Life

Delivering Hope

Ten years ago this summer, I was driving from Florida to Louisiana for the wedding of my step-brother. Ordinarily, the drive from Gainesville to Baton Rouge would have been about 10 or 12 hours of boring highway: I-75 north to Tallahassee, I-10 west forever. But Hurricane Alberto that had passed over Florida’s Panhandle and soaked its way up through Georgia, briefly shutting down I-10 and creating havoc in Albany, a mid-sized city in southwest Georgia. So I took a detour.

My reasoning was that perhaps I’d get a good story from a visit to Albany, which by the time I reached it had been essentially divided by flood waters for five days. President Clinton would be arriving the same day I was, but he had the luxury of flying in while I was driving up from the south. That meant that unless I drove another 100 miles around the city, there was no way I’d be on the same side of the river as the President. The flood waters had destablized the main bridges spanning the Flint River.

So I rolled past Albany State University, where the water reached 15 feet up the side of some buildings. I stopped and talked to some students and alumni who could only stare. National Guardsmen blanketed the area, although most of them were located across the river, in Albany’s wealthier neighborhoods.

I got as close to the river as I could before I turned off into a neighborhood to see if anyone was around. The streets were empty – no kids, no moving cars, nothing. As I walked around, an older black woman ran up to me, asking if I was the police or with the government. I told her no, I was just a reporter. “You’re the first white person I’ve seen in a week,” was her reply.

Another man took me to see his house, which he had evacuated and had been trying to reach ever since. We climbed over a fence and approached through the back yard, unsure of what we would find. He was worried about damage, and looters. The back steps were still underwater, but he produced a key and we opened the door. A little soggy, perhaps, but nothing missing or wrecked at first glance. He thanked God, and I left him to the business of getting his life back in order.

I was reminded of my visit to Albany while looking at pictures of Hurricane Charley’s impact on Charlotte and DeSoto counties in Florida. Most people there, like those in Albany, aren’t rich and face the awesome prospect of starting over – even though many are in their seventies and eighties. What they need – what the Albany man needed – was a sign that there was hope. Little things can mean a lot when you have nothing, and normalcy can come in the tiniest packages.

The Charlotte Sun-Herald published on Saturday, no mean feat since the staff had no access to the building where they produce a daily newspaper. I suppose you could be forgiven for wondering why it matters that the paper came out a day after a huge storm; after all, everybody knows the big story. But the paper is part of a routine, and its presence is a symbol to its readers: we will not abandon you in our collective hour of need.

I realize that newspapers offer scant comfort from destruction or homelessness, and cannot restore the past. But the thing I remember most from my visit to Albany is this: the people I spoke to had almost no outside contact with the world for six days – even the mail was not delivered. But the paper came every day, meaning that the people who delivered it crossed the Flint River somehow, even if they drove an extra 100 miles around it. And the residents who told me about their newspaper spoke with a little awe and pride at that, even though it did nothing to restore their homes or bring supplies. A bright spot in a dark time – just the sort of thing the residents of Southwest Florida need in the days ahead.