Friday

The death toll in the south has now reached 312 and it still might rise. One million people are without power. Many of those people do not have food reserves or generators, making outside help a literal lifesaver.

Countless homes are destroyed -- completely and utterly obliterated. Several people have described the damage done in Phil Campbell likening it to a bomb going off. Buildings that have stood for over a century are gone now. And it's strange to think how many storms they made it through and why this one should be different.

But it was.

The Tennessee Valley may be called Tornado Alley because of the large amounts of tornadoes we get. But, the thing is, those tornadoes usually cause relatively minor damage. Most of the tornadoes we have seem to be F1 or F2. But the tornadoes of Wednesday were F4 and F5. This is so rare here. As my mother says, "We just don't have those mile-wide ones here."

It's hard to listen as the death toll rises. A lot of these people are dying from injuries sustained during the storm. But there are other problems. People are hungry and likely thirsty. So many are without power; some people are using generators improperly and getting carbon monoxide poisoning. The news anchors try to stress safety tips, like not putting your generator in your garage, but the people without power can't even see the TV -- what good does it do them?

Imagine being without power in Alabama. Alabama is humid by nature and the spring can get very hot. Without air conditioners, people will be in danger of heatstroke. It goes hot in a house without A/C.

Huntsville is also a huge medical hub for this part of the Valley. I myself have weekly appointments there and it's nerve-wracking to think what might happen to the people who aren't going to get the medical treatment they need.

Put short, Alabama needs so much help. If you have money to give, do the wise thing and donate to a verified charity that is committed to helping affected areas. If you don't have money, donate your time. You can do that by physically helping storm victims, raising awareness, or reading my blog.

How will reading my blog help, you ask? It's quite simple. I've monetized it. If I earn revenue from this blog, I will donate those proceeds to the Red Cross and other worthy organizations that help affected peoples. You can help by literally reading. Isn't that worth the time?

The Day After

The damage in Alabama is catastrophic. As I type, the death toll rises. Families are learning their sons and daughters are not coming home. The news anchors are overcome with sorrow as they tell us that more have died, that more will die.

Where I live in Muscle Shoals was not severely hit, thankfully. Still, the people here panic. There are lines at every gas station; even though I've been on empty for over twenty miles, I cannot get fuel, because people are hysterically draining the gas in preparation for what, I don't know. In Muscle Shoals, we are mostly okay. In Muscle Shoals, our houses still stand and we have power. Still, the wells are dry and I am forced to go home without the gas I actually need on general principle.

My mother says she cannot understand why I insist we need gas and food. I tell her, simply, that we were dumb enough to let everything run low before a terrible storm. And now, we will end up relying on my seventy-two year old grandmother to help us out until we can get gas. All because people who haven't the right to panic are panicking on a massive scale.

But if people were panicking in Phil Campbell or Huntsville, I could understand. As I wrote previously, Phil Campbell and nearby Hackleburg suffered devastating damage. Huntsville, a city with well over 100,000 citizens, is entirely out of power. The lines that run the power from TVA (The Tennessee Valley Authority), the provider of Huntsville's power, are damaged. The people of Huntsville will be out of power for five or more days. We've never seen anything like this -- none of us. Now the news tells us which grocery stores and hospitals are open. Basic necessities aren't supposed to be news. When they are, you get the feeling you've stumbled into the wrong universe by mistake.

Still, from what I observe miles away from then trenches, I see that people are starting to pick up, to sort through the debris, and salvage their lives. They come together to survive, a human instinct that does not fail us, it seems, even in the worst of times.

These tornadoes have killed. Men, women, children, beloved family pets -- dead. I listen as the newsman tells us that two University of Alabama students are among the casualties of Tuscaloosa. I watch as tears come to his eyes, and he apologizes unnecessarily, telling us that his daughter goes there, but that she was spared. A tear slides down my own cheek when I hear him say something to the effect that parents send their children to school expecting them to be safe. Morbidly, I curse the storms for not having the courtesy to consider the plans of those they killed. I know it does no good. I know the planless have just as much right to live as those with mile-high dreams. And I know that a storm, however terrible, is just a storm. It has no vendetta, no scruples. It simply goes until it can't any longer, consequences be damned. Still, it's not right and if I had my way, not a single person would've died.

Yet they are dead. We know that by the hearses and the broken hearts.

My mother remarks that she had no idea how bad this was while it was all happening. I don't think anyone did until it was too late. In truth, none of us expected F4 and F5 tornadoes to rip through the state like so many daggers to the back. Most of us don't have generators or extra bottled water and canned food. One lesson in all of this is to be prepared sensibly, to not overreact (as with the Muscle Shoals gas crisis), but to be smart and be safe.

I think a time like this is best summed up by Regina Spektor in her song "Laughing With":

No one laughs at God in a hospital;
No one laughs at God in a war.
No one's laughing at God when they're starving,
or freezing and so very poor

No one laughs at God when the doctor calls after some routine tests
No one laughs at God when it's gotten real late
And their kid's not back from that party yet
No one laughs at God when their airplane starts to uncontrollably shake
No one's laughing at God when they see the one they love
Hand in hand with someone else and they hope they are mistaken

No one laughs at God when the cops knock on their door
And they say we've got some bad news, sir
No one's laughing at God when there's a famine, fire, or flood

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke
Or when the crazies say he hates us
And they get so red in the head you think their 'bout to choke

God can be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket or Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious -- haha

No one laughs at God in a hospital;
No one laughs at God in a war.
No one's laughing at God when they've lost all they got
And they don't know what for

No one laughs at God on the day they realize
The last thing they'll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes
No one's laughing at God when they're saying their goodbyes

(Chorus & cont.)

