Here we are. A year since Ike waved his cowboy hat and sang The Yellow Rose of Texas as loud as he possibly could as he stomped and splashed in the Gulf of Mexico and eventually buried Galveston with his wrath. Ike stopped in Galveston long enough to send a postcard to the nation. You know what I mean.
It's strange for me to think back to a year ago and remember the feelings gathered around the imposing storm. Residents tackled plywood when they could find it. Families and animals scattered I-45 in escape pods. National media broadcasted "imminent death" for those of us who chose to stay on the Island. My mind at the time couldn't comprehend that. Instead, we who thought we were staying behind laughed it off. Shrugged our shoulders and dug through the almost empty ice chest.
Friday morning, September 12, 2008. I woke up to my cell phone ringing in the kitchen. It was before 7 a.m. I felt as though death may have played a cruel joke on me and let me live through a terrible accident. I had no idea why people were calling me so early. Then I was told to turn on the news. I saw the Gulf of Mexico erupting into the seawall. Finally frightened, some of us decided to skip town and retreat with the others. I packed a bag. Locked the house. Took one last look at the boarded up homefront and snapped a photo. Broadway was deserted. The apocalypse may as well have come to town. But I trucked on. Officially on the run from Ike.
I still get chills and uneasy feelings thinking back to those few days Ike came to town. It is really, really weird (to me) that it happened a year ago. I remember after the storm thinking and saying that the Island would be different from here on out. I even blogged about it (read it here). But I must say, a year later, that the Island is doing well. And dare I say almost back to normal. Now there will be certain things that won't be normal for some time. But the healing has prospered.
