally not working for me.

There is a break in the storm and Tracy needs to pee, so I walk out the front door and in the middle of the street, cowering from hanging trees and limbs cluttered on the ground. I am curious and still uncaffeinated, A trip to the Starbucks sounds like a good plan, until I realize that the unpowered garage door could keep me stranded. Pulling up the handle only offers a few inches of space, so I grab a ladder and grunt my best power-bitch growl until it finally lifts up enough to get momentum to go all the way. Driving down our block, I dodge and weave through the fallen debris for the mile it takes to get to coffee. But the street lights are all out, swinging from the wires and teasing my ignorance, the only things missing are the tumbleweeds bouncing down the road to the twangy country guitar soundtrack. I pull into an empty parking lot outside of a BP gas station and see that I have one bar of cell service to tell my husband I’m ok. One by one the cars start to pull in, each driver gets out and walks to pull open the store’s door only to realize it’s closed. This continues for about ten minutes — car parks, driver gets out and walks to door, pulls without success, shakes head and returns to car — until I can’t help myself. I roll down the window and alert each one that it’s closed before they stop the engine, dashing dreams one by one.

I drive a few blocks until I have to brake hard to avoid the pile of trees in the road. I turn around by the Dunkin’ Donuts (still no coffee) and get about five feet before an electric pole and sparking wires send me the other direction. This is the first of many times I will describe this new reality as “apocalyptic”. Although my family calls me “The Catastrophizer” — able to predict a worst-case scenario and spot the nearest exit at superhero speed — I can’t seem to find the escape route now. My stomach roils with uncertainty, the uncaffeinated head aches with this new and most uncomfortable situation. What are the rules when there are no rules?

The neighborhood is now filled with men clutching their chainsaws, crawling from block to block to make some sort of path through the chaos. One of my neighbors will need someone with a crane to dislodge the tree pierced into her roof. Her husband is also out of town and she tells me that if we still don’t have electricity tomorrow morning, she’s hooking up her coffee machine to the car battery. Clusters of people gather in whatever clear spot of street they find, sharing information and offering assistance. Some meet for the first time, but shake hands and hug each other like long lost loves.

A few years ago, I met my neighbor Gabriela because she was walking her dogs while speaking Spanish into the phone and we bonded over our Miami roots. Now she is knocking at my door to invite me to Shabbat dinner. She knows that although I was raised a Catholic, I consider myself Jewish-adjacent as an every-Saturday-in-middle school Bar/Bat Mitzvah attendee. Her husband has expertly grilled their freezer-finds and as they light the candle, my shiksa heart bursts with gratitude.

On Saturday Tracy and I are up early to scout out a possible coffee shop only to join a line of cars snaked outside an Ingles grocery store. Pulling up to the pained faces of employees desperate to help, the window is just halfway down when they throw scores of bakery items into the front seat and open the back door to donate a bag of ice. Moms who usually balk at store-bought, sugary cinnamon rolls now hug to thank me when I deliver the sweets and news that the nearest gas pump could open soon. We hear hard-to-believe stories including a neighbor’s mother-in-law in Biltmore Forest who miraculously left her bed for the bathroom at four am on Friday at the exact time the tree fell onto her pillow, scratching her husband badly but both surviving. A neighbor I’ve never met compliments Tracy and then offers me her instant coffee that she makes on the gas grill. My caffeine withdrawal must be showing.

Walking miles uphill to find a bar of cell service is the new workout. Later that afternoon, my neighbor passes me on the way down, remarking that I must have already maxxed out my daily steps. My confident stride is a ruse, however, as this current situation is a problem I can not solve with a podcast.

There is still a case of fancy French wine that I bought at a country club dinner last summer hidden in the coat closet, and I keep racing by its door to ignore it. What used to offer me solace — sitting on my porch with a glass or three of wine — has changed as I have just celebrated a year of sobriety. Instead I grab the melted peppermint ice cream from the cooler, spoon it like soup and call it dinner.

On Sunday morning I hear that the Hilton in Biltmore Park might have coffee so I park across the street and see what I can find. It is there that I meet the Man of Doom. After the usual pleasantries, he breaks into a rant about the water system. It’s kaput, out for weeks at least, and people are getting restless and angry. I feel trapped without a plan, gas, or my family, sweating as I race back to my car. I’m frustrated that I can’t get beyond our neighborhood to help while also feeling incredibly helpless like I should be better at this. My mother-bear instincts have been declawed, and I’m scraping for any bits of guidance.

Finally my husband lands in Charlotte and commandeers a rental car as well as the last bag of ice at the Quik Trip gas station on I-26 which has just reopened to traffic. He’s secured a cold-brew concentrate and with a nod to my now-abandoned playbook, I ignore the directions to add water and gulp it down without any guilt.

On Monday we find gas and a way out to South Carolina to stay with my niece. We arrive to see CNN Breaking News on the television and for the first time I see the devastating pictures that show the world a region’s horrific demise. To us, however, it details the destruction of our friends’ businesses, our favorite coffee shops demolished, and our go-to restaurants under water. Each video portrays what we think of as a disaster, but one that usually happens to others who live far away. There is no playbook for this, no rules to follow and too many problems to solve. A post-disaster etiquette now includes greeting our neighbors with an authentic ask of how they are doing. We slow down behind rescue trucks, wag our fingers at those who dare to honk. We find volunteer shifts, sharing fundraising opportunities and the never-ending search for patience in every corner of our beloved Asheville.

Yours in love and lit,

Elizabeth