Monkey Shines

November 02, 2008

So. Hurricanes should never be allowed to hit when it is dark outside. That’s my new rule.

Friday night at about 6 PM the winds started picking up. Until then, it had been a picture perfect day – sunny with a few clouds, a light breeze. Had I not been watching the news, I would never have known Ike was approaching. Near our neighborhood, homeless people live under a bridge that spans Sims Bayou. I wonder if they had any idea what was coming?

I spent Friday preparing for the storm but still hoped Ike would veer north and east of us. As the sun set and the winds picked up, I began to get nervous. Our neighborhood is surrounded on three sides by Sims Bayou. The storm had not even hit and the Houston bayous had risen. The storm surge at the coast was unbelievable. The news reports were filled with stories of people on Bolivar peninsula who had been preparing to evacuate when the only roads out of town were flooded. Would our bayou flood us?

I spent the early part of the evening doing last minute touches. I pushed my bed away from the windows. I moved some of my cherished pottery away from high places. I stacked framed artwork in large Rubbermaid containers thinking that if I got flooded, the water would have to come up over the sides of the plastic bin to get to my treasures. I kept forcing my dogs to go outside knowing they would have a long night.

At about 10 PM, the wind gusts got significantly stronger. I watched in amazement as the top of my pecan tree in the side yard bent over and tapped the top of my car. I decided to move away from my bedroom and into an interior space. I piled couch cushions on the floor in the hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom. I moved both dog beds next to my pallet. I put my little TV on a stand next to the hall. I gathered my cell phone, the weather radio, a candle and lighter.

Some of you know about my dogs, Sandy and Mel. They are my babies. Sandy is a 13 year old Rhodesian Ridgeback, who thinks she is the boss of us all. Mel is a 12 year old mixed breed who just wants her belly scratched. They both thought the idea of all of us sleeping together on the floor was heavenly. They kept repositioning themselves so they could be touching me. Fortunately, they have gotten so deaf that they missed hearing the storm and were perfectly relaxed most of the night.

My house is old, by Houston standards. It was built in 1930. It needs some serious work. The pier and beam foundation needs to be leveled. The floors are uneven and bouncy. The plaster walls have cracks where there beams have settled. The more I thought about it, the more I was certain that the entire house was bound to come down around me. I settled in on my pallet in the hallway with the dogs, watched the storm coverage on the little TV and started a mantra which I kept up all night long.

“Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house.”

By midnight, the winds were fierce. I kept getting up to peek out the windows. It was not raining much at the time. The trees were doing amazing dances, whipping back and forth. The streets in our neighborhood are lined with pecan trees. I have three in my front yard and one in the back. They were tangoing. In my back yard is a massive pine tree – so large you cannot reach around it. It looked like Arthur Fiedler did on a good night – arms flying around trying to keep up with the music of the wind. It was impossible to stand outside for any length of time because leaves and small branches were swirling about.

A bit after midnight, the rains started accompanied by thunder and lightening. The power began to flash on and off. Each time it surged, my air conditioner would stop, make a little chirping noise, then heave on again. After about the tenth surge, it was over. Total darkness. No noise except the incessant wind outside and the sad dying chirp of the AC unit.

I said my prayer. “Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house.”

I called Jane on my cell. She had lost power too. I turned on the radio to find that all the TV stations were broadcasting over the radio. I’m not sure I can fully explain how comforting it was to hear meteorologist Dr. Neil Frank’s calm voice. The news was not good. They expected the center of the storm to shift and head directly up Interstate 45, which is about a mile from our neighborhood.

The air was still and muggy. Mel and I took turns laying on the cool of the wood floor. I know I napped for a while.

At 3 am, the storm was at its fiercest. There is a massive old-fashioned gas heater in the wall next to where we were hunkered. Suddenly, it made an enormous sucking noise, rattling up the vent. I was awake in an instant, heart pounding.

“Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house.”

