by Leisa A. Hammett, www.LeisaHammett.com

Outside and overhead, we could hear the circling clop-clop of television news station helicopters and the occasional zoom of Vanderbilt Medical University LifeFlights. Inside we were trapped in a surreal universe, disconnected from all forms of media but our cell phones–if our particular service provider's tower was not one of the ones just submerged by Nashville's historic 1000-year flood.  We were powerless. Of electricity. And of feeling–in our sense of being able to change the state of things. Powerless to change the circumstances that had literally deluged us with
14-plus inches of constant flash flooding rains for two, weekend days.

As the rains continued for the second day, it was cool. When they stopped the next day, temperatures rose higher, climbing into the upper 80s. The contents of our warm, refrigerators–shut tight–began to spoil. At first we could not exit toward town. Then, we could only go so far. The rains had flooded the parking lot of our grocer, our mutual island of civilization. The waters rose within four feet of the nearby traffic lights. Rumors were all we had. And rumors were rampant. Our area's substation was submerged. Our power would be off possibly two weeks, some said. We could head, oddly, west then east out of our water-locked community. But, Highway 96 was said to be a parking lot, taking one neighbor two hours to inch a mere five miles to the Natchez Trace Bridge.

We were among the lucky ones. Our neighborhood and maybe one other were said to be the only two not affected in our particular western burb. 

Publix was our savior, powered by emergency generators. Our only source of food. Employees worked with speed, diligence and the cheerful spirit for which they are known. Many of them were likely to also be affected by the storm. We sought refuge inside the cool store, stocked by 18 wheelers that managed to negotiate the maze created by three flooded interstates. Neighbors, former teachers and strangers whose faces we knew from the Y, former churches and elsewhere, sat in the store's for-sale lawn chairs while charging cell phones with store outlets. Often I asked: "Where do I know you from?" "Oh, yeah." "Well, we're all one now, aren't we?" I said to one of the familiar faces. The chorus of stranded and shell-shocked– a captive audience–standing in the store lobby half-chuckled then nodded in solemn agreement with my overheard comment.

Just inside: Fresh food! Sparse but there. I bent and reached into the cooler for the strawberries–two for five dollars. And then I paused, deciding to leave one for another family. Alongside me, another mother–a stranger–also bent and reached, and then suddenly stopped to look me in the eyes and ask how I was doing. She'd be the first of a number of strangers who seemed sincere in the question we all faced.

While tensions were palpable and running high, it was overridden by the spirit of generosity and concern for others that were in the same predicament or worse. And for many it was/is much, much worse. My daughter, who has autism, and I suffered mere inconveniences of heat, no power, a threatened water supply and little sense of connection to what was really happening in this mess in which we were living.

The frenetic energy of the grocery-bazaar atmosphere and the broken routines were cranking her anxiety levels and the heat was rising. She seemed incapable of understanding it all. When we could finally escape another route other than 96 and when the nearest interstate was finally clear–according to my outside cellular phone sources–we claimed the last room in a suburban hotel closer to town. There, again, the faces checking in alongside me were familiar in this good-sized city that boasts a small-town feel. Other tired faces were unfamiliar and I'd learn they were among the 2000 displaced guests of the flooded Opryland Hotel, in addition to the displaced downtown Hilton guests.

For dinner, unapologeticaly, I declared a menu of red meat, a potato and a large green salad. Comfort food. Normally semi-vegetarian, my freezer failed to offer the grilled feasts of my neighbors' who communed in our cul-de-sacs. And news. I wanted to watch the news.

Back home, the power is on. Showers are rationed. But the fridge is stocked with fresh produce. My meals are hot. We are safe. Dry. Tired. Grateful. And sad for what our beautiful city has lost in its tourism livelihood downtown and the extensive damage that literally ravaged our city. Saddened for families who lost loved ones, their homes. So many so nearby. The haul back will be long. May we be steadfast in spirit.