No one's laughing at God
We're all laughing with God



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

I went to bed last night expecting there to be some bad weather. Bad weather is something we're used to here. But, when I went to bed, I didn't expect to wake up to sirens at four or five in the morning. I could barely rouse myself awake -- even through the air raid sirens. Mama came to me and said, "You have to get up. This one might hit us."

And so, we sat up in her bed watching the local weather. Both of us were too tired to comprehend what was happening, and we fell back asleep rather quickly,

10:15. My mom wakes me up again. "It might hit us this time," she says once more, and once more, I wake up, only this time more obediently.

We trek to the living room and turn on the same local station as before. This time, the weather feels different. This time, there's an aching in my lupus-bones that tells me it's stronger now. This time, we both pay attention.

I eat a small brunch as the sirens blare. Already the weather is calming down again. I decide I can go back to sleep while everything is quiet.

My mom wakes me up with the same premonition as the two times before. Now, the storm is even more fierce. This time, I wake up to go into the hall with my mom, my dogs, cats, our pillows, and blankets. We wait in the hall for some time like that, calling the grandmothers and my sister, making sure they are safe. My dad, who is well-studied in atmospherical sciences calls to give us his take and his advice, which is, thankfully, always right. He tells us to remain in the hall.

The world around us goes quiet. Our puppy that was squirming now stills. I look ahead, out of the hallway and towards the living room, and I see blackness. And that blackness gets blacker, more and more devoid of color until it seems as though there is no more color left in all the world. It's a sight I've seen before. I know that when day turns to night, it is never a good sign. I listen to the TV in the living room, which seems so loud now, and I hear that there are vortices over the city hall of my town. I live less than a mile from there; the tornadoes are less than a mile from me. And, for the first time, fear grips tight at my gut. It's one thing when a tornado is across town. It's quite another when it could be at your house in less than a minute.

Five minutes later and we are still here. I relax now, knowing those vortices must've moved on, perhaps even shot back up into the clouds above. But still it is black and I know the badness is near. I know we are not out of the woods yet. I hear the TV say that another tornado is tracking towards my mother's mother, who lives in the county just north of here some twenty minutes away.

We think she is okay, and we think we are too. The sky is no longer black, paling to gray. Color slowly returns to the world, and the sight of it gives me reassurance. Finally, the rains return. This a good sign. The quiet is what is terrifying; the quiet is the harbinger.

The storm moves on. Other towns are hit worse than we are. I listen and watch as vortex after vortex is spotted. The affected areas span the width and breadth of the Tennessee Valley, from my home in Muscle Shoals, AL all the way to Lookout Mountain near Chattanooga, TN. The weather man says in his thirty-two years of experience he has never seen such a thing. And in my twenty-two years of life, neither have I.

We hear that people are dead, that more are injured. We here the county courthouse in Cullman is practically gone; we hear the buildings around it are flattened. I wonder how dare a tornado tear down what has stood so long. I wonder how dare this weather take so much without asking. I wonder if there is more that could be done. Were we, as a state, too cocky? Did we truly think this would be a storm like any other?

But these are just the wonderings of a little girl, for I am a little girl today. The local stations go out. We no longer have news. I try to call Comcast to complain; the call won't go through. My heart beats a little faster as I call my dad. Time after time the call drops and I realize what a security blanket all of this technology is for me. I feel as unsafe as a child, stunned and not knowing what to do. Even the Internet fails me. The Internet. I can barely comprehend it.

But then inspiration strikes me: perhaps a text message can get through? It is a long shot, but I have to know for my own piece of mind. My text to my dad is simple: "call me ASAP". I wait, wait, wait until the phone rings and it is him. Like the child I suddenly am, I tell him my worries. "Is it over now?" I ask. It is, he says. It is over, but the storm leaves a path of destruction that has not been seen since, at least, the Day of Tornadoes. And maybe not even then.

Hackleburg is destroyed. Destroyed. A town is gone. Phil Campbell is almost as bad. I remember going to a play at a college in Phil Campbell when I was five. And I am struck with a harrowing sort of knowledge: places I have been before, place I drove past the day before, no longer exist now. My soul shivers.

Mile-wide tornadoes wrought havoc on Birmingham, AL, a city made of steel, like it's English namesake, and so old and so tough, it should be untouchable. But it isn't. Alabama is stripped of her armor. Tuscaloosa has also been struck with a tornado like the one in Birmingham. Our university is there; the storm has stole our helmut. Alabama is unhorsed. The storm did not ask for our swords; it asked for our heads.

Our towns and our people have fallen, but we do not waver. We our strong like the ones who made us. We are a stubborn people. Hope, love, and faith will never leave us. We won't let them.

I write as an observer who sat hunkered in safety in her hallway and now types on her iPad. I am lucky. I am alive. There is a lot to be done. Help is needed and though I cannot offer it physically, I offer it intellectually. I send out this digital letter from the trenches beseeching those who read this: Alabama needs your thoughts, your prayers, and your help.






- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad