Uprooted

It’s the kind of call you hope never to get as a reporter, but inevitably do.

When the Bureau Chief calls you at 9:48 a.m. to ask if you’re on your way in and you’re not supposed to be in until 1 p.m., it’s time to haul you-know-what.

It’s one thing to watch destruction from way up high on T.V. through the softening lens of a cameraman, but picking through rubble among people left with nothing is a whole other painful ballgame.

The damage started off small at first: the odd tree branch here, a carpet of oranges under and orange tree there. But as I moved further through this neighborhood – past the orange-vested workers clearing trees and righting power lines – I was awestruck.

Easily-mended broken fences gave way to tumbled walls. Giant trees left yawning holes where roots once firmly stood, their branches now imbedded in someone’s roof.

Twisted metal wrapped around tree trucks. A broken jet ski lying face up in a ditch. A green pick-up truck hanging like metal leaves from high tree branches.

And then there were the people. The people.

The people who went to bed comfortably last night with mundane worries, who crawled through debris into the coming dawn to face a day with nothing left.

There. Was. Nothing.

Nothing but splintered wood and scattered belongings and lost people searching for things they’d never get back. I wanted to cry. Central Florida suddenly felt like New Orleans, but without the water.

I spent hours trudging through hopeless faces and interviews, watching expressions fall when they realized I wasn’t with the city or the county or FEMA coming to bring aid.

I was just a reporter with a pen and pad and watery eyes saying sorry and drawing their stories.

Part of me wanted to stay and help, to run to the ATM and come back with what little I could afford. But I knew I had to go back to the office and write – because everyone has a role, right?

When do we put down the pens and reach out? When do we leave the cameras behind to help? I had to tell myself if it wasn’t for us how would the world know what happened here this morning.

Like the men hauling trees and patching roofs, this was our role, but I wasn’t OK with it.

It was a difficult day. I’ve never seen that kind of destruction before up close. And in my city, the city I cover, the city I’m in everyday eating lunch and calling officials.

I’ve also never seen that mass despair of so many people who’ve lost everything all at once. It’s not like a fatal accident where tragedy is more limited.

Suddenly it’s no longer about how to make that car payment on rent week, it’s about how to feed the kids and where to put them to sleep.

But I also saw people coming together helping neighbors; people who’d also lost it all sharing food and car space, helping to right vehicles.

How can something so sad be beautiful at the same time because of the kind of people we can be?

In the grand scheme of things we are such ants. Mother Nature can do with us what she will and there isn’t a damned thing we can do about it.

That is, except pick up the pieces, reach out a hand, offer shelter and help figure out what kind of day tomorrow will be.

Photo credit: Pete Bauer/News-Journal