Our house, ruined by Harvey, is a home again
I never saw 2017 coming. Like the natural disasters to follow, Hurricane Harvey would impact the lives of countless people who’d previously been making other plans.
What follows is a cathartic reflection penned in the light of a Christmas tree in our reconstructed Bellaire home.
The path that led to this point was — unforgettable.
It took Harvey two tries, the first ending unceremoniously in what was assumed to be its last gasp. But Harvey was just taking a breather, and over the days to follow, regenerated with a fury.
This time, it behaved as predicted in a scenario that was essentially unprecedented. Harvey’s forward motion stalled on cue as it began its spin cycle into a tropical system that would eventually achieve meteorological perfection. By the time the last of the feeder bands moved out of Texas, rainfall in the Bayou City had topped 4 feet.
My wife and I were in New York at the time, taking advantage of some planned R&R. That trip saved one car, which rode Harvey out at the airport, a singular thread to normalcy that later proved to be helpful.
The decision to leave a second car in the garage had been dismissed with a one-liner: “If the garage floods, we’ve got bigger problems.”
The time in New York was spent glued to the television, studying the radar, exchanging texts with neighbors and friends. Early on, hopes were high as our house had never before flooded. But on Saturday night, we took a direct hit from a nasty feeder band, and that was all she wrote. We were among the several hundred homes in our immediate subdivision that took on more than 20 inches. The bigger problems began.
With Houston’s airports shut down, Dallas was as close as we could get. A few days later, we were gouged at DFW on a $400 rental to make the four-hour drive south. The bayous had something to say about that journey, and it would be another day
House from page D1 before we could open the patio door into our home of 23 years.
The couches had floated into their resting places on hardwoods bleached with the laundry detergent. Both ficus trees were lying on their sides supported by furniture that had broken their fall. Surprisingly, the standing water had receded from highwater marks that lined every wall and door. A quick survey of the garage confirmed that the second car was a goner, the least of our worries at that point.
Also to our surprise, the A/C was working, sparking new hope for the second story where we usually spent most of our time. My wife and I took it all in, then looked at each other, both of us lost and unsure where to begin.
There was no road map for this, no life experiences to prepare us.
A phone call to our trusted housekeeper was the first win — she was dry and could be there in an hour. A second call shortly after brought a handyman who’d helped us over the years. By lunchtime, he and a small crew had begun the demolition and remediation that was required to dry out.
My wife and I ventured outside for a time, exchanging stories with neighbors about their experience. Some had been rescued by boat; one family rode it out in the second story of a house under construction. Our favorite was from neighbors across the street who refused to evacuate as long as the light in our second-story window remained bravely lit. They had no clue we were 1,700 miles away at the time.
Within 72 hours, the first level of our home had been gutted to the studs, drywall removed, concrete slabs exposed. I could not have anticipated the degree of identity and belonging that is attached to an inanimate object. There was a palpable sense of displacement within the confines of the place I was still living. And even in the days to follow, descending the stairs into a hollow substructure was profoundly disconcerting. The sound of dehumidifiers sucking out the moisture, fans blowing from every angle, the faint smell of mildew that was trying to get a foothold.
Without exception, the things on our first story had all been just stuff: furniture, rugs, B-grade appliances. The photographs had been on high ground; everything else was replaceable. But the memories of all that we’d cherished were somehow inextricably linked to a world that no longer existed: the boys we had raised, family who had visited, friends and neighbors who’d stop by. It was all just — gone.
And so we’d try to talk to people about it. We played the Harvey card shamelessly and often with just about anyone who would listen. “Did you stay dry?” “No, we weren’t quite so lucky.” But even close friends and family could not fully understand. Like listening to a cancer survivor, or a parent who’s lost a child, there is no way to relate to certain experiences unless you’ve walked that mile on your own. So we learned to dial down the volume, and we hit mute altogether more than once.
A month after the storm, we began to rebuild. On instinct, we entrusted the house to our handyman-turned-contractor who’d torn it down weeks before. The scope was beyond anything he’d attempted, but we were familiar with the quality of his work and were convinced he was up to the task.
Over the weeks to follow, our home began to take shape with a resilience akin to the storm. My wife and I missed much of that time, as my work would take me to three continents over the course of the next several weeks. But our contractor sent pictures, we wired money and somehow decisions got made.
Walking up to the patio door before Thanksgiving, I couldn’t help recall those first images of the house after the storm.
But when I turned the key, those images abruptly vanished.
Our house had been reborn, with paint in new colors of our choosing, everything spotless and new. The insurance settlement would arrive soon afterward. Unlike the majority of victims, we were going to be fine — far more fortunate than others, as we are fully aware and grateful.
By mid-December, we began with the finishing touches. One by one, the boxes were hauled downstairs and we transformed our new house into a home. We returned the photographs to their shelves, faces of our boys and family who would watch over our lives after the flood. Just as water takes on the shape of its container, we would adapt to our new surroundings.
And it turns out that the clouds of a tropical system come with their own brand of silver linings. These are some images I won’t soon forget:
A mother and two small children manning a lemonade stand for hours, refusing even small change because they had been fortunate not to flood.
People in my home whom I’d never met dropping off supplies and filling boxes.
My wife accepting a meal from a Red Cross truck that was working its way up our street.
Countless boats being towed along I-10 with license plates from New York and California.
Debris piles measuring 10 feet tall lining block after block in our subdivision.
A baseball team capturing the soul of a city who desperately needed that moment.
The pride on the face of a contractor-turned-friend as he put the finishing touches on our home.
And like all meaningful journeys, I learned a few things along the way. People are good, almost always. Texans have a particular streak of independence with hearts as big as the night sky. There are no limits to the power of random acts of kindness in a situation of widespread distress.
And a home is more than the sum of the construction materials and labor that went into it.
Today, I look differently at volunteers, many of whom are more visible this time of year.
And the guy holding a cardboard sign at an intersection seems a bit more three-dimensional, as well.
For us, unlike others who are still living this nightmare, it’s now come to an end. Most of you we have never met, but may your holiday season be all that it can be at this unique and difficult time. This too shall pass.