The recent devastation caused by Hurricane Helene in Tennessee and North Carolina deeply resonates with us. Having personally endured Hurricane Katrina, we intimately understand the trials and tribulations these communities now face. Our family’s experience with Katrina in 2005, while living in Mississippi, is not unique, but it mirrors the challenges and emotional rollercoaster that the victims of Hurricane Helene are currently experiencing. This is our story, reflecting the harsh realities of hurricane aftermath and highlighting the crucial role of community in recovery, offering a perspective on Helene Compared To Katrina.
August 29, 2005 – a date forever etched in our family’s memory. Then a family of five (two daughters and a son), now seven with the addition of our wonderful sons-in-law, both Mississippians with families who share similar hurricane experiences. Every August 29th, the anniversary of Katrina’s landfall, we connect, sharing memories and reaffirming our family bond through a group text. Why this annual ritual? Because we survived together an ordeal that redefined our understanding of life and resilience.
We found ourselves trapped in the attic of our Mississippi home, a home of 13 years, as the storm surge relentlessly pushed water levels higher and Hurricane Katrina made a direct and devastating impact on our area just outside Bay St. Louis. We were directly in the hurricane’s eyewall for what felt like an eternity. Our lifeline to the outside world was a cell phone, our last point of contact with our eldest daughter, then an 18-year-old college freshman just embarking on her first semester away from home. In a surreal moment amidst the raging storm, she called as my husband stood watch at the attic stairs, gauging the rising water. He had already prepared our life raft from our sailboat (later found miles away in trees), tarps, firearms, and life jackets, ready to send me, our 17-year-old daughter, and our 15-year-old son out into the tempest through a hole he’d punched in the roof with a sledgehammer. During this chaotic scene, our daughter’s call pierced through the storm.
Her repeated questions to her father about what would happen next still echo in my mind. His response, now a family mantra, was, “No matter what happens, you always remember how much your family loves you.” Then, the cell service died – our last thread to the world beyond our attic. For a week, our daughter existed in a vacuum of uncertainty, knowing only that we were trapped in an attic with nine feet of floodwater engulfing our home, battered by hurricane-force winds, when communication ceased.
We were not naive to the dangers of storms. My husband holds a Ph.D. in Computational Physics and served as a Special Forces officer. I have a Master’s degree. We lived in a designated no-flood zone. Yet, there we were, in the attic, praying and grappling with a reality we hadn’t conceived of just 24 hours prior.
In that moment, academic achievements were irrelevant; life skills became paramount. This experience underscored the vital importance of equipping children with practical life skills. We did escape the attic, eventually, but everything we owned was destroyed. Law enforcement was nonexistent, incapacitated by the same disaster (our neighbor’s police vehicle was lodged in their living room window). A colleague of my husband’s managed to call before cell service completely failed, checking on our well-being. After the storm subsided, he, his wife, and son cleared trees for a mile and a half to reach and rescue us. We found refuge in their driveway for days, sheltered only by the pillows and blankets they could spare. They housed 14 people in their modest three-bedroom home – ordinary people performing extraordinary acts of kindness in the face of crisis.
My husband, resourceful as ever, procured a portable toilet from a construction site, a godsend for 14 people without working plumbing. Toilets require water pressure, a luxury we no longer had. We found bleach in our ravaged homes, using it to maintain some semblance of hygiene in the portable toilet.
Our community, a golfing community nestled around twin lakes, transformed. As days blurred together, the lakes became a central gathering point. Survivors congregated to share stories, assess the damage, and begin the arduous task of recovery. People bathed in the golf course lakes, seeking respite from the oppressive heat and grime. We even hauled lake water back to the portable toilet for flushing. Those developers, unknowingly, provided a crucial resource in our darkest hour.
Days turned into a week, and then looters arrived from New Orleans. Two cars carrying seven men. I had always held a neutral stance on the Second Amendment. My husband, a pragmatist, viewed guns as tools, not passions. Katrina irrevocably changed my perspective. He had brought handguns into the attic – a decision I am eternally grateful for. We were in our driveway, hauling debris from our house, when he abruptly turned to me and our 17-year-old daughter. “Get in the house, now.” Our son was thankfully out on his bike, desperately seeking information, the only viable mode of transport left. My husband, sensing danger, watched as two cars entered our cul-de-sac and men began to emerge. No neighbors were in sight, no backup for a quarter mile in any direction. We were isolated. My husband drew his .45, stepping forward to confront seven men, clad in our son’s old soccer shorts, an army t-shirt, and ill-fitting girls’ flip-flops – clean, dry clothing was a rare commodity, practicality overriding fashion in the storm’s aftermath. (Sewage backs up into homes first in floods, through toilets, sinks, bathtubs, redefining the meaning of “dry and wearable”. The filth was unimaginable.)
Back to the looters. My husband, weapon lowered but visible, faced them and firmly stated, “You all are not from here, and need to leave now.” They left. In that moment, witnessing his unwavering resolve to protect his family against overwhelming odds, my love for him deepened beyond measure. That firearm was the equalizer that day. After forty years of marriage and 44 years together, that moment remains indelibly etched as the defining testament to the man he is. It wasn’t about possessions; it was about family. They retreated because he stood firm. My understanding of the Second Amendment shifted profoundly. The chilling thought of what might have transpired without his protection, with my defenseless 17-year-old daughter nearby, still knots my stomach with fear.
Life moved forward, albeit altered. We relocated to Jackson, Mississippi, close enough to manage the wreckage and navigate the labyrinthine aftermath of insurance claims and financial fallout. Our insurance settlement for our demolished home and its contents, representing a lifetime of accumulated memories and possessions, was a meager $25,000, received two years post-storm (the agonizingly slow process of water versus wind damage claims). Yet, we persevered. Our children completed college, graduated, and we established a global company. Our daughters married (one to a physician in Chattanooga, the other to a Navy aviator) – both Mississippi natives, requiring no further explanation within our shared family experience.
Eventually, we returned to our roots in Tennessee, settling into retirement. We are now blessed with six grandchildren. Our families have deep roots in this region, spanning over 200 years. This is home. My husband and I grew up in Chattanooga, surrounded by extended family. Our children have pursued impactful careers, working for U.S. senators, living and working abroad, embodying resilience and forward momentum – lessons forged in the crucible of Katrina. Family first, always. Material possessions are transient. Inner strength and the ability to rise after being knocked down are what truly matter.
Mississippi, where we initially settled post-military service (after stints in Germany, Georgia, North Carolina, and West Point), will forever hold a special place in our hearts. We chose Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, near Stennis Space Center, ironically, the very area where Katrina made landfall. Like Tennessee, Mississippi revealed the incredible strength of community in times of adversity.
The enduring lesson of our Katrina experience, relevant when Helene compared to Katrina, is simple: We were not alone in our vulnerability, and neither are the victims of Helene. Government aid was conspicuously absent in the immediate aftermath. The Mississippi National Guard was deployed in Iraq. Initial relief came from churches and individual volunteers, neighbors helping neighbors to regain their footing. FEMA arrived a week or so later. A young FEMA representative, comfortably ensconced in air conditioning, advised us to “use your phones to apply for FEMA support.” My husband gestured to the obliterated house and explained the lack of phone lines and cell service, compounded by limited battery life and no means to recharge. The response? “Drive to the FEMA location 40 miles away.” Patiently, my husband pointed to the overturned cars in our driveway. Finally, the FEMA representative suggested, “Well, use your computer to file online.” At that point, my husband, exasperated, threw down what he was holding, pointed to the downed power lines and ruined house, and declared, “Just leave. You are of no use. We will figure this out ourselves.” The young man rolled up his window, amplified the air conditioning, and drove away. That was our government in action.
My plea, echoing the urgent needs arising from Hurricane Helene, is this: find collection points and donate essential supplies. Consider donating refurbished computers (factory reset), prepaid cell phones, feminine hygiene products, baby diapers, canned goods, formula, manual can openers, water – basic necessities easily overlooked but crucial for survival. These are the tangible items that will empower our neighbors affected by Helene to begin rebuilding their lives. Offer a helping hand, a heartfelt prayer. They are resilient people, our neighbors. It is our collective responsibility to “cut in and help them cut out,” just as my husband’s employee did for us in our moment of desperation.
Ultimately, it is community that will make the difference. Psychologically, this support is invaluable. They are not alone. We received a call about a FEMA trailer six months after Katrina… six months. By then, we had already moved forward, relying on our own resources and community support. But what of those who spent months in tents in their driveways, enduring winter? Did they receive that call after six months too? Government agencies move at a glacial pace, if they move at all. We know this firsthand. Act now. Your immediate assistance will profoundly impact those devastated by Helene, and it will enrich your own life immeasurably.
Photographs cannot fully convey the reality of devastation, but countless stories of resilience and hardship are unfolding now in East Tennessee and Western North Carolina, mirroring our own Katrina experience. Extend your hand, help them rise. Life’s trajectory will turn upwards for them, but we must ensure they receive that message of hope and support.
Billie J. Smith
