Friday morning, we left Victoria, Texas, to drive to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and celebrate our oldest daughter's 20th birthday. We drove up US-59/I-69 to Houston and then I-10 into Louisiana. The drive was surreal.
When Harvey hit Victoria, he was packing 100+ mile per hour winds. Between the storm's hurricane winds, and the tornadoes he spawned, our area received a lot of wind damage. You cannot drive far without seeing shingles that were fluttered and ruffled, like an old, mad hen. Trees - beautiful, old live oaks, pin oaks, and post oaks - met their demise as the wind caught their sprawling branches and pushed, shoved, and bullied the ancient trees down to the ground. Once green, they quickly died and dried into crackling piles of leaves and branches. Firewood will not be in short supply for years.
Driving along, further evidence of Harvey's power was seen: billboards were stripped of odd layers of advertisements, so the same sign tried to sell a Pennzoil 10-W-30 Big Mac with a F-350 Heavy Duty by calling 1-800-something for service on your septic system. Other billboards weren't as lucky, as hunks of steel and aluminum were strewn through a pasture, unable to sell anything. Roofs were ripped off, sheds were ripped down, and machine shops were ripped open, leaving electric cables and ceiling tiles dancing in the breeze while we drove by.
Yep...Harvey had sure done a number on South Texas.
Somewhere around El Campo, the scene began to change. There was less and less evidence of wind destruction. Fewer trees were laid over, bulletin boards knocked down, and buildings torn open. But, more and more, we began seeing water damage. Out in the country, at 75mph, it was hard to notice much, specifically; but I could see where debris had hung on fences. Then, there were piles of brush, hay, and other detrius that had been bushed off the highway so cars could safely drive by. In Wharton, while Buckee's was again open, with doors closed to preserve air conditioning, there were plenty of other buildings with doors and windows open for air flow.
And then there was Houston. I was busy driving, and concentrating on the traffic around me, to pay too close of attention to details, but with quick glances I could see debris...hanging on overhead power lines and light poles fifteen feet up. Driving through "The Canyon," it was humbling to look (peek) up and know that water was 20 feet above my head. And, when going over overpasses, I wondered how many had huddled there, dazed and confused, after a USCG MH-60 helo dropped them off to go find more people trapped in rising flood waters.
East of Houston - my old stomping ground - we drove over the I-10 bridge crossing the San Jacinto river. At one point the water had been at the top of the concrete median that was as high as the car window, but that morning as we drove over, tug boats were underneath the bridge - where they belong - pushing barges around. We drove past Cedar Bayou where the new CONUS rainfall record was set, 51.84" over 8 days, 24-31 August, 2017. And we drove across a dry road between dry fields where just a 20 days earlier you needed a boat to go down the same interstate...which was ten feet beneath you.
But what struck me the most was when we got closer to Beaumont: for miles and miles, in front of homes and businesses, were piles of debris: carpet, shelves, cabinets, appliances, and furniture. I could see the big stuff, but I couldn't see the little stuff that meant so much to people: pictures of the first day of kindergarten, a crayon drawing of the family hung on the fridge, a school note about open house, a son's Marine boot camp photo, a daughter's flag case from when she was laid to rest at the National Cemetery, grandma's box of secret recipes, dad's antique clock. So many memories and so many stories, all joined together in a pile, waiting for the garbage trucks to haul them off to landfills.
And there was a smell...a funky, sour smell that even the car air conditioning couldn't eliminate. I'm sure it was a combination of mold, rot, leaked chemicals...and death.
It was a humbling and eye-opening journey as we followed Harvey's path of destruction. What began as a violent, shearing and grinding of wind evolved into the slow -and then more rapid - rise of water. I was reminded of the old VBS song, "The rains came down and the floods came up..." except it didnt matter what the foundation was - the houses flooded with water's terribly unstoppable and fluid power and efficiency.
In the days after the storm, you heard phrases like Texas Strong, and We Shall Rise! Maybe, but for some, maybe not. As I put the hammer down, east bound and down, and was on the road again, I was guilty grateful to put the scenes of destruction in the rear view mirror. There, but for the grace of God, could have been me.
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