It’s been nearly 20 years since the Hubster and our man-children weathered Hugo.
And now, we’re looking for a few good photos from our readers. Actually, we wouldn’t mind seeing the bad ones, too. And we want to hear your stories.
Specifically, we are looking for photos from the night of and the days following Hurricane Hugo. And we want to hear your stories of how you weathered the storm, the preparations you made and what you heard, felt and saw during and after the storm.
Can you believe it’s been 20 years since HH blew through here?
As we near the anniversary of that rather bizarre night on Sept. 21, 1989, The Journal Scene would like to post your photos and stories on our Website, journalscene.com.
We will also produce a special commemorative section that looks back at one of the most devastating storms in South Carolina’s history.
At our house our two man-children (at the time 8 and four years old), the Hubster and I stayed here in our home because, according to the weather forecast, Hugo was making tracks for an area north of us, most likely Myrtle Beach. But then, in the afternoon, the announcement came as the four of us sat on the couch in a row, staring at the TV as Linda Lombard ( I recall she was head of emergency preparedness then) came on and said it looked as if Charleston would be, “ground zero.” She and the other people one-by-one stated in alarming tones that it was too late to get on the road, that the interstates were clogged despite the reversal of incoming lanes to outgoing, and that it would be more dangerous to attempt evacuation at that point.
She then said to those who were refusing to leave oceanfront property they were staying at their own peril.
“And may God have mercy on your souls,” were the last words I remember hearing her say. At that point the station said it was signing off the air in order to evacuate their staff and the TV screen went blank.
I can honestly say that was the most afraid I had ever been. We immediately started moving furniture, taping windows, creating a shelter in the living room with a dining room table up against the center hallway. We opened windows on one end of the house (a practice we have since learned is folly) It was our first hurricane and we had no real supplies other than what was in the freezer. We did run the bathtub full of water and filled a few old milk jugs. My guy dug the battery-operated radio out of a drawer and we hunkered down under the table to wait. We had one old beer in the house that we shared, and toasted, “Here’s to us.”
The prediction did not disappoint. The electricity disappeared within the first hour. At the height of round one, wind screamed through the screens like a wailing woman. Random booms like giant behemoths stomping through the neighborhood signified giant trees falling around us. Branches crashed onto the roof.
But the strangest of all was when the mayhem suddenly stilled to quiet. Silence reigned.
We opened the front door; the way was blocked by branches. We went to the backyard, our flashlights illuminating the destruction. Trees lounged around the house in the backyard like sunbathers on a crowded beach. Other trees were bowed down facing the house, their giant pine tips touching the ground like parishioners at a prayer rail.
We saw a light flash next door at our neighbor’s house.
“You folks okay over there?” we called out, scanning our flashlights over the mess.
“So far,” they replied.
It wasn’t long before the wind returned, this time blowing in the opposite direction. The hours dragged on with more booming and crashing and screaming of wind. At some point it felt like the house itself was breathing in and out, expanding and contracting like a possessed abode in a Stephen King novel.
When dawn broke, the trees that had been bowed toward the house, were now praying in the opposite direction. Others had not survived.
And our brick house was now green, completely plastered with postage stamp-sized patches of leaves. That alone told the story and is not a site I have ever forgotten.
And now, dear readers, let us hear from you. We will relish the story you have to tell, as if we are gathered around a campfire enjoying the spinning of a well-worn tale.