A Veteran's Journey

Wednesday, October 2.

0230. The blue digits on my 1980s-style bedside alarm clock tell me it’s too early. Go back to sleep.

Let’s see. We visited and assessed the area on Monday. We know we’ve got at least three houses on the list to work on, with more on the way. I purchased and stocked the ERT trailer yesterday. It’s ready to go, but… did I forget something? I should be sleeping, not worrying about these things. Everything is in its place. Deep breaths, in and out, in anddd…

0415. I awake from a dream… I don’t remember about what, but I look over at the alarm clock.

Crap. Still too early.

I try to go back to sleep, but my mind is on the upcoming deployment. That pre-travel anxiety checklist barges in, taking over my thoughts, refusing to let me sleep.

Later this morning, a group of us on the UMCOR Trinity UMC (Gainesville) Early Response Team will drive north to Pinetta, a small city near Madison, Florida. Our mission will be to help in whatever way we can. We anticipate roof tarping and cleaning out debris. This area got hit hard by high winds—namely, “microbursts”—from Hurricane Helene.

I finally drift back to sleep.

0600. My phone alarm goes off. Time to rock & roll. I need to get to the church by 0700 to hook up and pull the ERT trailer out of the garage, load up any additional supplies, and get on the road by 0730. There’s an hour and a half drive ahead of us. I’d like to be on the first house’s roof by 10am to beat the heat.

0900. I’ll spare you the embarrassing details about trying to get that blasted trailer (now nicknamed “Fat Albert”) out of the garage. Frustrating, but with the help of generous and skillful others, we’re finally on our way.

We get off the Interstate a little north of Lake City. Still another 30 miles to travel along back roads, through rural farming areas. Along the way, we begin to notice the damage caused by “high winds and microbursts.” I still don’t know what that term means, but when I spot a thick stand of pine trees, some of them snapped off about 10-20 feet off the ground, I know it was bad. These pine trees are easily 16-18 inches in diameter.

Then there are the hundred-year-old oak trees… uprooted. Pushed over like some cowboy lassoed the top of the tree and pulled it down with a semi.

You can also tell crews have been through the area, clearing the roads of downed trees… so many trees.

What kind of storm was this? We didn’t have nearly this much damage around Casa Adkins in Gainesville. Just the usual 5-8 garbage cans of limbs, moss, debris. No… up here, this was much more.

10ish. Our host is Pinetta First Baptist Church; power was restored the day before. We stop to unload a few overnight items—several of us will stay three days; others will drive up for the day, then drive back home. Some will return the next day for more work, including my wife, Becky.

11ish. One team on the roof, laying out and battening down tarps. We want to make sure this roof tarp will remain intact; we understand there’s another storm on the way, but not sure when or where. Another team is inside, pulling carpet, pulling ceilings, and pulling wallboard—all damp from rain.

And the smell? The homeowner has a sweet, friendly dog… “Rosie.” But you can imagine after several days without power, AC, or ventilation, well… let’s just say everyone working inside wore N-95 masks and took plenty of breaks outside.

I learned a long time ago that in these extenuating circumstances, don’t judge.

We all undergo safety training, but when you’re working away on these temporary solutions, knowing there are other houses you’ll need to get to, you don’t always remember to drink water. But it’s helpful that others are making sure you stay hydrated.

“Hey… up on the roof… incoming…” I throw up bottles of water. There are three team members up there—no shade, no wind, just the intense afternoon heat of the day. We don’t need anyone fainting up there.

1ish. The roof tarp is on and secure, but still more work to be done inside. And there’s some siding that needs to be tacked back on. Now that the ceiling and walls are down in that back bedroom, we need to staple some plastic sheeting in place to keep the minute debris from blowing in.

We break for lunch; the house we’re working on is less than a mile from the community—the volunteer fire station, “emergency central.”

We’re hot, we’re sweaty, we’re stinky, but it doesn’t matter. Nobody notices.

Emergency response teams have been there for a few days, assessing what the community needs, and getting it to them. There are tables of household items—soap, towels, toilet paper, canned goods, building materials, tarps, whatever…

It never ceases to amaze me to see a small community like this come together in time of need. High schoolers with big-wheel trucks helping to haul things to people in need. Younger kids helping distribute items to cars that drive up. There’s a trailer for restrooms; another trailer for showers; still, another trailer with washers & dryers.

