The Mountains are Calling

And they need your help.

The videos were shaky, as usual. Mom tends to press ‘record’ and then walk, phone facing the ground, to the place or thing she’s trying to record. Friday morning was no different, and I received three such videos detailing the rushing stream—the wet dog. She called me to make sure I’d received them. (So, Mom!)

“Did you see the creek?” she asked. “I was trying to get it so you could see the creek.”

I had seen the creek, I told her. 

She was at her mountain home in Western North Carolina. There was anticipation of Hurricane Helene; we figured there would be inconvenience, the loss of power, maybe internet. But as native Floridians, we knew the drill. Living through a hurricane was old hat. You prepare, yes, but mostly, things end up being nothing or not much – especially if you’re inland.

I had that call with her Friday morning. Then—nothing. 

My family has had a presence in Western North Carolina for generations. There are stories about my great-grandparents taking a stagecoach from Florida to open their summer home. Once there, they would prepare a garden that would feed their adult children and their families for the entire summer as each came and went for their ‘summer time’ in Balsam. My mother spent her childhood in those mountains, as did I, as did my children. This area has always been a special part of my life—it holds a special place in my heart—countless gatherings, hikes, celebrations, and holidays.

There’s an energy, a creative energy there that I’ve found difficult to replicate or sense anywhere else. I have always felt safe in those hills. 

And the apples—there was always the scent of fresh apples, a scent that takes me back to the stages and seasons of my life like no other. 

My love for the mountains of NC led me to ASU (Boone) for my college years—a time I called my four-year vacation, much to my parents’ chagrin. I loved every minute. I made incredible friends, and though I worked hard (kind of), the environment and the fun I experienced did feel a lot like vacation. 

A decade ago, when I began to think about writing, I spent a week visiting the Arts District in Asheville, meandering and talking to the artists there. I wanted to understand the creative process—what it actually takes for a person to make something out of nothing.  Everyone was kind, welcoming, generous.

I had a different post scheduled to send to you today, but given the events of the weekend, I decided to pivot. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Hurricane Helene decimated the area. 

I contacted a friend who lives East of Ashville to check in: 

I was able to get a short (2-sentence fragment) message from my mom on a relative’s phone to let me know she was okay. A conversation late Sunday confirmed it (we’re so grateful) . There was no power, water, cell service, or internet. The roads were passable, but barely. Power lines were down everywhere. Waynesville, where we shop and go out for meals, was flooded at its lowest parts—completely flooded. 

I feel helpless and a little in shock. But I wanted to tell you about it here so you’ll know how special that area is and how much has been lost. 

They are going to need help to rebuild. 

If you’d like to help, here is a good list of organizations to begin:

Ways to Donate and Help Flood Victims in Western North Carolina after Hurricane Helene

I’ll share more as I learn more. Until then, hug your people - 

Until next time,

S

PS. Please leave a comment if you have a story to share about Hurricane Helene, or more resources to pass on.