The following is a re-post from September 24, 2005.
Route to Rita
At first, my son wasn’t excited about moving to Houston. He’d heard they had hurricanes. Fr John Salem, the priest at St George, encouraged me to tell him that it had been a long, long time since a hurricane hit Houston. Not to worry.
That, I did. I also found a house with a pool. The latter was enough to pump the boy up. Hurricane, pool. Pool, hurricane. The pool easily won.
We spent the night in the new digs on the floor, sleeping bags. There wasn’t a hotel room in the vicinity thanks to the infamous Katrina. By Tuesday morning folks were already talking about approaching weather. I had a serious parental talk with my children, especially Basil. Sometimes hurricanes do hit Houston. But, we’ll get through it.
On Wednesday the truck with most of our stuff arrived. By then preparations were underway all around us for the storm.
Silly me, I’d let them pack the coffee maker on the truck. Therefore, Mickie D’s made my coffee on Tuesday & Wednesday morning. It was on Wednesday that I heard, really heard, about the hurricane on the radio. They were going over a preparedness checklist. Dang.
So, just hours away from the arrival of all our worldly goods, the wife and I went to a grocery store at 6:40 am. It didn’t open till 7 … there was a line. So, we waited. Folks joked. The store manager opened the door with the announcement: “We have no water! I’m still waiting on a truck. There are a few batteries left by the check-out counters.” About half the people that had been waiting in line left.
We’d gotten a few things but, needing more, I came home while Elizabeth and my oldest daughter went hunting (normally called “shopping”). I told my wife, given that we have lots of camping gear — Coleman stoves, lanterns and such — to try to get lots of small propane tanks.
Just as the moving van arrived, the gals returned. Lots of water and propane. Yeah! Thing is, as it turned out, all of our camping gear missed this van and won’t be delivered until next week. (We did find a One Burner which, thank God, would be a blessing if needed.)
We were moving in. Neighbors were heading out of town. Jokes were made. That’s just what comes natural in the face of possible disaster.
One neighbor came over and asked if she could have a few of our mattress boxes. Sure. Why? She said to tape cardboard over the windows to prevent glass and debris from blowing into the house should the windows break. Oh, and, “Welcome to the neighborhood.” Something like that.
The people in Houston have been great. Never having considered Texas a part of the South (sorry, cultural bias), I have been pleasantly surprised at just how Southern it seems. Southern etiquette and conservative views prevail. Maybe it’s justification, but I’m presently mentally arranging my Southern geography to include East Texas.
The truck left Wednesday afternoon and, like an addiction, we set about unpacking boxes. The pool, we discovered, is a great babysitter.
Thursday found us taping up windows, using lots and lots of cardboard, and getting ready for what was being called an historic storm of catastrophic proportions.
Phones rang. Family, friends, and former parishioners. Praying.
It’s been wild.
Did I mention love bugs?
My wife likes to say that she knew we were becoming Orthodox when she came home one day to a recording of Byzantine chant playing, and a censer smoking on the hearth next to a couple of icons. I remember very clear what she did that afternoon–she gestured to the couch and asked, “Do we need to remove the pews, too?”