There’s even a BBQ truck with a smoker, a refrigerator truck, and tables set up. Drive up, tell them how many meals you need, they bring it to your car. All smiles, all exchange “How ‘ya holdin’ up?” and “I wish this didn’t happen to you, but we’re here to help” looks.

No charge for anything.

You can easily sense there’s a strong spirit in this tiny rural community.

2ish. One team heads back to finish up the one house. Another team (we call them the “chainsaw gang”) heads to another location. A huge pine tree fell between a house and the power pole, bringing the power line down to the ground. Thank goodness, nothing hit the house. The power company can’t get their cherry picker to the pole to restore power until the tree is cleared.

This team knows what they’re doing—they’re powerhouse brutes. Two guys with chain saws, cutting limbs, then branches, then the tree, and two others pulling and hauling the debris to the street. The homeowners come out to help. She just came off a 12-hour shift and will have to go back that night for another 12 hours. They are both so grateful to have the help. It’ll take another day for the power company to get to them, but the path is now clear.

We’re finally done for the day. We bid adieu to the team traveling back to Gainesville. Becky will be back the next day, along with another volunteer. Friday, we’ll see a different group driving up.

We pick up our BBQ chicken dinners—the firehouse is only a couple hundred yards down the road from the church—and head back to the church to sup. We debrief while we eat, knowing that everyone is dead-tired, lack of sleep, and another full day tomorrow.

You get to know folks when you work alongside them. But most of the time, the conversation is casual, yet focused—you’ve got a mission. But when you’re on downtime, you get to know them a little better. You develop a unique relationship.

I’m a Navy veteran. Two others on this team are also Navy veterans. One of the other volunteers we met earlier on site came up to me with a huge grin. “Navy, huh? I’m sorry…” (I knew where he was going with this). “I’m Air Force.” He’s a little younger than me (actually, a lot younger), but he put in 20 years. A lot more than my four. But, hey, us veterans stick together and, like we did in the service, we do what we can to help others, right?

2130 (9:30p). I’m so tired, I can barely keep my eyes open. After making sure all the batteries are charged for the cordless tools, I bed down on my air mattress. It’s a little cool in the room, but that’s how I prefer it.

2200 (10:00p). I awake to an angry A/C unit powering up outside. The fan is blowing straight on me and no way to redirect the vents. In fact, it’s one of those vents that blows everywhere—nowhere to hide. It’s no longer just cool… I’m in a meat locker. I’ll spare you the details, but I ended up putting on my work pants, pulling the sheets over my head, and tossing and turning the entire night. I simply couldn’t get warm.

Over those two nights, I developed this “love-hate” relationship with the church A/C.

The next morning—I guess I was able to drift off to sleep a bit here and there—I heard others up and heading out the door to the kitchen. I’d set my alarm for 0715, but looking at my phone, it was only 0630.

Maybe they’ll make coffee.

I finally drag my butt outta bed (actually, a semi-deflated air mattress), brush my teeth, and head over to the kitchen.

Coffee? Oh yeah. Not only that, but plenty of scrambled eggs, buttered toast & jam, and even a banana. Bless you, chainsaw gang.

Over a period of three days, teams from multiple areas joined us, working on seven houses: tarping, clearing out debris, both inside & outside, cutting & hauling trees and limbs, and whatever else we could do to help the homeowners.

We finished up on Friday (we’d been there since Wednesday) about 2p, loaded up the ERT trailer, said our goodbyes to our new “family,” and headed back.

Tired and exhausted, I wondered when and where the next ERT mission may lead us. During that hour & a half drive back to Gainesville, my thoughts flowed non-stop. There was still so much more work to be done. So many homes. And that was just in this one area.

Tom, Wendy, Kelly, Becky, John G., Ed, John M., Whit, Marisa, Cindy, Tiffany, Dan, Bill, Sue, Hap, Sarah, and Walt. Gainesville, Palm Coast, Satellite Beach, Orlando, and Mobile, Alabama…

“We Are Family!”

And now… Hurricane Milton is scheduled to make landfall sometime Wednesday (tomorrow). Yeah, there will be more to do, and soon.

Am I ready for another ERT deployment? I ask myself that multiple times during the day and the answer is always the same.

Here I am Lord.

Until we meet again,
Andy