I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
May 8, 2010
>This column originally appeared in the Nashville Scene.
“You’re going to have great material for your column this week!” I’ve heard these words at least a dozen times over the last few days. But like most of you, I’m frankly at a loss for wordsWhat can I possibly say about the friends who were evacuated by boat from their neighborhoods, and whom I haven’t been able to track down since?
What can I say about hearing the news that so many Nashville landmarks were damaged by floodwater?
What can I say about arriving at Starbucks a few minutes ago to write this column and anxiously checking the Facebook status of a friend who lived in an area I haven’t been able to get to by car, only to find that her home is a total loss?
As I struggle to write these words right now, a woman approaches me.
“Lindsay?” she says. “We’ve met before, but under better circumstances.” She goes on to tell me that she and her husband lost their Ashland City home in the flood. They have nothing but a few personal items and a change of clothing. They’ve spent the morning in Starbucks contacting various utilities and canceling their contracts with them.
“Did you have insurance?” I ask her.
“We thought we did,” she says. “We had the most wide-ranging renter’s insurance we could buy, but we were just informed that it doesn’t cover flooding. So basically, we have nothing.”
It’s column material, that’s for sure, but there’s nothing good about it.
My family was very fortunate to experience only inconvenience as a result of this flood. I’m frustrated that I have no Internet or phone access, that cell phone coverage (as many of you know) is spotty at best right now, and that my desire to help is limited by my lack of information and access to the outside world.
But that’s nothing compared to the neighborhood I drove through this morning just a mile down the road from our own house, where a once-pristine subdivision is now brown with mud, and the contents of the homes there are stacked unceremoniously in front yards. If I tried, I could probably come up with a few clever phrases to describe what I witnessed, but my heart is heavy for my friends and neighbors, and I, like so many of you, am still numb with shock that an entire region could be so battered and destroyed by two days of rain.
I’m also in awe, though, at the bravery and compassion of my neighbors.
I spent this morning at a flood-ravaged house in Temple Hills. The mom who lives there, a friend of a friend, described to me the shock of watching the drywall crumble and crash to the ground as the water rushed in while she tried to move everything upstairs. “The force is incredible,” she said. “You hear about flash floods, but you just have no idea until you experience how quickly the water rises in your own house.”
Today, she and her family tried to salvage photos and keepsakes while a work crew tore out the drywall and carpeting before mold had a chance to set in. Insurance will cover $10,000 of their expenses, “but we’ve already spent $2,500 just pumping out the water,” she said. “We’ll pay for almost all of this ourselves.”
Unbelievably, she had a smile on her face as she told me about their experience. “We think we’re lucky,” she said. “We can rebuild. And we have friends here to help us. So many people lost everything. People lost their lives.” The atmosphere at the home is upbeat. The family and their friends all have a sense of purpose.
And when I think about it, that’s the spirit I’ve seen in everyone I’ve encountered over these last few days. It’s almost as if we’ve been waiting for a chance to step outside our comfortable, boring lives and prove our mettle. When the power went out in my neighborhood, the people who live on my street leaped into action, making runs to the nearby supermarket to pick up ice and bottled water for everyone, taking turns watching small children while they played together in front yards, and organizing a cookout using the items that had thawed in our freezers. We were all stranded on Bellevue Island, but together, we made the experience as bearable as possible.
You’ll hear stories like this one all over Middle Tennessee. Every person I’ve run across during the last few days has asked me if I needed anything. Everyone I know is doing all they can to help their friends and neighbors. And when I’m done writing this column, I’ll leave Starbucks and head to my Facebook friend’s house, to see what I can do for her.
If anything, this flood has been a tremendous reminder that control is an illusion, and that, as trite as it sounds, all we really have on this earth is each other. And I hope this lesson sticks, long after the Great Flood of 2010 is a distant memory.
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