Spared from a sinister storm

For now, a little luck kept family safe from Harvey

In the dead of night, as the rain that had been pelting our house for two days pounded even louder, I lay awake thinking of my two young daughters hard asleep in their upstairs bedroom, their small bodies tangled in Hello Kitty sheets.

They were safe — for the moment — from the remnants of Hurricane Harvey, safe from the floods sweeping through vast swaths of Houston, safe from the tornadoes whipsawing through the west and northern parts of the city.

In our backyard, in a suburb northeast of Houston, the pool water slipped past the mosaic tile and onto the patio. In the black night sky, the thunder cracked and lightning flared. But our street, which curves slightly upward, and our house, which sits on a gentle slope, had been spared from Harvey’s devastation. We are lucky, I thought. At least for the time being.

At 2:12 a.m., a Twitter post flashed across my iPhone: “Water is swallowing us up. Please try calling 911 for rescue. Please send help.”

Seven minutes later, another: “Urgent water rescue needed now … Cancer patient with feeding tube.”

My social media feeds were a jumbled record of an unfolding disaster: Videos of waterlogged streets, weather advisories warning of “catastrophic” flooding, reports of overflowing banks and stranded motorists, images of roads and freeways turned into rivers, forceful warnings from officials: Stay at home. Don’t go into your attic. Don’t venture onto the roads.

Houston, a sprawling kaleidoscope of a city, a place where I first landed reluctantly and have since grown to love, was under siege by a storm that showed no signs of budging.

All I could do was stare at the ceiling and pray.

another flash flood warning pulled me out of bed before daylight. The rain still pummelled the roof. My daughters had not yet stirred. Our beagle and Chihuahua pawed at me nervously.

A weather report showed swirling bands of green and red — stalled over Houston. This was not close to being over.

All night long, I had tracked reports from the Precinct 4 constable. There was high water on streets in and out of Kingwood, a tree down on West Lake Houston, some nearby neighborhoods hit by flooding.

But we were still safe, still lucky.

That’s all it was. Sheer, stupid luck. We chose this suburb — nicknamed the Livable Forest — because of the plentiful trees and the lush greenbelt that cuts from one end to another. We chose our house because of the high ceilings and welcoming aura.

We didn’t think of flood plains or drainage.

We might have ended up living in Cypress, where tornadoes chewed through neighborhoods, tearing off roofs and bulldozing brick walls. We might have picked Meyerland, where residents have been forced out by floods three times in the last two years.

I might have been called into work on Saturday, and gotten stuck like some of my Houston Chronicle colleagues, at our building off the prone-to-flood Southwest Freeway, where the parking lots quickly transform into lakes. Or like others, who spent the night in strangers’ driveways on the way home.

My fellow journalists plunged into waist-high water and risked their vehicles and safety to report on flooding and water rescues. My fellow Houstonians clambered onto rooftops and waded through roiling currents to safety. First responders plucked victims out of cars and houses and apartment complexes.

I gave thanks that my 8-year-old and 9-year-old were playing dolls. They worried about the cracking thunder and the pouring rain, asked about the continuous news reports and weather alerts. But they were dry and warm. Lucky.

On local news, I watched as a Houston police officer led an elderly woman, dazed and dull-eyed, clasping her pet dog in her arms, out of a flooded street. He walked her slowly and gently out of danger.

I listened as another reporter recounted the story of a mother holding an infant cried out for help as the waters rose around her. As families with small shivering children and frightened pets climbed from rescue boats, clutching their belongings in black garbage bags.

JUST AFTER 9 a.m., when the rain slowed to a steady drip, I ventured out, equipped in rain boots and a blue poncho, to survey the neighborhood around me.

I expected to be the lone driver on rain-soaked roads. Instead, I saw a line of cars wrapped around the drive-thru of a nearby Whataburger. I saw trucks and SUVs driving as if on a regular Sunday morning.

How random natural disasters can be. In one part of the city, lives are being storm-tossed and shattered. In another, folks are waiting on orders of burgers and fries.

It took me about 20 minutes to drive from my house to the entrance to Kingwood and U.S. 59 and another 40 to get back. Forty minutes for the rain to whip up again, for streets passable only a short time before to suddenly become menacing, for the freeway to be closed off and cars diverted.

On the radio, a news update listed some numbers: 250 water rescues, all from vehicles; 2,500 emergency calls answered; another 1,000 waiting in queue.

By the time I got back home, treading cautiously through patches of deep water, the downpour was lashing furiously at my windshield, blurring the view ahead, the Whataburger was closing up, and I was heaving a sigh of relief.

I am so lucky, I whispered to myself. If only everyone could be.