My sister-in-law was in the midst of an important medical treatment, and since there was no power at the residence in Houston or anywhere near it, and since their car was block in a tree-attacked garage, I drove down to evacuate them from their semi-evacuation. (I was hailed as a hero for bringing several bags of ice.)
The creepy aspect of the day was the complete lack of electrical power. Once I moved below Buffalo on I-45, there was nothing. A surprising flow of traffic headed back to the Houston/Galveston area clogged the interstate and stacked up in lines at every exit, in hopes of having selected the right exit to score some gas or food.
But, no.
I left the interstate to drive over to the small town of Madisonville, thinking I might purchase a stash of D cell batteries -- a hot commodity in powerless Houston. I theorized that most of the travelers would not swing out to Madisonville, since it was not visible from the interstate.
I was right. I encountered no traffic. But, I also encountered no power. Nada. The town was electricity-less.
In Huntsville, it was worse. I think there was a collective belief that power/food/gas would be available at this more sizable city. But, no. A long queue of cars snaked back up the shoulder of the interstate, waiting their turn to take the first exit.
When travelers discovered no power/gas/food, they rolled down the service road paralleling the interstate, hoping the next exit would magically, inexplicably prove to be the oasis of power/food/gas they needed.
I rolled on.
No power in Conroe. No power in The Woodlands. No power.
"Captain Trips," I thought.
I got in and got out, having topped off my tank before getting on the interstate in Buffalo.
It was just a few weeks later when I took by brother-in-law back to Galveston Island for a look-and-leave, when authorities allowed residents (with photo ID) to enter the island and assess their property. We had to be off the island by 6 p.m.
But, heading out the causeway as I-45 approached Galveston Island was a very surreal scene. What were once upscale yachts and boats were tipped on their sides in the median of the interstate. A collection of hull-damaged vessels lined the shoulder of the road. Sailboats with broken masts lay scattered about and abandoned.
It was crazy.
Tiki Island, which you pass en route to Galveston, was once a bustling community of condos on stilts and a crowded marina catering to the weekend-home crowd. Everywhere were piles of belongings heaped up next to the homes where they once resided. That became a common theme: people dragged their possessions to the curb.
Once we rolled onto Galveston, there was more of the same. Boats where they should not be. Trees lying down. Businesses and homes all over the island had vomited their innards into semi-organized trash piles for contractors to collect and haul away.
I felt like I was intruding on the misery.
We rolled slowly down Broadway, taking in the sights of loss. When we finally turned to corner into the right neighborhood, it was the familiar scene. Furniture and clothes and appliances and belongings spilled out of the homes and lined the sidewalks, as hurricane survivors moved in and out like a colony of ants.
At first glance, my brother-in-law's home didn't have any obvious damage, though I could see the avocado tree in the backyard and tipped over toward the alley. He spoke to his neighbors. All their homes were on the ground level. They all theorized his house might be okay, since it was elevated.
We cautiously entered, expecting to see things tossed about and knocked over, general disarray, pillows and papers swollen with water. But, everything seemed in fine order on first inspection. The lack of complete destruction was incongruous with the scene in neighboring homes.
We wanted to celebrate, but we feared we were somehow overlooking something. Of course, there was damage. Insidious destruction that didn't present itself at first glance. Not the kind of bombastic devastation seen on news channels, but structural and other complications that would ultimately cost quite a bit to rectify.
We taped up the refrigerator and hauled it to the curb. I coated his yard and underneath his home with heavy-duty mosquito spray. We turned his water back on and checked the faucets. We also got up on his roof, having seen some shingles on the ground in his side yard.
As the curfew approached, we cleaned up and got organized to leave the island, rolling slowly north in the line of others who had come for the day to do what repairs they could.
But, heading out the causeway as I-45 approached Galveston Island was a very surreal scene. What were once upscale yachts and boats were tipped on their sides in the median of the interstate. A collection of hull-damaged vessels lined the shoulder of the road. Sailboats with broken masts lay scattered about and abandoned.
It was crazy.
Tiki Island, which you pass en route to Galveston, was once a bustling community of condos on stilts and a crowded marina catering to the weekend-home crowd. Everywhere were piles of belongings heaped up next to the homes where they once resided. That became a common theme: people dragged their possessions to the curb.
Once we rolled onto Galveston, there was more of the same. Boats where they should not be. Trees lying down. Businesses and homes all over the island had vomited their innards into semi-organized trash piles for contractors to collect and haul away.
I felt like I was intruding on the misery.
We rolled slowly down Broadway, taking in the sights of loss. When we finally turned to corner into the right neighborhood, it was the familiar scene. Furniture and clothes and appliances and belongings spilled out of the homes and lined the sidewalks, as hurricane survivors moved in and out like a colony of ants.
At first glance, my brother-in-law's home didn't have any obvious damage, though I could see the avocado tree in the backyard and tipped over toward the alley. He spoke to his neighbors. All their homes were on the ground level. They all theorized his house might be okay, since it was elevated.
We cautiously entered, expecting to see things tossed about and knocked over, general disarray, pillows and papers swollen with water. But, everything seemed in fine order on first inspection. The lack of complete destruction was incongruous with the scene in neighboring homes.
We wanted to celebrate, but we feared we were somehow overlooking something. Of course, there was damage. Insidious destruction that didn't present itself at first glance. Not the kind of bombastic devastation seen on news channels, but structural and other complications that would ultimately cost quite a bit to rectify.
We taped up the refrigerator and hauled it to the curb. I coated his yard and underneath his home with heavy-duty mosquito spray. We turned his water back on and checked the faucets. We also got up on his roof, having seen some shingles on the ground in his side yard.
As the curfew approached, we cleaned up and got organized to leave the island, rolling slowly north in the line of others who had come for the day to do what repairs they could.
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