For the next four hours, the vent continued making this noise on and off, scaring me half to death. Above my head was the pull-down attic stairs. It began thumping up and down. I later realized it was because I had not fully tucked in the extension cord I use to power the attic light and part of it was preventing the door from sealing properly. (duh.)

I laid there in the dark thinking it could not possibly get worse when there was a huge noise and the sky outside lit up. Silence. Then it happened again. And again. Every 15 seconds. I made my way over to the window in my spare bedroom and peeked through the blinds. I could not see much because of the rain and the leaves. From what I could see, it looked like flames and sparks were flying out of the house diagonally across the street. I hunkered back down, grabbed my cell phone and called 911, who connected me to the fire department.

“May I help you?”

“I think the house across the street from me is on fire. I can see flames and sparks.”

“Is it a transformer?”

“No. Our transformers are at the backs of the lots. The lots are an acre or more. The flames and sparks are shooting out the front of where the house and front yard would be.”

“Can you go over there to see if the house is on fire?”

“Um… no. There is a hurricane outside.”

Suddenly, there was a massive BOOM! and the sky lit up like it was daylight and stayed lit for a good 30 seconds.

“Ma’am? Did you hear that?”

“Yes. What was that?”

“I think that house just blew up.”

“Thank you for reporting it.” ::click::

“Holy crap.”
“Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house.”
“Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house.”
“Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house. Good house.”

Like many other dogs, my girls have their own routine: Sleep, go outside, get a cookie. Sleep, go outside, get a cookie. On normal mornings, they want to go out at about 4 am. Sandy uses a variety of tricks to wake me up and get me moving. She pokes me with her cold nose, makes huffing noises, tap dances on the wood floors. When all else fails, she barks.

At 4 am, with winds howling, vents rattling and houses blowing up, Sandy decided it was time to go outside. She poked; she huffed; she tap danced; she barked. I finally got up and put some absorbent pads down in the dining room and begged the two dogs to use them.

“No dice. We refuse to pee in the house while you are here. If you go outside, we will be happy to use them.”

“There’s a hurricane.”

“We want out. Out. Out.”

We looked out the back door. The rains and wind were so strong that you couldn’t see anything. If there is something the dogs hate worse than not going out, it is to go out when it is raining. Sandy headed back to her bed and laid down with a loud sigh. Mel and I, as usual, followed.

At about 6 am, the winds seemed to let up a bit. The news on the radio kept talking about the storm as it affected Galveston, Chambers county and points east. There was nothing about the center of Houston. I called the one person I knew who would be able to tell me what was going on. Her husband, Mike answered.

“Mike, I know it is early and I know Joan is asleep at this hour, but could you please wake her up and ask her to check the weather online?”

There is a miracle here that some of you who know Joan will understand. On a normal day, at 7 am, Joan cannot form words. The only time I have seen Joan awake at that hour is at a bash when we are all headed to bed. She can’t form words then either.

That morning, Joan leaped out of bed, jumped on the computer, was fully alert and at her best. She gave me coordinates. She found the weather at Hobby airport, which is near my house. She was able to tell me that the worst was over, but that there were strong storm bands still moving over the area. The worst was over.

“Good house.”

The dogs and I stayed in place another couple of hours while the winds subsided. Finally, at about 8 am, the sky was bright enough to see what was going on. I let the dogs out the back and found that two big hackberry trees had fallen over the wooden fence on the property line. Half of the back yard was a pond. The other half was covered in limbs and leaves. The garage was still there. (Dammit.)

I headed out the kitchen door to see the front yard. From the side, the Explorer looked like it had gone through a car wash – clean as could be. The front of the car was literally covered in shredded leaves as was the front of my house. The pecan trees were all but bare of leaves and nuts. The ditch was full but not overflowing too much into the yard. It was apparent that something was stuck in the culvert under the driveway preventing the water from flowing properly.

Up and down the street, there were massive limbs down. Amazingly, the house across the street was still there, but a huge oak tree was sticking into the roof over the garage. I had fully expected to see an empty lot.