In the three years since my wife decreed we would move from Memphis and retire in Asheville, my connection to this place has been tenuous at best. For the first time, I had no job. My only anchor in the new city was a local gym.
Surrounded by hoteliers advertising for more heads in beds, developers lobbying for taller buildings, and an increasing population of East Coast transplants, I felt trapped in a rapidly ballooning bubble. From my apartment on the 15th floor of the tallest building, I judged at a distance. I did not see a place for myself amid all the hype. I felt homeless, jobless, hopeless.
Then came Tropical Storm Helene.
She was a leveler. No one escaped her fury. Three days later, the sky calmed, and only gentle wind and soft rain remained. And wailing, unceasing sirens giving voice to desperation, each a cry for help.
While the tourists departed quickly, the rest of us were left to deal with the devastation. It drew me to the streets for the first time. Clots of people assembled around migrating sites of internet connectivity, in continuous movement as one site crashed and another powered up a few blocks away. Not being able to reach loved ones when cell phone service and power were out created pockets of isolation. Absence of clean water, hot food and gas could so easily cause panic.