The wind of Hurricane Floyd buffeted my hair as I waited in line for the boats to take us to the shelter. In 1999, we all insisted the elderly go first. My family watched as the boats sped away. The whistle of the wind rose to a screech. The crowd was mostly silent, a few whispers passing back and forth. I gazed at the water as debris rushed along with the current. A small teddy bear whisked by my vision; it had been pale before the storm caked it with mud in spots. A sad smile grew on my face. That teddy bear was the smallest fraction of all that was lost to Floyd.
A tap on my shoulder brought me back to the present. I looked up to see the boats ready to take us. My mother, husband and I rode one boat, my two children in another. The rain was soaking through my clothes, chilling me to the bone. There had been no time to grab anything more than a bit of money and identification. We huddled together in the…show more content… The shelter was on high ground, to be expected. My family and I all managed to get some sleep until about eight o’clock. Everyone lined up for breakfast, a small bowl of pale, gray-tan oatmeal. I forced myself to choke the slimy chunks down, since it was what was available. After four hours of nothing, we all lined up for lunch. It was a small cheeseburger with a side of beans. I again choked it down quickly, then stared out the window until dinner, a bowl of soup.
After two more days of that same routine, I borrowed one of the small boats that had taken us to the shelter. The water level had gone down, now only up to my waist. My father took me down to my house so I could assess damages. The boat shook as I climbed out into the muddy water. Just on the outside, our home looked miserable. The windows had cracked, the siding had been ripped off, the roof had been dented severely right in the middle, as if the storm had karate chopped it. I reached under the water to the
