Receding and Reaching Out

By E. Adam Porter

When you hear phrases like “worst in a century” or “first time in generations,” those descriptors can feel like an abstraction. Sure, they mean something, but is it something we can really fathom? Something we can call to mind and quantify in any real way? I wonder these things, then I look out my window.

I see a row of trees, fallen atop each other, broken limbs stretching out, dipping branches into a river that, recently, had overrun its banks to an extent not seen since the 1930s. Those banks, too, have noticeably receded, sand and soil and rock etched away by the power of water.

Looking out another window, I see a yard strewn with tools and equipment, detritus that needs to be sanitized, because it spent three days underwater in our garage. Who knows what was in that water? Not even SWFWMD can say. Standing in that garage, I’m surrounded by the faint odor of chlorine from a recent pressure washing. There’s not much else in there. The entire space had to be gutted to the concrete. I gaze out through a broken window toward my neighbor’s home. I can see their house through wide gaps in their fence, ripped open by hurricane winds. 

If I could look further, across the county, I would see trees still down on lines from Wimauma to Carrollwood, streets lined with piles of debris—wood and brick and metal that once beautified properties now stacked in shattered and hewn heaps. I would see tired people with rakes and shovels and saws, bending to the work, moving the broken things into the easement. They wear similar expressions of shell shock and resignation. 

To our north, in east Pasco, some neighborhoods are still underwater. Rivers rose up there with no place for the floodwaters to go. People are stuck, just waiting for the rivers to recede. And, down on the barrier keys of Manatee and Sarasota, friends and neighbors are still trying to dig out of the mess left by the storm that came through two weeks before the last one. Folks in my hometown are resolute, they are strong… They are bone tired and world weary. They caught an uppercut to the chin and tried to keep their footing, only to get hit with a body shot that threatened to put them on the mat. But they are still standing.

There is a tremendous amount of work to be done, and some of it cannot even be started yet. Most of us who were hit hard by these hurricanes—my family included—are just trying to move forward, taking it one step at a time and trying not to wonder how long we will walk this particular path. 

The world around us has begun to move on. Pumpkin patches and corn mazes invite kids of all ages to come frolic and moms to dress their kiddos up in matching flannels for photos to hang in the family room. 

Stores are chock full of the trappings of Christmas—trains and tinsel and wrapping paper in red and green. There’s a big part of me that wants to rush into that spirit, to allow the season of peace and joy to wash away the stains and hurt the wind and water left behind. 

It might even be easy. 

For so many others, life is back to normal. I was on a conference call with some colleagues yesterday, and someone from out of state said, “You guys are all good, right? Everything is back to normal, not too much damage, right?” Several people on the call said, “nope, things are still bad.”

I don’t fault her for thinking that—she’s in California, an entire continent away from what is happening in Tampa and Zephyrhills, in Anna Maria or even Asheville. I do think she should have asked before assuming—but that’s a foible we all own. Putting your foot in your mouth is a hallmark of the human condition. So I don’t blame her for wanting, hoping, and wishing that everything was all right. 

I’d like to pretend it was, but I can’t… and many others are right there with me. There is still too much to do, too much to pay for… too much trauma. Even when everything in our yard is cleaned up and packed away, when our windows are fixed and the downed trees are transformed into firewood and mulch… even then, there will still be folks in need. My neighbors had several feet of water in their living space. The guy on the other side of them lost everything. We know people who are still living in motels, others who do not know when—or if—they will ever be able to go home.

The water has receded, but the damage remains. Fortunately, when I look out my window, when I answer the phone, and when I check my email, I also see people reaching out, offering helping hands, as well as cash and chainsaws. People who lost less helping those who are still hurting, and that gives me hope. Even in this noxious political climate, when sometimes it seems like we will never see eye to eye, neighbors are still out there helping neighbors.

When I look out my window and see past the broken things left by the storms, I see people making things better, I see communities coming together to heal. There is still work to be done, but it is being done. And, now, it’s time for me to go lend a hand.